Friday, December 17, 2010


Most of Francis Bacon’s animated shorts
don’t run anymore. I liked very much how he
crafted a pained, depreciatory squint into
herpes. It was a bit gross, but it showed what
a pity it was when our mouths didn’t pinch
around new concepts anymore. It was as if
we were staring after a while into a white
miasma. He was a maker of the albino occult.

His treatment of the mummified sloth sitting
down for breakfast was excellent. Any lunch
break exemplified appetite’s cliché. Around
the sloth neighborly ferns were waving to
the half-assed rain, the subtext: “Kansas apocalyptic
bed wets.” Pizzas freeze over, metastasizing into
a soft wooly cover into which a flea jumps without
fear – with a Leonard Cohen leap of faith.

Any blown mind is ultimately a structural spin-off
of a barnacle. I think it was him who documented
the AK-47’s golden years, old fogies dodging bullets
blithely. Overkill on the mark. His film could delay
shuttles. NASA cockroaches and their subsequent

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