Lynchville is an inquiry into the David Lynch-ian underbelly of growing up in a small town, of the creeping decay, emotional subterfuge and undercurrents of violence that hold the residents hostage, slave and victim.
Process: (1) take an old postcard of a small town in Illinois, (2) transform its landscape into one of a horror show of profanity, sexuality and the grotesque, (3) add in a border using a poem, Hometown; then (4) pour a detritus-and-bone-filled resin into the ornate gold frame surrounding the work, overflowing into and staining the image field.
Materials: Antique frame (from the Provence region, France, 2007); postcard; poem-on-photographic paper; detritus-and-bone-filled resin
Dimensions: 40cm x 45cm x 9cm, 9kg
Hometown
Electricity is purring
with throb and coated lips
down the smooth and tasty
vibrator and the throat
of the fuel tank is manfully filled
by the attendant
Warm waters lap in prancing circles
’round the nose job
Loosen those sphincters now
behind the family jewels and
stroke the New Pet Dog.
In slithers Friday no holds barred
All legs open wide
The press released for this week’s witch hunt
fists pumping, jaws snapping, they’re closing in
on the errant and helpless few
who flap and flounder and stare
with glazed eyes and gaping fear
They’ll roast the whole stinking lot of them
over the coals, That Very Night
Buttered up and eyeless
Smother the stench and aftertaste
with hot and smirking sips
from the cup of self-righteousness.
Next morning up bubbles wastewater
with every flushing retch or sugar-coated pellet
He’ll dab his eyes with Real Emotion
that afternoon matinee
then summon up the Lions Club at nightfall
with steaks and guffaws and beer
“Why don’t you shake my hand!”
Next to the lake on the edge of town
the lies and corruption seep down
into idle, forgotten rust
as they roll about on beige and satin sheets
Gray and sagging flesh to grind
against young and girlish limbs
A beating here, a breakdown there
a warm and generous grin
“Why don’t you shake my hand?”
growls the whole stinking bucket of Them.