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timothée barrus/ the pills themselves/ another hiv one poem about the pills/ (12/31/10)

it took a week to make this painting
of the pills although/
you cannot see any pills/ it only feels like the pills/
 
feel/ in the painting we are the dancers dancing
black skeletons and blue/
the yellow whirling is a burning up/
 
i was eight/ i did not know the bat was rabid/ i did not know
what rabid meant/
rabies rhymed with babies/
to know a thing you have to touch it/
well, i do anyway/ so i put the bat in my hand/ and it bit down into/
 
flesh/
 
the blood was furious/ the shots were every day for a week/

they had to hold me down/ screaming/
 
i was screaming/
 
the rabies shots could knock you out/ to know the thing
what did rabid mean/ strapped at the center of the blazing
thermonuclear fire/ screaming during sex/

the earth will not steady itself/ his cock buried in my guts/ it had to be him/
the one/ he had to be the culprit/ does it matter/ screaming/ aids/
it had to be that time of being fucked in the ass/
the traveling now i go clinic
to clinic/ cure to cure/ there is no cure i do know that i am
 
painfully/
 
aware of it/

these new pills in this new place all reds and blues and yellows/
inside my head of tearing the meat apart open! open! open! not unlike
a dancers shining eyes can be themselves a trap no more dancers i tell
myself/

the bat was a vulture and a lioness and the terrible monotony of
life would vanish/ nothing would be monotonous after this knotted together
fucking he's cuming in my ass/ shuts his eyes into shreds/ its just
 
him and the dance/
 
the rest of us are only crawling out into the road/

these new pills cause me to vomit and then to hallucinate and then i seem to walk toward strange places
utterly lost and i have no recollection of ever going there/

wandering around in cemeteries/ touching death/ like driving with the top down/ being cut with
strings taut with bats/ rabies rasp against my bones/ pills like dragons/
 
like electrons/
 
pouring from his cock into my ass/ screaming grief and fading in/
and fading out/ a case of vertigo and above/ the sun-marked vultures
swallowing leftover bits of pills and pills/ our bodies shimmering/ i
am lost again/ the midnight smells of woods and bats/

to know a thing you have to touch it/
 
i am screaming/
even now/

they will have to hold me down through this one/

timothée barrus/ horses (12/31/10)

Timothe Barrus/ instruments you cannot know/ why poetry/ (12/28/10)

Tim Barrus: After the Last Collapse
poetry/ art/ no minors/ nsfw/ we claim nothing/ we own nothing/ we want nothing/ le sauvage follement artistique fous les fantasmes érotiques des garçons/

(copyright Tim Barrus, poet/USA, who writes for sexually abused boys with HIV/AIDS & to raise awareness about the Crime Against Humanity these boys have and are being subjected to daily.  No boys were harmed by Tim Barrus during the creation of this visual poetry)

 

It was my fifth MRI. And then they took a sample of my bone. I will not do the bone procedure again. I do not know about modern medicine but one response I hear there is: if  we had told you how hard it was going to be, you would not have undergone the procedure.


This is true enough. My own subjective assessment of modern medicine is that its inherently connected to every aspect of sadomasochism. If the slave does not do what he is told, the master removes the reinforcement, the study drug. Or sugar opill. Whichever the case might be.


Half the people in the study I am enrolled in are going to die.


The other thing I dont get is why they know so little about pain. We already have you on enough pain-killers to destroy a young, healthy bull; we are afraid that if we put you on more pain-killers for the procedure, you might stop breathing, and you would die.
Their fears are not grounded in reality.
I have so much tolerance to the pain medications that we all know there will only be more and more. Enough to deal with the pain from procedures like taking bone would not kill me.


I am not sure I can care if it did exactly that.


 So tell me what happened at your last clinic visit, Alexi said.


Alexi has what I have. The reason his bones break so easily is the same reason my bones break so easily.


Prednisone.


Without it, we would have died from pneumocystis pneumonia. But using so much of it will cause our bones to die. I swear to you, there is nothing more painful than your bones dying inside your body. Modern medicine has no idea how to treat this with pain medication. It is not available and even if we did know how to take the pain away, the federal government would never allow doctors to use that much opiate in any particular case. They are afraid of addiction. I am already addicted. There is no light at the end of that particular HIV tunnel. Hi, my name is Tim Barrus, and Im a junkie. If they take away my junk, Ill die. There is a fragility they do not wish to acknowledge because addiction even if youre dying is seen through a moral lens.


