This is MI...
This is what I do.
This is Where I Write
And This is Who I am...
Panegyneric
- Self-Dissection March, 2007
Hopeless desires retired in words
Unknown today as I've always been
In shadowed escape, sightless survival
Carving the skin to show MI again
Tomorrow we move, ever leaving this place
If no words return to entice my stay
For the tainted remains of old pages stained;
A sacrificed shed to survive this day
In lieu of years scribbled and lost
Unseen by eyes outside my skull
A taste rejected, discarded to rot
Of Bliss and war and repetitious fall
The poisons on tongues silent before self-defeat
All raped and replaced by My Autopsy
With surface just scratched, misplaced, I repeat
The scene of life to celebrate suffering
To display a Saint set deep in dark shit
A product produced, once or twice over-used
Found grafted to shelves after years, I still wait
A post-self-apocalypse of glorified self-abuse
Still finding myself creating my end
A slow stroll to release from all that controls me
To remove this dreams with all that I have
From Nightmare to Dust to this Eulogy
A dancing post-dissection, quick pick to fervent feed
Salvaging remains until this being's stripped clean
Feasting dry bone wrapped weak in thin skin
The poisoned prison of delinquent disease
All a projection of all that I am
All a production of sick, self-destruction
Set in dim rhyme from bitter, locked minds
A prostitutes prospect in reclusive reflection
Vivisection of self to set free this plague
A plea, a promise for pleasures ignored
Beyond dead skin, each Missing Rib
Spreading wounds wide like the thighs of a whore
All to know, all to be, all to show all lost within me…
The image evolves, the past repeats the dreams of things I'll forever be:
The Anonymous Enemy, the Idol ignored
The Scarecrow still dancing in fields of corn
The Patron Saint of Self-Obsession
As seen by your eyes that never see more…
I am the headstone, the hammer, the chisel
I am the words crowning the grave
The lover's elixir, the most joyous dagger
I am the longing to eclipse this state
I am the bi-polar Troubadour
The broken heart, the hapless romantic
The graphite, the paper, I am the prayers
Memorized; a Suicide come again to end this
Poorly defined, I'm the crippled voice
Left dumb by ears too bored for the verse
The pages discarded, the progress retarded
I am the poet shrugged off as perverse
I am the child of Chaos
Casting shadows to the vestige of Nyx
Self-quarantined, hermitic Self-Martyr
Putting to use wasted wood of the crucifix
I am white noise, I am the re-run
I am desperation's number one choice
The polluted mind, the masochist's lie
I am the failures that stifle your voice
Mine is the throat of turpentine
Cages by sticks; each impatient match
The Re-creation, Second Act Born Again
I am each reference that you didn't catch
I AM… still not Him
Not rewriting, just reusing the line
Bleeding the past, returning attack
To see if I can't make it worth it this time
I am the resurrection of dead child dreams
Ever preserved in straw and weak seams
Falling apart to leave us nothing at all
But future surrendered to consuming disease
This heart left open and wounded by weakness
I am the thread, misanthropic glue
Holding together skin self-abused
I am the Truth from my point of view
I've wakened from Coma, I've altered my Bliss
Metal Mictian sting behind thinly glossed lips
I've set eyes on a world since forgotten to me
A muse in a drug I inject to survive this
For whom I pave that well known road
For whom I'll crumble all reflective green vision
I am the Eminent, mine are the shoes
I am the Wicked without recognition
I am the footsteps, I'm Evolution
I am the soldier of MY Revolution
I am the prisoner freed from the camp
Returned to the cell to find retribution
I am the SuperChrist, Der Ãœbermensch
Post-human vagabond transient
The caustic tongue, old elephant gun
I am the Consciousness born of my Torment
I am eternal, sterile, untouched
I am the neuropathic white knight
The scales, Third Eye, the volatile high
Exposing your all left hollowed for sight
A sex-crime, a necrotic swain
The burning remains of last night's affair
A romantic scene in murder-suicide dream
I am the discomfort you feel when I stare
I am the dead seed, CisCarica need
I am Progression in Terms of Reverse
I am prevention, I am the tension
Whatever it takes to preserve this Earth
The Eugenic Solution, sweet absolution
I am revision of subject left stale
I am the barren, I am man's end
Gender-shed eternal, the Omega-Male
The potassium drip, life's final plea
I'm the repeated theme ever since sixteen
Inverse criminal, an emptied, old soul
A mock remake of all I want to be
I am the fantasy, realities scorn
I am the poisons protecting my Bliss
I am the Ego, I am Tomorrow
I am the entity that doesn't exist
I am over-used, out-dated, I'm old
A second-rate scribe to a bargain-bin tribe
Killing God; Myself on pages to please
'Til this being's left drained, found barely alive.
© copyright 2008 - Jinx Koresh, (the) Makeshift Idol.
Welcome to My Better-Than-Your-Space!
I am an Expressionistic Painter // Poet // Alterationist // Whatever else I want to be when the urge arises. My subject matter generally relates to sexuality, mortality, religion (mainly Hinduism, Buddhism, Satanism and The Coyotel), Animal Liberation, Veganism, Capitalist devastation and Self-Revision.
My goal is simply to wake Vishnu, one person at a time.
My media is wide-ranged, but generally include Oil, Acrylic, Natural (Nature & Human) Mediums and Collage.
I paint on anything that will hold with anything I can. Paper to wood to canvas. Contraception cases and Styrofoam mannequin heads. Things to look at, things to use.
I've recently found out admission of my mental disorders could significantly boost my demand amonst certain groups of people. That brings mi comfort.
I still don’t know how to explain my art to people when they, without warning, question my goings-on.
A lot of people ask me what I do.
I tell them I paint... they assume houses.
I explain I paint pictures... they ask "pictures of what?"
…
...At least now I can give them a website.
If you want to talk, leave a comment or send a message. If I'm not friendly, take the time you'd spend pondering the harsh message you'll send that I may get my comeuppance and use it for a little self-reflection. Amazing things will come to you.
*No Animals Are Harmed in The Existence of
(the) Makeshift Idol*
The Seven Ways of Coyote
1. Do not trust those that do not create, those that buy their creativity from the media, the advertiser, the corporation, the church or the state. Put all resources into that which will promote and propagate your personal creativity.
2. Nothing can be more powerful than ones imagination it is your instinct and right; never doubt this.
3. Use your power of creativity against the power and authority of compliance; they have waged a war on you and they will continue to enslave you with it if you remain passive.
4. The only power is the power of creating, we all can create because we are the creator; always create.
5. We have become a civilization fueled by logic and consumption of consumer goods and in the process we have sacrificed our instincts, our ability to trust ourselves and our ability to create; we must find our way back, we must create our way forward.
6. The age of reason has lost its purpose and our ability to be creative has been discouraged, trivialized, suppressed and stolen from us. We can no longer listen or trust the people of authority that tell us our creativity is childish, impractical, insignificant and unnecessary. Make a mockery of them and always laugh. Humor can create, humor will destroy!
7. These people of authority confuse their positions with power but the only power they have is the power we give them; turn your back on them and create your own way.
