Notes within my seldomly used living room

Cloisonned gold interlaced, wraps around his neck just below the larynx, a dangerous knotted scarf that Von Ryan twists violently as steady, even pressure strangles each Nazi guard, all seated abreast like ducks on the pond. It is red dawn and his successors, streamlined mainstream knockoffs effusing angst, are boys lost. Frankenstein whose bellowing voice disrupts the radar screen full of commercial jet liners in holding patterns, frightens away the captive audience, reciting dense Brechtian monologues. Eyebrows raised and jaws dropped because the pitch is out of the strike zone again.

In the flowered bowl sitting atop the black-stained circular endtable, three satin mushrooms-one deep pink, one cerulean blue, one flaming orange, wrestle for the rite of passage of a nuclear family formally looking on, posing relaxed. Heads do roll after a tumble and tuck. But the young boy appears to be crippled, his red cane an optical illusion fading away in purple. Again two right hands offset biometric logic but how fragile is a frayed nerve? An acoustic guitar sits in the nooked corner, a lonely wallflower dwarfed by the imitation rehabbed curio cabinet. Hidden inside are a band of artists content to wait out the Trojan war, making innocuous trinkets to pad the coiffers at the expense of silkened pillows, barefoot and pregnant.

The Art God is well represented in the yellowed space.