You try to live with the pain. It is impossible. Treatments like hypnosis do not work.


We know very little about avascular necrosis.


For me, the only thing outside of a vast array of morphine-like medications (many of which are far more powerful than heroin) that is effective at blocking out some of the pain is my work. Even then, my eyesight is just about shot so I can only work for short spurts of time. If I can focus on my poetry and the videos that I make to augment the text, I can block some of the pain out.
For Alexi, a musician, he has to focus on playing any number of the instruments he has created that only he can play. Alexi is fifteen.


There are string instruments only Alexi can practice on. Movement of his fingers has grown stiff. My favorite instruments Alexi has invented are what Alexi calls his wind flutes.


Alexi was enrolled in a drug trial that one of big pharmas big corporations is currently conducting to test the effectiveness of their latest AIDS drug. I am a patient in the same drug trial.


But Alexi is now confined to a hospital bed and simply leaving the bed for something as simple as an MRI, breaks more and more of his bones. His avascular necrosis created hairline fractures thoughout all of his skeletal systems; mine, too, but Alexis are worse. We live with broken bones. Alexi can barely move. The pain is out of this world and the next. Alexi wants to die. He has stashed away enough pain-killer to do it. I do not have what it would take to stop him.


Alexi had to pull out of the drug trial.


But I am determined to continue being enrolled. The medication makes me sick. The vomiting and nausea are both strong enough to kick you squarely in the nuts. It is obviously a poison. How do you kill cancer cells and HIV without using poisons. I would have no idea. Even the genetically-based medications that target cells are fundamentally poisons to the human body.


I was in Alexis room working on my third poem when I realized that no one has ever written poetry before based on being in a drug trial.  There is tons of AIDS poetry out there. But nothing on a drug trial written by a participant.


To participate in the drug trial, I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement. They were particularly concerned with me because I am a writer. I did not hide that reality.


But they know me as another name. A name for which I have ID for.


So Tim Barrus will have to be careful about what he writes, nothing new about that, but I seriously doubt that any LA Weekly tabloid tantrum will be able to track me down and grab quotes from people who claim to know me that I have never met.


Esquire does not publish poetry.


Well, so little it doesnt count.


Nor do any book publishers with the exception of Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, and they do not respond to poets who are not agents; thusly the dead end roads are numerous.
I will get this out there just like I have managed to get many other projects out there. Tenacity is nothing.


Maybe I should send publishers some of my antiretrovirals along with my poetry. I would send them some blood they could test but that would be a little extreme even for me. My next appointment at the drug trail is scheduled soon enough. I am not going to give out exact dates.


That would not be poetic.


This is not poetry, either. Its narrative. I am simply setting a stage.


I will reach you by hook or by crook. The manner in which I reach you is of far more concern to you than it is to me. I no longer give a fuck. If you have an issue with that, its simply not my problem. I have enough of my own problems. Deal with it. Google Analytics tells me that the LA Weekly reads this blog. Bravo for them. They can read a blog. Oh, my, that bad man, Tim Barrus, said this, and then he said that. Heavens to mergletroid. That and fifty cents gets you on the bus to Pasadena. Esquire and the LA Weekly can both loudly denounce me for my sins but they wont get anywhere near my drug trial.

Esquire and the LA Weekly denouncing me says far more about them than it does about me. It exemplifies how one has become the other and the other is the other. Atripla, too, is a drug of different medications, but all of them target HIV whether they are ground up together and shoved into the same pill frame or not. Science and pharmacology can do what magazines can only pretend to do. Neither one has done that much for AIDS. Or finding a cure for AIDS. Where are the exposes that shed light on just how many drug trials there really are going on that are looking for a cure. Looking for a cure has become the forest for the trees.


Its an empty stage, just like Alexis life is almost over; I loathe seeing him suffer in so much pain.


The only thing I can do about it is sit here at the edges of this stage and read to you what I have written. No one has done this before so I will be using instruments you will not be able to identify because they have not been invented yet.


Why poetry. Because its the only language I really know.


Why cum in a cup for every clinic visit. I try to follow the directions but HIV has rendered me impotent, and I havent ejaculated in years. Sex is a memory barely visible and buried deep within my dark imagination.


Alexi claims he could cum in a cup and we both laugh. The only way Alexi is going to cum is if some other boy I know all his friends sucks his cock. There are no broken bones there. There are boys who will gladly suck him off (if I was fifteen, maybe, but Im not) but they have to lock the door. Nurses are very wary of fifteen-year-olds locking doors.


