“*Posted with apologies to The Talking Heads and David Byrne and with warnings the stories you encounter here are disturbing, sexual, maniac, and the stuff of nightmares. This is a review of Stuck on You and Other Prime Cuts by Jasper Bark. Beware, gang, once seen and read, all are going to stick with you. The warning is given, read on!*
The head is aching and demanding how you came to be here and where is here? The bright lights of where dazzle in your eyes as you try to recall where you’ve been. Some vague recollection about a book, but, man, no book could do that to you or could it. Your body pulls you up grasping for supports. When in doubt, check out what’s around you. Awake or dreaming, you seem to be in an underground train wherever. The advertisements on the wall above the handholds seem to advertise a book, Stuck on You and Other Prime Cuts by Jasper Bark announcing its publication by Crystal Lake Publishing. Let your eyes wander on a line of a visual intestines artistically drawn in a realistic way. Damn!, the drawing seems almost too real. They bounce along and rise with a flashing sign alternating between announced titles and disturbing pictures. Caught in this attention the train lurches forward with a red light announcing its first destination. Stuck On You. The underground train stops, apparently moving all the while you were exploring your surroundings. Your destination awaits~~~~~step outside.
* Ricardo, the philandering husband, of his wife Ellen is sent south of the order to acquire crafts for sale. Along comes the bountiful Consuela asking for a ride to drop point across the border. She’s a mule; she looks good; she is good; he’s at with her. Storm clouds gather above. Lightning strikes and the two of them are at one, he in her and her wound around him. She’s dead and he’s stuck with her in the worst way.
*Next vision on your scheduled stops is the King’s Arms Pub with a dude talking to someone in men’s room. The someone is a total douche who in a daze of reality took out the anguish of his pathetic life on another and now pays the price by drinking it all down …”
About a decade and a half ago Keith Tyson, a conceptual artist and childhood friend of mine (who would later go on to win the Turner Prize), invited me to one of his shows. It was in a boutique gallery in a trendy part of West London and the place was filled with just the sort of preening, pseudish individuals you’d imagine attending these sort of events.
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