Letters from dystopia between bad luck, randomness, despair, and money, luck, success. It slightly gets weirder when questions remain unanswerred. Peeping Toms watch our every step while shadow boxing young men in the corners of public playgrounds promote their vintage vigor. Pensioned actors park their upcycled bikes in front of the curated stage. Politically correct street art coded with sliced watermelons gets neglected by product-based passers-by. The night bison roamed these streets where we sturdy walk further and pass civilians attack a censored nude pussy. Do they still do that today? Yahoo, yobbo, wanker, toff, louse, honky, dweeb, artist. Freedom cannot be bought for money. But… cut-up the hotspot? A rose, is a rose, is a rose…
In the art gallery district twists reflect the martial design typical for a mainly white Amsterdam style. We pick up after Hecuba’s tears where clouds vaporate and the sun overcomes its tones of grey. Punk-weird beauties ghostwalk through the denim city where beneath a shiny comatorium faded species in different colors are intimate. The forgotten cling on to moldy second lives between expanses of current fashions. Facades with beautiful colors on both sides of a narrow passage. Marijuana odors flow through the air like the smelly canals slow down time. The neon sign in red says “Silveretta’s Sex Service, Bentheimer sugar included”.
Resistance kills whitened frames where echoes do nothing but promise maximium intensity. Peace can only be found in absence and nothingness when one embraces everything. We pay Charon tribute with our eyes open where nothing reminds us of why we are here. All piss in rusty curls when the canal is sliced up to level circumsisions. The shore is drafted by Pettibonesque sounds of silent nature.
Is this the end of the line? Did we miss a beat? There is one question left…
“Does the world change Art, ore vice versa, ore neither of the two?”
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