Someone might be sucking cock in there.


This kid was always mixed up with the magical, the musical, and the misbehaved. Or how about the morbid and the mystical. All of these are conflicts. Show me the fifteen-year-old who is not conflicted in some abstract way. I know. I know. Im not supposed to write about boys sucking off other boys because it never happens.


And I am Marie of Romania.


You could always punish me for articulating reality by withholding my pain medication. Oh, wait, you already do that.


A fifteen-year-old with AIDS and broken bones put his imaginary wind flute to his lips and proceeds to make music only he can hear. His fingers barely moving.
Alexi is teaching me how to make that music sing.
 

timothée barrus/ waiting in the rain for the gods to cum/ (12/26/10)

Tim Barrus: After the Last Collapse
poetry/ art/ no minors/ nsfw/ we claim nothing/ we own nothing/ we want nothing/ le sauvage follement artistique fous les fantasmes érotiques des garçons/


(copyright Tim Barrus, poet/USA, who writes for sexually abused boys with HIV/AIDS & to raise awareness about the Crime Against Humanity these boys have and are being subjected to daily.  No boys were harmed by Tim Barrus during the creation of this visual poetry)

 

we stand around in the rain like sullen wolves waiting for god the man with the key to cum/ our traveling, having wrapped our arms around the planet; we are from everywhere/ sharing the same disease/ sharing the hope that none of us really believe in the fantasy that the pills we get from this new pharmaceutical trial will make a difference/ there will be no leap from the shadows of our impending deaths to dreams of life again/ no, we blew it/ sex would not get us/ syringes would not get us/ addiction would not get us/ poverty would not mean us; we would not be automatons employed by suits/ that would be death enough/ not us/ our torrents of reaching hard for life would elevate us to such heights beyond the bewildering bowing and scraping of the ordinary/ our horses were as sacred as their mission/ our children riven by the sun/

 

only breath by breath the traps were set and we would walk into the bone-snapping of the metal jaws/ our poetry had all been about hate and indifference/ you should see us now/ our poetry now just dragged along by the victorious chariots of hate and indifference is about the chaotic gravity of hate and indifference and darkness crushed in upon itself/ on our knees and praying to god the man with his scarlet pills to arrive at daybreak to alleviate our exile and shriveling with big pharma’s magic wand and while you’re at it can you alleviate these memories of the lovers we held as they died in the sinking of the ships/ but there are no pills for that and winter freezes just like it always did/ you, on your bellies and crawling through the blades of grass in the direction of the singing gods and trumpet blasts and little rooms where you will stand naked and alone soon enough waiting for god the man with his syllables of doubt to examine every inch of you with his probing hands in rubber gloves that will search through the darkness of your innards for your dreams of shame that have forever curved around like snakes the innuendo of your embalmed cracks through which the worms arrive to eat your flesh and chains/ what better way to turn your head and cough in loving recollection of your younger days/ the dead men at night sing it is not enough and fog grim as rocks arrives from beyond the gates and pills or no pills you are now outnumbered by the cryptic stillness of despair and thus the dark precedes all the crumbled walls of faith/

 

and now you sit in your accordions and bones among the salt dunes’ moonmusic of your pills and the blue-sparking light they ignite as a flickering in the underworld whose belltower you will have to climb toward the insomniacs who never sleep but ponder the results and buzz their kingdoms with the secret conclusions they arrive at in contempt for the difficult deciphering they now must do hunched over bleeding in the bad light clouded with more hate and indifference in a petrie dish than mother made you lunches in a paper bag/  but have you paid/ when is enough the motherland/ what compass trembles north/ what immaculate conception will fuck you now, Little Diligence/ what yellow line runs down like a spine in the middle of the road to lick its tongue upon the tongue of what’s ahead/ it was here where you had lived previously/ in the house of what’s ahead because there had always been one/ this is where everything happened/ this was where you could give your middle finger to the past and disappear/ what’s ahead because it was what’s ahead that gave credence to the reality of there even being the existence of a road in the first fucking place/ and what’s ahead implied that there was room for hope to change because it was all going somewhere/ there were still things in attics unrecognized, badly catalogued, and unclaimed/ eyelids were still beautiful, orpheus could still find you/ and making love was something you could still do on a dark desert road through time itself in the stillness of a car/ all of that was over and all that was left was the scratching of the fingernails for pills/ hate and indifference have become the hammering/ it’s back to the caves again/ you have deviated enough from rules/ you’ve been kicked in the balls and now you’re staggering/ and now all the arguing is blind/ we arrive through the snow like blue wolves under a blue moon and the snow has turned to rain/ it is five in the morning and the clinic’s doors are still locked/ the rain is an acronym for amyl nitrate and a slur of words festering in your coffee throat and the boy in white has not arrived to open the door with his sacred key/ captivity and slaughter/ entering success, our blood is still contagious/ and all we can do is pull the jaws of the traps apart/ extricate our limbs/ and while our wings have failed us/ we listen and we know the significance of museums and the chambers of a dangerous howling/ 

