Way In The Deep

The discovery of a new world of art & poetry and an infinite expanse ahead with Vincent D’Onofrio’s SuperRare Genesis. Poetry by Vincent D’Onofrio AI Visuals & Music by Laurence Fuller Performances by Vincent D’Onofrio & Laurence Fuller Sound Design by Makhmudjonov Doniyor WAY IN THE DEEP Let us once and for all start way in the deep. Down so far muddled soil is pressed against our eyes. I deplete myself of all feelings. I force a depletion of all that I feel or think. All of my ego or hatred of myself. Everything I've ever fancied revealed to me by mirrors or mirrored remarks from suitors made to send me reeling and stimulate myself celebration. Empty thy self. Empty thy self. EMPTY THY SELF I say. As I do I feel things go. That rush out. My junk it leaks out. Falls to the floor. Puddles there. How it drys up quickly into a stiff wafer. Eat it and... This is and then that winding road and it leads to the temple where bliss is found. Depletion, I'm empty of most everything then left in a melancholy stream, a clear spring, no a creek of the melancholy that always lingers if you let it. This melancholy can turn. Hard, fast, easy, it leans, glides until it turns. I am not the ringmaster, I'm again the fool. Auto. Self drive!!! The rich kid, the space cadet screams out: Look it lands on its own. Now left here holding hands with fate. On that road to the clear spring. There is a smile found in that creek. There is a tear in that stream. There is a laugh at the ridiculousness of myself. A big HA!!! I curse at my struggle to produce anything that resembles every variation of a variation of a variation. In other words, the artist's confession. Now in the place my creativity born. Everyday birth after birth after birth. Just screaming babies of ideas and notions. Silver-toned celluloid showing nurses darting from newborn to newborn tending to these screaming moments of what could be a story, a painting, a song, and what rises up? The depiction of a frozen flower built by only ones and zeros, zeroes and ones. The aged out ringmaster in a tall black hat shouts out: He hangs on. He has gripped tight what was and what is and all that is finally going. Yet newness will pull his grip away. His last words... PUT IT ON THE BIG SCREEN. And all the newborns cry as they know better. From the babes it's said any process can deliver a story. It is not a circus. It is not cheap. Isn't it true. Isn't it true. Let us once and for all start way in the deep. I wipe the mud from my eyes. The clear spring flows. You hear the rush of the melancholy. Stand back! Joy and tears have created. The newborns hush. The nurses are all still as they rest. Stories are born in every form. In a 6-foot deep hole in the ground he is not at rest. A tombstone, the tall black hat propped on top of it. His whip which took so many souls. Written in the blood of every artist held back. The epitaph reads: The ringmaster dies a very late death. So again, yes, again and again. Let us once and for all start way in the deep. ~ Vincent D’Onofrio, 2023