Craig ‘Ultraviolence’ Cady tears skin and ripples uncomfortably in your belly as you observe him scrape an avalanche out of his body to offer into yours through multimedia performances incorporating spoken word, film, and wrapping the audience in propaganda banners reading “head” and “fuck”. Sensory immersion is imminent.
Welcome to the Human Zoo. Welcome to the New Sincerity.
You’re never getting out.
Richard Pryor; Corpse Luncheon
by Craig Cady
I took too much crack–
they saw my rum face aflame
running down Martin Luther King,
M.S. and the final cameo with David Lynch.
So they avoid my lungs,
digging into my meaty gut
to chew fat-marbled muscle–
Son, Grandson and Nephew,
living old broke marriages.
Nephew peels back my forearm’s skin,
flexor carpi, tendon and bone
that held the microphone
with which I lifted free speech,
sang black and proud: red muscle, pink connective tissue.
Salting my boiled thigh, Grandson
is a hyena, a vulture, a worm
I nourish, living tissue, developing muscle
to beat the hell out of classmates,
the women I’ve shot at.
My son, grown thick and greasy
leans in his purple recliner.
Human gristle on his chin,
a stained white tee from appendix giblets,
cigar wet in his mouth, he instructs them,
scrape the meat from my head
to mold a cheese
and save it in the icebox–
I will dissolve inside of them.
Craig is a vegan. His creativity is not.
Internet garble in the back of his throat mixed with ripping down the wallpaper of pleasant romantics pasted along our eyes to accommodate we the consumer. The radio is evoking static in the bundled up eskimo hiding in your rib cage, the upper left side, chain smoking to the rhythm of the Earth’s turning.