Born on cliffs and rocky slides,
terrorizing the earth, piercing the sky,
the little girl road the small Mongolian horse.
Slowly traversing a sky masked in haze and dust,
lifted on heels searching the abyss.
The Caravan is pursued as night
rises up in shadows vaporous and milky.
She is alone in her fear.
On either side the limits rise and fall,
in rocks and crags, toothy and howling,
indifferent to her loneliness.
The Lost Shore
2010, 00:7:00
Deep Black
Incantation #16: Transmission
2009, 00:01:46
Deep Black
Incantation #15: Mad Transits Of Electric Suns
2009, 00:02:15
Deep Black
Incantation #14: Studio Visitation, Stained Sheets
How long has it been (since I've seen you)?
I dreamt of you again. sitting,
smoking on the edge of the mattress.
not naked, your innocence
not yet relinquishing your body to the world.
then you were gone.
a mirage could not have been more real.
I searched for remains of your cigarettes
like bread crumbs in the forest.
I ran my hand across your impression,
cradled my head in its saddle.
A well to pull forth memories
to peer into its dark still water,
hoping, in that mirror
I might find that you have returned.
Your hand on my shoulder
pulling me back to bed,
to rest again in your arms.
The stillness is shattered,
a feral cat mews
and neon hums and flashes
and I am alone...
Person-
the knife enters, cleaving the one
opening an emptiness, emptying a fullness
Person looks for her.
" Where are you? Where have you gone?"
" I am not the one who did the leaving."
As the earth of man reseeds from the waters, furthering
the
desert, sapping the body
salt relieving the void, mirages emptying into thought
children echo the return of the mother/father.
The first word born of their becoming,
here I am, this is my cypher.
Opening to the sky, fill me
I am yours, beloved...
.................................
When I was three my mother went away
to the hospital. She had cancer,
a lump in her breast. The doctors
cut it out, removing her breast
to the bone.
One half of the universe dissolves
the son is alone with the father
Silence becomes enthroned in time, which is separation.
Desperation,
the chick calls out, randomly dialing numbers
until one connects, the signal holds
ringing fills the ears, further into the desert, dive...
An answer, 'yes, hello.'
Person asks, 'Do you know where my mother is?'
Time has ended
With an open mouth and an open ass
Screaming into the void
As my sex crawls beneath the night
My sex…
Enveloped in the boiling of the sky
My sex…
Tuberous snouts probing
A cankered earth
Extracting poisons
Time honored
Tongues
Canceling the void
Silence scattered
Between cries
The Omen Project is a magic charm to awaken
the dead, shadows, wandering asleep, forgetful and lost.
We are schizophrenic as a species, isolated from and warring with what
is essentially part of our being--the rest of the world. 'Born dead' not
yet living, Deep Black having 'fallen off the earth,' tries to remember,
to return and find his way home, to leave the deserts for the land of
the living.
Mr Pickerill is a multimedia artist with
roots in poetry and photography since a teenager. Influenced by Antonin
Artaud, Viennese Actionism, and 70's SoCal video and performance since
1997 he has been developing the Omen Project a series of performances,
video and installations centered on his writing. Inspired by the themes
in the Iliad and the Odyssey- the primacy of personal love over societal
conflict and control. He has staged 12 productions and taken part in many
Video festivals internationally. Most recently he has had photography
published in Ninja magazine and video shown on the Art Channel, both out
of Paris, France. Mr Pickerill lives and works in Brooklyn NY.
Burning from the inside, sun and moon collide;
open the flesh.