Timothée Barrus/ dr. benway’s, stick it in: the machine (12/23/10)

Tim Barrus: After the Last Collapse
poetry/ art/ no minors/ nsfw/ we claim nothing/ we own nothing/ we want nothing/ le sauvage follement artistique fous les fantasmes érotiques des garçons/


(copyright Tim Barrus, poet/USA, who writes for sexually abused boys with HIV/AIDS & to raise awareness about the Crime Against Humanity these boys have and are being subjected to daily.  No boys were harmed by Tim Barrus during the creation of this visual poetry)

 

the great american junkie

in the aids drug trial

the vampires blow my veins

so they have to drain

the blood from my feet

cum in a cup

dr. benway and my

shattered bones

his pills like pieces in the dark

 

dr. benway, stick it in

the machine

 

the costumes of strangers

constitute an identity

of everything hurts

like spigots have been

turned on clockwise

touching nerves pink as

dracula’s baby’s balls

 

the great american junkie/ the drug trial has grown gruesome/ inside my ass radiant forms of madness dream their ancient dreams/ o dr. benway calls them stars poured into the crystal sea/ flesh hot as an oil lamp and telling secrets to the monks/ vampire planets in their orbit around your twisting finger like another sun/ just poke it in/ spits what pigments cause a cunt to fringe itself with wings/ keelhaul lips mercurial heroin renegades spellbound whose tongues lick my insides clean as a milkshake/ the terror of my horses running away and over those distant hills of leakage is a memory of swallowing entire carnivals of conflict/ i have always maintained that death was a seductive lullabye, lullabye/ banshees and their religious overdose all of us are sick/

 

in the aids drug trial

the vampires blow my veins

so they have to drain

the blood from my feet

cum in a cup

dr. benway and my

shattered bones

his pills like pieces in the dark

 

dr. benway, stick it in

the machine

 

i stand naked in the shadows

of the catacombs in the corner

where the scorpions suck my cock

hotshit and prayers yearning

warpspeed is a tongue burned

by sky and high on rapture’s triad

edge moves so noise slides down

his throat

paralytic feeding

as a pack of wolves

 

the great american junkie strolling around a huge medical complex totally lost/ what elevator/ which way to the aids drug trial, please/ oh, the great dr. benway is just down the hall fifty stories up/ to piss in cups like swans/ half of us will die/ the other half will probably die/ sign on the dotted line that you understand this/ what i understand is that we are lab rats/ dr. benway and his big pharma dick stand to make billions/ dr. benway really hopes this drug will work/ me, too/ the half of the study that will die (inevitably the darker boys) is lamentable/ like the furies i promise to live a nice quiet suburban life and do good deeds/ these fentanyl patches are a fucking bitch/ and the actiq is tearing the inside of my mouth apart/ i didn’t want either the oxycontin or the dilaudid/ i’ll take the actiq though because the high is all the way out there to 3C 273 which is a qusar in virgo the brightest quasar in the sky with a buttfuck redshift of solar mass and reverbation mapping/ reverberating prostate up your asshole like an electrified banana/ map me/ on a scale of one to ten how would you rate your pain/ o dr. benway i need a psychostimulant amphetamine third blind eye / no participant in this drug trial can be in pain, and i am always in agony; all of my bones now are riddled with hairline fractures/ a cast is not appropriate unless it would be a full-body cast, and that would be a problem/ but how do i keep these patches on with the androgel/testrosterone applied on the same arms i could grow new arms/ tell your healthcare provider if you have a kidney/ important safety information if you die be sure to report diarrhea, headache, nausea, rash, and vomiting/ in most cases, these side effects will not cause your corpse to stop taking the experimental medicine/ how can someone take this study medication and still be on all these other medications i have only mentioned half of them/ in fact, they were looking for someone just like me to see how the swag works because in the general aids population a certain percentage of us are walking, talking addicts asphalt sunlit gorgons of liquid o chitsanitsa/ our purple tits glow in the dark/ virgo is quite red this time of year and the radiation could mutate an entire planet let alone a virus/ fifty stories up/ i can’t remember what cock must have fucked me with the aids virus/ o let me count the ways/ it could have been the fistfucking in the sling how do you explain to these people that the catacombs was a sacred place you don’t/ how did you get aids, they ask, holding tightly to their clipboards/ i have no fucking idea/ the early season crowds will descend and you can watch them on tv/

