That jerkiness

felt in things placed wrongly that are true.

Staged seamlessly, Hitler’s official office furniture

within a food fight imagined by the 3 Stooges

Net result-Greatest Postmodern painting

in Paris resides in the Pompidou

I sensed it, though not thinking about humiliation

that is the relevant factor

In a tale told by an authoritarian government..

The first priority, to squash and fire

the dignity of the chosen enemy

The lost and wounded showered with hatred by the dominant

political baboons

Things placed wrongly (Surrealism’s strategy continues) together

make complex sense when redeemed by absurdity

Morality, values, humans..

Towering artists play the role of history’s

phantasmagorical surgeons

Saundra Fleming 1/23/2022

Seattle, WA

Vanilla swirls

The sidewalk makes me anxious

Like Kate said the other day

Stirring fingernail polish into

Chocolate pudding

It will get you some place—

To a resistant question

Ones painting methods.

TOOOO complicated.

Spoon the cookie dough into

Stiff peaks.

Bounce a ball of mercury

For your pleasure.

This is all you need to know

And all there is to know.

Remember: the human likes

Simplicity

Evening steps forward

Though the sun may not

Always Rise.

Saundra Fleming 7/20/2023

Seattle, WA

Well and hm and phew

That painting is the one

Those portraits must also be shown, shaped like a castle

With two guards on the roof

America, it looks like it.

Rubber arms, melting eyeballs from lips, Lord Byron, upside down man

Aqua pie in the face.

Get out cash!

Saundra Fleming 9/29/2023

Seattle, WA

Piling up…stacking systems on the easel.

Networks of smears

Legs that come and go

Hands running and feet molding mint green

Oil paint

Delivery!

It smells like a revelation, the kind of psychosis

One considers

Multiple, mystical systems

Of horror, of life, beg to welcome THEMSELVES to the world

When smoking an hallucinatory guitar, stacking becomes Inspired systems. Such systems shall prove the existence of a creative

Monster, mathematician, mongrel

Or if beautifully true,

A singular point of reference.

Saundra Fleming 10/22/2023

Seattle, WA

It did move very slowly, scrubbing the streets of Paris. A blob pulsed to protect itself from the vast history, the cuneiform mysteries of ALL OF ART. The joyous pictures of the past parasitic visions were so necessary; the world of creation, a bite into ones own flesh.

There was no running, no walking quickly or without a stress of the blob’s muscular system. This system was phantasmagorical; it was all encompassed by the sugar sweet firing of one nerve cell after the other. Blob things determined opening doors of the mind. Fiery, the edges of the blob, tripped and spilled.

Hope for this blob continued to synthesize. The music of all the centuries evoked into things:

Rubies, potato, song and equation. The shape of the blob itself ran into atmosphere, and into structure, perpetually denying itself.

The blob is a portrait, in the language of sorrow and experimentation. Pink or mint green is the blob. The pounding slither defines her agency, defines her joy—

Squished between its questionable fingers, the blob becomes a painter of the gut. No painter of light or form, but instinct and revelatory evolution.

A potential absence of form

A day in Paris is the blob’s beginning. Harsh strike, gentle hand opening in toward the light. The blob is starving and the scrubbing action of its length remembers the ancient. Here is resolution; here is fear. Here is the bile of my soul.

Spitting, the blob rearranges itself on the stair. Dare it to spill often into a jerky, weakened, pitiful lurch.

It lives in the spit of it’s condition

Painting is always and never!

Saundra Fleming 11/27/2023

Paris