Disruption and sorcery, experiments inside the soft asylum

PART 11 IS NOW PUBLISHED BELOW:

Somebody said experimental writing uses the ‘Invisible habits and structures of aesthetic, psychological, and social domination’ to create something new and to move things into a different domain … I can’t remember who said it now, but it fits the bill. Cities of the Red Night by William S Burroughs is one of my all-time favourites in this experimental genre.

As far as I’m concerned, an experimental writer needs the brain of a poet, the musical ear of cut-ups, the voice of a drunken midnight choir and the control of derangement found in soft asylums.

Eric Drew Lastick is an experimental writer and poet who says he aspires to ‘the simple movements and verses of our world… and all it’s surrounds’.

He says: “I grew up poor to middle classes of Eastern Pennsylvania in a town called Broomall, four square miles long. There, back in my childhood was a train trolley track running in the center aisle of a busy two way street too center city Philadelphia. As a small child I saw JFK speak in the busy crowded parking lot of Lawrence park parking. They entertained a small circus in that very parking facility back in the early 1960s too.

“Growing up in those times brought me to rich and a new exploding culture which brought me to write about; and what came so natural. I loved Vonnegut jr’s journeys of slaughterhouse 7 ‘s in thru the out of timeframes. Bukowski’s brode and broken visions..Krafka surreal, too what’s real! Cats in general, have always been a great influence on my writing. Such lone independence ..flaire too their e very step. I have even incorporated a piece about being a cat along with Jim Morrison of the doors. In mischievous endeavours. In dreams. Imagination! My goals are simple and free. I intend to just keep writing. Reaching out with all good positives.”

The work is exactly as Eric supplied it:

IF ARTIST VINCENT VAN GOGH was a hippie in the swingin’ 1960s…

Vincent plays himself comfortably on his custom made waterbed in the very back of his hippie van, in the year 1966, lazily rolls a doobie, half lit, while on his back, to the bed.

His neck raises from a heavy woolly pillow which duplicates his fake animal fur hat beside him.

Still, in this lifetime, he shares no woman beside him; though he longs for a pig tailed wondrous lady he spots from time to time at a local Headshop alongside a token unsold cigarstore indian ornament.

This woman’s stylish, tightly-fitted bellbottom blue jeans, ravish of those perfect inseems, of such a tall struck woman. & nothing less than stunning! These mid-nineteen sixties procure a day and time of the free spirit; and though Vincent tries, he can’t seem to find anything more than (“a-face-on-the battle with it!”).

He is every bit intense as ever, although this landscaped mural he air-brushed on his new 66′ Van, is quite the display to his newly brought fans of this free society.

The van paints of sun and moon brushed as companions – with loops of clouds like turquoise serpents – curl in waves and in color codes of green and blues. Vincent laughs nervously in a frustration pack. Not certain of whom is real, who is not?

Tinker he will as a hippie—driving a 2way path down a one way street—like an off–groove lunatic on the fly!

Groovy is clear out of his jurisdiction. .not at all in his vocabulary. Non the less, his trips or Rd slips, mingle with varied color..and make of it, all his own. Acid only broadens the brush, tad. His mind in constant flashbacks. Electric bursts..not from any skies!

VINCENT, THE BRUSHMAN..as he’s called in these times; Anomalous to his fury & crazed—– writes of particular passage—as often times, Vincent is seen by his driver side door, left slightly a- -Jar; gazing in flairs of strangely unattached nightmares, in the daytime of his darkness.

His many supporters..art lovers..and just spaced out hair all out yippees, speculates of a real live stoner..and acid head; although his team of doctors know better!the on and off again flashes of lights and odd dead like voices—draw him out of all the coffee houses..and poetry reads..his part time dishwashers job; and to every Speakeasy club fare and far..jazz cafe’s. .up and down the furthest strips of LA ..too the galleys of bleaker street USA. .and any Rin Tin Tin barking dogs chasing him, up and down every hipsters bungalow in greater Manhattan. .though Vincent’s genius spill over in the positives of color and pizazz! countercultural delight. .although he never saw it that exact way. Insomnia and loneliness in his late night wakes—to his calls of one last week of his brush to incur.. one last sane breath, before he cannot seem to pull himself together.

Whether inside his van or the outside world, onlybto fall headlong into color! Creatures of the night’s dream spaces..unreality. .though his innerworkings spike of self hate..his mutal work and air brushed time, save him from himself! –And do blatant, the obvious, as a Hippie, is not a fit at all, for our Artist friend, Vincent.

LATE NIGHT..early light at the sunset strip, vincent once again loses his mind with all his surrounds—yet in moments time. He hits the mark with yet another artist’s masterwork of this new day, in the nineteen sixties.”

PART 11 (As Eric submitted his story)

  VINCENT VAN GOEH..in the swinging sixties. (Storyline) Vincent is back with a vengance..& a most beautiful trip of the swinging 60’s era. FLASHBACK, a call back, as if you were never there; & that’s why you, and he, probably were! Puffs & repacks of such a time, which infiltrates like the floating duplication on many a-road. Artificial colors magnify to one’s center core. –As there shall be no judgement—–all along the swerve and curves to the next psychedelic avenues. It is all so clear to him now..as if this Volkswagen bus drives itself—-with Vincent displaying his art and humor, as an irony to a fine drawn picture on any wall. Yet today it spreads across this Hippie van. Vincent reveals how acid is a place too skim—— your now! Your future events too. The past is long gone..as the drunk fill cool air fillers; yet the awakening of fine art on print..on van; with its retro speeds as its driver–too all thesevopen roads. A freak show, you ask? NO. Just the neon art world at ” the strip” Long past sunset..as Vincent Van Gogh’s colors and representations of his original art stare right back attcha. Airbrushed his doodling on his Volkswagen bus. An Anomalous look. A beat clubs delight. Ominous is the sight for all to see, as spectators of straight and sober aires..swing in his journey—while “higher tokes” long haired and. Chummy folks sit in squared space circles, quite indian style. -As if a new flea market corner of riches.. & those of emotions. .the whole world too see! VINCENT THE BRUSHMAN..adjusts his mirrors like glowback cameras. Flashing as conductor, painter..and music man. Flimsy and pouts—adjusting his solo (AM) radio dial to the sounds and surrounds of Peter Paul & Mary. Singing “leaving on a jet plane” all 747 down the road at 7 miles per hour, feeling like 70! Incense & peppermints are clear across these airwaves; to a nexus groove. A miserable lone passenger. Paint on smock and glove— just as if out of the ethereals—-to 1966. Yet Vincent still insists he is in his natural time zone—Sith his own mind as haywire as this wild culture, he so fits! Which so stooptifies; driving his own art straight back home. Gum and labeled on his Volkswagen bus..or a mere loaner? Where to next, we will never quite know?