Tuesday, 13 January 2009

readymades 2

The eyes betray not a hint of emotion, the mouth clamped tight shut silent. What to make of this hastily jotted schema of a man-monster, the Frankensteinian figure whose flesh is punctured by the thud of Biro bolts, temples throbbing with barely suppressed agonies? His haircut tells its own dismal story. Institutionalised, beaten, brutalised, shamed and scrapped as a failed exercise. Don't cry for him. He's already dead.

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