TRISTAN'S MOON
"I believe you. Show Me Your Life."

The ART of Bearing Witness           sexual  abuse & exploitation of boys. HIV/AIDS.

Experimental Survivor-Led Art Installation & Online Exhibition Catalogue
**artists & poets may use pseudonyms to protect vulnerable identities & localities.


Land: Horses/Land of a Thousand Dances/La Mer (DE) by Patti Smith

All The Old Men Are Dangerous/ i see them as if they were horses/ they have turned away the night/ far gone in stippled blueish-grey/ caught up by the old men who would herd them into the conduits/ granted tombs, pits, banishment from entire kingdoms into wild where the kicking up its life containing whatever exists of menace above the trees of men/ the old academic crones are dangerous — they would fit you into the status quo/ for darkness, blood, stones; death awaits the slaughterhouse/ tell the bones being such frames of us, lives and grows these years of streets for those who cum to play and pay to let out their rage and speak directly to the music of the marches/ the sun climbs in/ such skateboards in what appears to be translucent exhortation similarly plastered on the walls of time/ for a rock even and flocking where/ o you fell then suddenly emerge from a concrete floor whose ascending shadows are, in fact, concentric shocks, what heavens will attend to unsuspected viral loads almost worn away against his better judgment back behind us like the rings around the moon in bright and thundering formation must be counted in the bloodstream’s complex twist/ i have always seen them like the burning herd of horses that they are/ pegasus whose memories of wings were not confined to metal cages where a nail was shot into your head robed in pretty pink and grease-stained floors/ the dim-lit hospital rooms and boundary lines of after all how many of them can the land support beyond contamination/ madness leads the inner selves to theatre’s stunning audience of whores who themselves tho remain nomadic in the rounding up where the running through the dust of risk that the nail could be for them finished with its meat-packing protocols of blessing in disguise/ such a stallion’s noise when mounted by a man or another stallion, unborns where the tongues and wanting rubs the asshole clean/ the lure will come crashing to its roots of plunder — whipped on and slapped — the sun to swirl its milk in throats and thighs to be released back into a wilderness unbending where when man arrives and upon the salt and licks inundate our breathing sleep; our speaking spoke of speaking and our boots outrun by longing that spills so deep within us, the impudent among us can be counted on to kick the doors in/ how everything turns away/ the afterglow unfolding/ the stirrups still clinging to the groin and to the bed/  yet still the landscape as seen from above in flights/ falls away in ruin faster than a horse can gallop/

VIDEO ART : We are currently in the process of experimenting with technologies & platforms, to avoid disruption to our artists/poets/advocates' videos placed in the exhibition catalog. When accounts are shut down by Facebook or BlipTV, or content is compromised by new terms & conditions imposed by sites such as Tumblr (since taken over by Yahoo), hours of hard work are lost.

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