A Second Dose of [The Body Canvas]

Perpetual cold and misery; products of a bleak existence. And of this
existence, the writer knows all too well, all too perpetual. In the sphere of
creative urge, there is only mere interpretation, myths of the mythomaniacal,
places where one assumes the maneuver of doubling, adorning a godlikeness
in a world of nothingness in need of vital construction, or else, a pivotal
refurbishment. And this one, presumably a man, in all his persistent aspiration,
he’ll be murdered during the eve of the final victory which aroused in him a
debt no longer certified as absentee and to maintain and manifest the vague
life he’s survived thus then, thenceforth, henceforth, always to be equally
unfree in irrational force, an unshakable neurosis, suffering from the
appointed Philistines who wrongfully appropriated an era most bitter and
better served to have been forfeited, as an allele with a hot foot, strangleholds
erroneously hypothesized that to be freed, the one desirable of freedom
collapses by way of decapitation. You have to put skin in the game; that said, I
am no longer the young writer who once made slaves of them all and left his
wake of annexation, punch-drunk pussies, bruised and to date, begging again
deep penetration, badges of crimson-spilling avulsions to reinforce their
bombasting of having been had in the worst possible way imaginable. The
other Victorians who came before me smile from their sepulchers and warm
the vacant one engraved with my name.
Every woman I’ve loved has discovered in dire, unfortunate theatrics, to
be loved by me is to be runner-up to what I am and al muses have died with
the fading image of me, drastically realizing to be a muse of the pages I
compose means to be loved and hated simultaneously, idolized, worshiped
and inevitably put out to Pasteur with yesterday’s whores whose vaginal tears
still can be detected on the shaft all future victims will taste. The insalubrious
life all writers sympathetically and uncontrollably lead is a primitive one with
drug-laden semantics, proposed methodology to heal in hypothesis defiant
since Pandora went to her grave refusing to warn the people on earth and the
future generations that was to come, of what the writer would do to
everything in his wake. If there is no chaos, the animal in him will inevitably
create it, if chaos happens to find itself already standing, he’ll play the tune to
make it dance, pyrotechnics so unique with clinical scapegoats are no so
dispassionate to mention, not the slightest power soon at all to be discovered
within, only savagery, cannibalizing his own in written word to extend
longevity. The more he writes, he destroys and the more he destroys, the
greater the ashes to throw into the air and decorate the breeze with the
stench of the deceased made his pen-sword. The map of hysteria should by
now be apparent as the last 19 years o the greatest and most consummate
American writing has been written by these two blood hands because I and I
alone, have proved to be the only artist sure of the commitment to something
both in and outside of myself, stacking skyscraper-high Pyrrhic victories to a
satisfaction so egregious the question of whether enough can be consumed to
cure the bottomless hunger…..
..so let’s be clear on one thing, I do the fucking and a damn good fucking at
that. I harbor not the slightest pity for those at the wrong-end-of-business to
this gargantuan fuck; it could be the most akin to raising the dead through
necromancing immediately following the bullet I’ve driven into their brain
stem and the ones who’ve been executed were not just victims to my own
need for amusement nor a way to get my dick hard; they were examples,
slaughtered in full view of other observing muses, slave to my literature in this
life and the next, that karma, despite the clichés so tremendously repeated by
mindless cliché-entials, is an idle belief; even if the kind, the altruistic and
philanthropist circulate goodness, they remain equal to us all; we all take a
taste of misadventure. What you send out, good or bad, everyone receives the
wrath that is the cost of being a hostage to this existence.





Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Body Canvas]

A Taste of [The Body Canvas]

  On day one, man came from the dust, saw himself in form,
without formation. On day two, he started imprisoning, oppressing and waging
war against his fellow men. The following day, the lineage that Prometheus
would become of discovered fire, and of Sada Abe, tool construction. On day
four, the marching orders were given, what warmed and prepared food,
brought arson into linguistics and tool construction was a more efficient,
effective way to reign murder over the opposed and conquered. It wasn’t until
this man with his knowledge and know-how of tool construction impaled
himself, was bit by the very flames he used to incinerate his enemies that gave
birth to the artist, when he used his own blood to paint upon the cave walls his
story of campaigns and discoveries. On day six, he watched in completed
amazement and astonishment all the ashes rising from behind the horizon, the
amount of mayhem and horror which could be harvested by his hands, and
with everyone in his wake dispersed, dispatched or cut down, he rested, gave
pause to his siege of all foreign, all unfamiliar, so that the earth could
replenish, the population could reproduce under occupation, forget its former
short-lived chiefdom, so when he wakes, he can return to the madness all
artist become accustom to in one way or another.

Dontrell Lovet't

from, [The Body Canvas]

[Genius or Madness] How the effects of Syphilis Influenced Literature & History

 

by Dontrell Lovet't

         

       Syphilis is a sexually transmitted infection caused by the bacterium Treponema Pallidum subspecies Pallidum. The signs and symptoms of syphilis vary depending in which of the four stages it presents (primary, secondary, latent, and tertiary). In the primary stage, the disease is most infectious and communicable to be passed along, the secondary stage turns the bacteria inwards on its host, halting its ability to be infectious to others and begins to destroy primarily the cardiovascular and Integumentary systems. In the Tertiary stage, the bacteria breaches the Blood/Brain barrier, entering the brain and begin to make mangle-work of the Cerebral Cortex, which eventually, inevitably, causes madness.

