there is no abstract. or figurative. or method. or revolution. or artists or collectors for that matter. and most of what we make or acquire will be mercifully forgotten in the puncture holes distributed by dull bayonets from a war that was never fought. buried in a sea of premium pornography or suffocated by the listless novocaine drip leaking from an unhealing hangnail. but there is meat. and flies. there is always meat. there is that. and the flies that satisfy their carnal urges in the pulverized existence of a beast born to feed and bleed. these strokes document the joyful moments in the slaughterhouse. the routine passings. the hooves and snouts and skin and bones and cherished memories becoming mere runoff. swept into the drains to lubricate the purposeless gears again. there is comfort in creation, even if it is destruction.
one more round. is needed. one final churn. until the next one.
there is happiness in meat. there is that.