 

in the aids drug trial

the vampires blow my veins

so they have to drain

the blood from my feet

cum in a cup

dr. benway and my

shattered bones

his pills like pieces in the dark

 

dr. benway, stick it in

the machine

 

the hoo sky allness behind each eye

i watch them fist another boy

like a river the pills come rushing

out of his hole his legs spread

like a vagabond

the lights of his antenna blink

 

the great american junkie dr. benway is a lunatic/ he thinks he has found the holy grail/ we all go every first of the month to get our experimental aids drugs from dr. benway/ dr. benway is a maniac/ you are either receiving the aids drug or a sugar pill/ like i wouldn’t know a fucking sugar pill from an antiviral/ the poor sons-of-bitches who got stuck with the sugar pill are going to gyroscope into debris/ the sugar pills are sweet and the antivirals make you hallucinate/ you might be able to tell the difference/ sustiva can be like that/ but this is superduper-artillery sustiva on steroids/ laboratories decode by genetic seed/ we each get a month’s worth of pills, and we have to submit to being examined/ once again, having filled out all the forms, i am assigned the designation: sexual abuse survivor so there are parts of the examinations (where they stick cameras up your asshole) i am allowed to avoid/ you have to have a certain percentage of those of us who have been sexually violated to make the drug trial viable/ but we all have to jack off into a cup/ which for those of us who have no cum is patently absurd/ i haven’t cum in years/ the examinations are highly invasive/ abuse in and of themselves/ and everyone knows the difference between a sugar pill and an antiviral because we have all been on antivirals for a while, now/ you’re supposed to take the pill at night, but i like to take it in the elevator on the way down so i can start hallucinating out on the street/ the sun goes obsidian/ o dr. benway, baby, just suck me dry/ i want my virus brain to fry/ i want i want/ i want to fuck raggedy andy in the ass/ o dr. benway, the purples and the reds flashin’ timothy leary is dancin’ the planetcore deep inside my brain robespierre chuchumacha; i’m / so step between two parked cars and puke my guts out/ the medication has been absorbed by now/ just another ghost puking in the street streams of glacial bone and ice/

 

in the aids drug trial

the vampires blow my veins

so they have to drain

the blood from my feet

cum in a cup

dr. benway and my

shattered bones

his pills like pieces in the dark

 

dr. benway, stick it in

the machine

 

the salt shaker filled with euphoria

identity is deranged

every moment blasphemous

uppers downers gin

eating shit like dogs

the mine shaft was a manta ray

metamorphic incandescent

the great feast has grown cold

what kind of monster are you

 

the great american junkie/ i had a job once as editor of drummer magazine/ i have not been employed since/ i fucked up that, too/ heroin is a pit bull junkyard dog/ the quiet throb of centuries/ maybe you got it shooting up/ i doubt that i was careful/ whole dead herds of crawling naked into whatever cave/ and searching for wild berries to eat, i arrive at the land of pills/ the glare of streets unbeams my spirit’s door/ draws flesh to flesh and breast to breast the ruinous pain of broken bones/ i stand beside my bed of silence and stare through the window at the far-off hills where the daybreak horses run/ i walk cat-like through your exalted eyes seeking blood from a knotted mouth/ there will be tempests on the wind tonight/ your nerves livid with fatigue/ the full weight of vanishing upon the colder waves of death/ o dr. benway none of the other medications helped to keep the viral loads as undetectable they were quite detectable/ disordered and the candle flames to guide me through the ruins/ a cd4 below a hundred; below ten; below five; the stars set out another life lived outside the law i am a criminal/ they need us thieves as well/ i can sell you a tv set designed for just your throat/ the drug trial hangs in doorways and hammers out where the fighting is/ you, choshuneetza where nothing is permitted/ but that we could be the world/ paging dr. benway he’s down in pediatrics where he cuts them up and feeds on flesh/ lullabye lullabye/

