To the Artist's Page                 To our home page

To Luke Buckham's previous piece     To Luke Buckham's next piece

a phantasmagoria featuring spastic & languid figures in opposition;
to be preformed exclusively on the inside walls of wombs, for fetuses:

this one's youth was pathetically spent
meticulously planning his eventual nervous breakdown,
this smooth-faced teenage salesman knew
that his vaccuum-part briefcase was filled with snakes
before his bloodshot-eyed boss handed it to him,
this tiny poet with needle limbs & thorn fingers
crouching beneath a huge spray-painted mushroom in contaminated shade
knew that he would scratch one verse in the tar
& one verse in the otherwise unbothered sand
to juxtapose the two; pictures of the battle taking place
beneath the tree wrestling with powerlines,
these ten tap-dancing anarchists who don't yet exist
who relax by bombing convenience stores with their eyes
as they drive by in cars whose motors they detest
wishing for solar-powered pogosticks & unicycles,
this infinity of angry styrofoam-faced cheerleaders with frothing mouths, 
these 43,000,000 prerecorded friendly cashiers
waiting for the housekeeper androids with open arms,
this synthesizer-playing folksinger with a television head
crowned with tangled antennae
on whose screen the next world war winds its gears inside a fake descending 
snowflake falling fast into June,
these 300 nobodies whispering in the greying park
as time itself eavesdrops,
these ambitionless & free who added something new to today's IV,
this insomniac cretin with a mind like an empty hotel
braincell bedrooms & bathrooms inanimate
nothing bursting out of his solitary speeches like a snake suffocating in 
old skin, too lazy to squirm & shed,
and all the unmentioned left lined up in action-figure existence
sealed in expanding supermarkets,
the rapists & the raped playing frisbee with each other,
the trembling couple about to marry
unaware that their church is a videogame played by a toddler who is about to 
roll a giggling fireball
down the aisle to bowl them over before their vows,
these running frantically from mental hospitals that they have never peered 
into, checking their watches for the game show,
you & me seen through the jellyfish eyes of the fetus,
this infinity of fools avoiding the inactive volcanic dance floor beneath 
the subways,
a grown man torn from the womb
by the internet crashing like a tide of liquid metal
and replaced temporarily in the womb by it's unsuccessful redial
the placenta an appropriate mess of wires
remaining outside the dead mother's
beautiful body upon his botched reentrance,
heaven's doors are marble arabesques crawling with the attacks of 
broken-bodied termites.

To the top of this page