       Syphilis, more so than any other disease, has intertwined with the fate of the Who's Who of literary and Musical geniuses in our human history. Beethoven's deafness in his later life was in fact due to advance Syphilis (deafness being one of the side effects of the progression of the disease), Mozart's reoccurring illness and painful death was at the hands of tertiary Syphilis (spending many years searching for a cure of what was termed "the Pox.") Guy de Maupassant, the French novelist, not only often bragged that he contracted a "real disease" but went on boasting of his repeated sexual encounters with young boys whom he knowingly infected in North Africa. Gustave Flaubert (known for his timeless yet dry novel "Madam Bovary") was not bashful in admitting his sexual exploits in his travel writings with Turkish girls and male prostitutes in Beirut and Egypt, noticing a chancre (the initial symptom of Syphilitic infection) on his penis. James Joyce, in surviving letters, discussed treatment for what he called "Pox" which stemmed from his various affairs and frequenting Parisian prostitutes; his greatest novel, Ulysses, was written under Joyce's body complete compliance to Syphilis, calling into question, how much of Ulysses was genius and how much was madness?

        Vincent van Gogh's depression and self-mutilation (both too known to be common side effects of Syphilis) was noted along with his "pox" in letters to his brother. Mary Todd Lincoln, wife of the 16th President of the United States, Abraham Lincoln, not too long after his assassination, begin to exhibit signs of the tertiary advancement, as she knowingly wandered off, became delusional, aggressively erratic, which one can rightfully wonder; If Mary Todd had been infected, had Abraham? And if not for his untimely assassination at the hands of William Booth, would he too have fallen into a dead spin symptom of deteriorating? 

         Adolf Hitler, while serving as a soldier in the First World War, admitted his frequenting a Jewish prostitute, who undeniably, infected him. Mein Kampf, his novel and manual for the unification of the Aryan Race and the destruction of the Jews, is littered with Hitler's obsession with infected blood, mentions of pox and his primary care doctor, who kept him sedated when he wasn't on public tours of propaganda, recommending his Vegan dieting, was by trade a Syphilogist. With his documented late delusions and paranoia, all can explain Hitler's unvarying madness towards Jews (all representing the prostitute who infected him during the Great War) and his lack of initiative when surrounded and overwhelmed by allied forces in the last days of WWII.

          Charles Baudelaire, [The Flowers of Evil], too, was a frequented guess of local brothels throughout Paris, coupled with his usage and lifelong addiction to laudanum, a morphine tincture, caused him to age quite rudely, meeting his demise at the young age of 46.

            While most disease known to man had shaped the fates of nations and societies, Syphilis can be said to be one of the very few that influenced history and the course of literature, which brings to question; how much of the great works known the world over were drafted under infectious madness and how much under the madness of genius alone?

Preview of [Pillars & Porcelain Darlings] an Autobiographical travel novel

New York has the tendency to intensify whatever tendencies one has, as Cocaine inhaled and infused into the mind of the genuine genius. One never notices the sky, the “up,” beyond the high-rise, heaven-push of skyscrapers, peppered here and there with flocks of birds that now called “The Big Apple” its “only” preferred meal. Impressions of New York can be better said impressions needing no carbon copies; everything was decisively in carbon, made of carbon, even the kiss between man and woman is carbon-dated. It was enough to sour a trekker’s utopian nostalgia of leaving a lost era. The scavenger is made redundant, unnecessary, as a rising generation gathering its momentum and makes of the presiding, unnecessary; because for the scavenger, as for the corporate mongrel, the corner-hustling mongrel, all is conveniently in fingertip’s reach and what couldn’t be found in linear methodology, so happened to be accessible in happenstance and just juxtaposition. Dispassion is the passion taken by inertia and an emerged madness seen more so when the “no one” finds themselves desperately wanting to be “someone” and in the standard of today’s way, takes what has been done in futile attempt to make it their own; the first man to jump off the Empire State Building in a parachute becomes a spectated sensation; the second man walks away unnoticed, the cops themselves uninterested in his in legal infractions. Such a soft touch of miserable specimens find the Crow himself so harshly croaking a rolling dive into the netherworld of the melange of every world, murky reflections of pre-digested aura, blurred, impoverished travesty of true self. And behind those moulages, finely waxed and fixed to flesh and fowl, new kicks to the juvenile delinquents without materials for a riot arises, minds become limited as Afghan Hounds, any prices is entertain to pay the pills and such myth of people having costly to learn when their ignorance makes them suffer, could not seem so much more farther away As one installed with the human schadenfreude, turning away from all things ordinary when they’ve taken on ominous significance and suggestion would have been counterproductive, counter-revolutionary, a human against humanism. From that day forward, since my sole expenditure of New York, I’d carry the intentions to make a fuss, a most violent fuss indeed and the tea? I’ll take it with honey and a bit of venom, what’s it all worth without a habitual shock to the viscera now and then? The train back to JFK seemed so long, so tiresome, insanely insoluble, as I came to discover entertaining myself with the orbiting human race too came with its adverse reactions I failed to recognize, or care to avoid all together. With movement, there felt no movement but all motion. It was that very train returning me to the terminal which would close the final chapter on [The Naked Novels] and all books I’d written, forgot to write, wrote to discard, negligently left in the boudoirs of past lovers and discarded friends, when writing was rebellion and sing was a possibility unsinkable because it was unthinkable. I am singing as loudly as ever before, at this very instance, for those mentioned, those who will be mentioned, those who will never be mentioned and those I forgot to mention the same as those I have never thought to mention. And though I am now only talking to me and myself, walking against the flora of an unknown land, reciting a poem written on the sea bottom, a riot of color as Orpheus torn apart by women, to reflect everything and to see nothing, which has become the substance made of dreams; Or have you failed to notice the tears of conquest in my latest notes on this definitive novel?