 

in the aids drug trial

the vampires blow my veins

so they have to drain

the blood from my feet

cum in a cup

dr. benway and my

shattered bones

his pills like pieces in the dark

 

dr. benway, stick it in

the machine

 

we arrive at the hospital the first

of the month the dust on god

too high above the dark shadows

of the town of self-inflicted

wounds searching for a cure

we might hide in like an apparition

sleeps bloodless in a coffin

i told you like the electronic

dancing, flashing furies

i promise i swear i promise

to live a nice quiet suburban life and do good deeds

o dr. benway, thank you for your kindness

half of us will die

the other half

are guided only by their voices

dr. benway, stick it in

the machine

tim barrus/ teethmarks (12/17/10)

timothée barrus/ si étrange est toujours intéressant (12/16/10)

Tim Barrus: After the Last Collapse
poetry/ art/ no minors/ nsfw/ we claim nothing/ we own nothing/ we want nothing/ le sauvage follement artistique fous les fantasmes érotiques des garçons/
 

(copyright Tim Barrus, poet/USA, who writes for sexually abused boys with HIV/AIDS & to raise awareness about the Crime Against Humanity these boys have and are being subjected to daily.  No boys were harmed by Tim Barrus during the creation of this visual poetry)

il n’ya pas de sourds-muets qui vivent dans ma rue/ il ya un instant le monde était sauvage et incertain/ un droit de naissance sans archives/ le silence/ dans le visage de rêves morts cloués ensemble avec le martèlement/

timothée barrus/ As I write this (12/16/10)

Tim Barrus: After the Last Collapse
poetry/ art/ no minors/ nsfw/ we claim nothing/ we own nothing/ we want nothing/ le sauvage follement artistique fous les fantasmes érotiques des garçons/


(copyright Tim Barrus, poet/USA, who writes for sexually abused boys with HIV/AIDS & to raise awareness about the Crime Against Humanity these boys have and are being subjected to daily.  No boys were harmed by Tim Barrus during the creation of this visual poetry)

As I write this, a cold, hard rain of ice is falling from a sky that has eaten up all the stars. What does it mean. It means the Internet — always iffy in the staunch infrastructure of America — will flicker out. It’s already on again off again. In Europe, I had more wireless technology. Even in the third world (America is like the fifth or sixth world, and those second grade teachers who taught you all about the omnipotence of America, were lying) the Internet is a far more wireless proposition than in the States where there are communities that are still connected via telephone (amazing, so retro 19th century). We are not quite that antediluvian but close enough. I did not bring all my tech stuff because it would not be fair to Kilian and Eavan who need it. So I am stuck just like most other American assholes with technology that is dependent on the weather. The Internet will blink off here if it sprinkles. It is doing more than that tonight. Sometimes it can take a WEEK (I am not kidding) to get reconnected to the Billybob Redneck Hillbilly Network of more wires than they know how to connect to a television. So if you don’t hear from me, it only means the South is trying to catch up. We will lose the Internet. Some will lose their minds. But not moi. I have all this French poetry that is exploding in my head and I will simply sit down to write it.

timothée barrus/ There are some (12/16/10)

Tim Barrus: After the Last Collapse

poetry/ art/ no minors/ nsfw/ we claim nothing/ we own nothing/ we want nothing/ le sauvage follement artistique fous les fantasmes érotiques des garçons/


(copyright Tim Barrus, poet/USA, who writes for sexually abused boys with HIV/AIDS & to raise awareness about the Crime Against Humanity these boys have and are being subjected to daily.  No boys were harmed by Tim Barrus during the creation of this visual poetry)

There are some rather creative executive production positions with some media acquisition/mergers going on.

I have been offered one of these jobs which would be creating Internet network content. But much as I try to summon any enthusiasm whatsoever, I fall on my face. No matter how much creativity is stressed, the reality is that deep pockets is a big corporation. This means the suits.

I just don’t trust them.

I think what would happen is, you would get into the position where for a limited time you would be given rope. You could be creative. But after a few months of it (I doubt it would last a year), the suits would want to reign you in. A younger person would be less aware of how this dynamic works. They draw you in just like a drug dealer. You develop relationships with colleagues. You begin to like the money. The next thing you know is that you’re at Abercrombie & Fitch, pawing through the shirts and ties. After all, there’s a committee production meeting you have to attend, and the corporate bosses will be there because you are asking for a budget increase to produce a hot new show. This paradigm does not work for me.

