Dissection for the Scream
(fragments)
Eric Ponty
Vicent Van Gogh
Abissal world that doesn't
transfigure
it forms of the human
feelings
its vision
ramifies
In a family that eats potatoes
There there are not manifestos
or aesthetics
A singular picture.
Sunflowers of the fields
of the nude ones you are
worth
schizophrenic it is its
expression
mimética.
James Ensor
In the great square there is
always a festival
they are the masks of this
ceremonial
covered of cartoons
its faces finally are
decomposed
The spirit was embodied
exterior is formed it
undid
it denounced the one that in
the face of it had been hidden
of impressionism.
Festival of gibes in the
entrance
where the words don't pass more
of
simple murmurs and
silences
there are an intrigue and a
farce in the square of Brussels
Christ will have reincarnated
to come back
to be crucified again.
Paul Gaugin
Prisoner of the distressing
routine of the world
Lucid had to betray its soul of
European
To be it faithful,
rioted against the family.
Jacó of a strange world in
ways
it is debated against the angel
of God
until that this you
epifanizasse.
In a new paradiso taitiano
discovered
that the covered sin there was
not
it was, even so prisoner in the
sensibility
against you hire them
discovered that in a nest of
straws the habitat
painted its Celestina chapel
and it set on fire it...
Gustav Klint
Sophisticated it is its
decoration of contours
Inexplicable labyrinth of
details
that are deepened
to the glance.
Not so stealthy and its message
image
There is an entire reception
there
Dissembling
Between shades and colors.
The time not its corrói
decorations
that are surrounded in itself
whole
there is a rebellion
infused
here
a Viennese attack
against this world of
decorations and of mídias.
Francis Bacon
Cut out raw meat contains
a papa
transfigured Inocêncio
of papa
innocent
that shouts
the catechesis of
an einsenteiano
scream
where its mouth decomposes..
The blows against Christ's nude
body
they are the marks of the
time
of a Study of the Violence
against its face
insurrection of the
mimesis
against its own one
paintbrush.
Edward Hopper
Our souls express the
solitude
The world in the margeia with
the murmurs
they say things unaware of
speeches strange mui
soníferas that not if
findam.
Your paintbrush paints every
decadence of this world
Us redomados be of our inherent
exile
that is not expressed more in
horizons.
Right here well close to our
emptiness
same when are not
accustomed
it is not only when the
solitude rufa the drum
when our body raises the
necrotério
whose clock without expelling
the presents
superpõem the glories
whose pendulum to sound in the
effigy of the time:
nadie lives...
nadie lives...
nadie lives...
your realism kitsch, but Real
picture
classic in the éra of the pop
and abstract
it can demonstrate to the
concentrated eyes
in its empty one more absorbed
of a staff,
whose paintbrush is the
immobile instant.