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Pillars & Porcelain Darlings]

Act I, Scene I of [Matilda Maddening] A Play on the Dissolution of Marriage

[Set opens with Husband at his desk and wife seated across from him, legs folded under. Wife is wearing a robe, as though preparing for bed and husband is fully clothed]


[There is silence between them for at least two minutes, as they both fiddle around with things around them, their hands and their movements, trying to find words to speak to one another.]

[After a long, almost seemingly endless silence, Husband sits forward as if to break the silence, then seats himself back and resigns again to perpetuate the silence already ongoing.]

[Suddenly, the wife, Matilda, breaks the silence]

Matilda: Say it.
Husband: There’s nothing to say.
Matilda: So you say nothing?
Husband: What else can I say if there is nothing to say?
Matilda: You always have something to say, saying nothing means everything.
Husband: Then let my saying nothing say what you believe I should say.
Matilda: [Lets out a sigh/laugh, brief] I knew when I married you, you were a coward. Naively I believed you’d acclimate to what a man is suppose to be.
Husband: Sure, sure, if that makes you feel better, consider me what you must and consider my silence as my words. But let’s not be so coy as to pretend you had no part in this.
Matilda: A part in what?
Husband: You know what.
Matilda: No, what exactly should I know? Say it for Christ’s sake.
Husband: The night in question, you were engaged in your own bit of deception.
Matilda: [sits forward closer to the desk] You can’t be serious.
Husband: As serious as I ever have been.
Matilda: So you use this so called deception as your blueprint to commit your unspeakable crimes?
Husband: Who said I committed any crimes?
Matilda: I say.
Husband: Of course. Not only did you name yourself my wife, but also judge and jury.
Matilda: Don’t do that.
Husband: Do what?
Matilda: Return to your pathetic position of cowardice. My mum always said, “A tyrant always finds a pretext for their tyranny.”
Husband: So now I’m a tyrant. First a speechless coward, now a tyrant. [Sits back with sarcasm] Mon cher, you’ve got to make up your mind, that is, if you can ever can.
Matilda: Even with my scatter brain, I can focus in on your non-sense, that tucked tail between your legs and that fucking yellow belly.
Husband: Does it make you feel better? To belittle? Deface? The whole world that stands and the next that will has to be in flames before you can ever begin to get to the place where you will begin to think of smiling.
Matilda: In point of fact, since you’ve mentioned it, it would make me outright blissful if everything in that world you stand for goes down into flames and something you love dearly is murdered.
Husband: I love you dearly.
Matilda. Not that night you didn’t.
Husband: [Gets fed up and jumps to his feet to walk away] I’m not going to do this with you, not again, there’s got to be some point we’ll have to end.
Matilda. [Gets upset from his attempt to walk away] A point to end, a point to end, it’ll be tonight, right now if you don’t sit you ass back in that seat and show me that fucking respect I deserve!

[Husband stops in full step, contemplating]


-from the 2018 play by Dontrell Lovet't,[Matilda Maddening]

[Delight in Delirium] a poem

Adore who you are,
I too, who you are,
in this moment,
a sophisticated shape sharing a joke
& smoke on the stairs,
the lady with an ear for Jazz &
a mind for me Together,
we are a gather,
alone,
lone drones flying low to
a riotous earth much too
starved to pass up an assured
meal-
delirium decides,
chaos drives,
a delighted flush to the face,
leaving all blurs that never
knew what should be known



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [AutoErotic FatalitieS]

[Self-made Legend] a poem

I look back upon it; &
smile upon it, really,
ruffles & reflections,
far-out fetches, horizon injured complexions

A soul a-flame,
suffocating by smolder,
admit to nothing
& takes nothing, other
than life from limbs,
truth from whole-cloth,
peace through psychological terror

We’ve become the mysticism
of our legend,
the snake bite to Irma Blue,
stringent strings struggling,
winding wide for a bend
in the wind,
smiling on no longer us




Dontrell Lovet't
from, [AutoErotic Fatalities]