I am really only interested in poetry and I am actually only interested in reading it into a camera. Simple. No frills.

Thing is, I’ve been around the planet a number of times, and have dropped in on so many cultures, it’d be hard to number them. I note stuff that has to do with what is viable and lasts. Every single culture I can identify with (that does not mean I like them or am even attracted to them) has invested in poetry, and a few I cannot identify with have invested in poetry as well.

This is different from investing in specific poets.

Galleries and museums invest in names and games. They are all seeking numbers. Ever since the latest Smithsonian scandal, the number of visitors has multiplied by ten.

Ten times the number of people who were attending are now seeking out that particular exhibition.

The chances of the Smithsonian having their budget reduced are not good. Their budget will be increased. 1.) They managed to censor the art that scared them. 2.) They increased their audience times ten.

Hhhmmmm: I smell a rat.

At any rate, I want to do what I want to do. I want to write poetry and read it into a camera. That is it.

I am not asking anyone to publish it. That would be a fool’s errand.

So, I’m sorry, but I cannot take your production position. Suits and ties are so dull, and my ability to sit in on your meetings and not climb the walls is limited at best. I wish you luck. But what you define as creativity is what I define as corporate greed. I suggest you hire someone hungry just out of film school. I would BET that they already have the suit and they already have the tie, and they wouldn’t have to go shopping. Abercrombie makes me break out into hives.

timothée barrus/ basquaiat! (12/16/10)

Tim Barrus: After the Last Collapse
poetry/ art/ no minors/ nsfw/ we claim nothing/ we own nothing/ we want nothing/ le sauvage follement artistique fous les fantasmes érotiques des garçons/

 

(copyright Tim Barrus, poet/USA, who writes for sexually abused boys with HIV/AIDS & to raise awareness about the Crime Against Humanity these boys have and are being subjected to daily.  No boys were harmed by Tim Barrus during the creation of this visual poetry)

J’avais été interpellé par deux de toiles de JM Basquiat au Musée d’Art Moderne de San Francisco. Aussi lorsque l’expo conçue à Bale a été annoncée venant sur Paris j’ai décidé d’aller la voir. Peu de temps après sortait le film The Radiant Child. C’est un élément incontournable pour apprécier et surtout comprendre la peinture de JM Basquiat. Une émission sur Arte je crois a agréablement complété mon panorama sur Basquiat.

D’origine portoricaine et haïtienne il est né à New York en 1960, s’en éloigne et y revient à 17 ans dans Manhattan, quartier alors complètement délaissé. Il commence par grapher sur les murs et palissades en signant SAMO (Same Old Shit). Rapidement il bascule vers la peinture et en 1981 le tableau Cadillac Moon signe la mort de SAMO et la naissance de JM Basquiat.

Il passera rapidement de l’ombre à la lumière ce qui ne l’empêchera pas de continuer à produire de façon extraordinaire. Il nous laisse plus de 1000 toiles et autant de dessins souvent exposés dans des galeries, musées privés ou chez des particuliers car bien peu de musées publics ont cru en lui et investi largement dans ses œuvres.

 

Les 150 œuvres exposées traduisent chacune une étape, une réflexion, un événement qui a touché JM Basquiat et lorsque nous sommes devant, connaissant ou pas le contexte, on est souvent interpellé par la violence du message. Les couleurs, le rappel de quelques symboles (les couronnes, les lettres,…), la présence fréquente de textes (rappel de sa vie de grapheur ?) ne laisse jamais indifférent.

J’adore son tableau de 1988 « La Chevauchée fantastique », (je préfère le titre version originale Riding with Death) qui hélas sera parmi ses dernières toiles car il est mort d’une overdose le 12 aout 1988 à 28 ans.

La rareté de ses œuvres dans les musées fait de cette expo un passage obligé pour le découvrir jusqu’au 30 janvier 2011.

Pour en savoir plus :

Le film « The Radiant Child »

Emission d’Arte « Basquiat » disponible à la vente

Le Hors série de « Connaissance des Arts » n° 468

Site internet : www.mam.paris.fr

Adresse : Musée d’Art Moderne de Paris – 11, avenue du Président Wilson – Paris 16 (Métro Alma-Marceau ou Iéna / RER C Pont de l’Alma)



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