dumpster diving

On Friday January 22nd Hofstra University in partnership with an undisclosed artist revealed a new art installation in the vacant lot behind Breslin Hall and the Lawrence Herbert School of Communication.

 

The pieces are part of an attempted renaissance of Hofstra’s campus to address the university’s abysmal lack of sufficiently productive art installations.

 

Last semester students reported experiencing a mildly wet lacrimal occurrence only once every 33 steps

when passing the existing 55-odd “sculptures” across Hofstra’s campus.

 

The university’s newest addition to its otherwise insipidly barren landscape breathes fresh, sometime smelly, air into the desiccating corpse of Hofstra.

 

Mother, please stop farting. Mother you’re stinking up the whole can.

 

The provocative installation consists of two 8 x 5’ adjacent assemblies of spatial solids adorned with deviously simplistic illumines of green and grey. *

 

*Editor’s Note: They’re dumpsters.

 

By placing the two pieces next to each other, the artist throws into question the question. Like will this succeed? * Am I missing something? Will this deteriorating body attract Public Safety?

 

*As in fucking the dumpster. He is trying to fuck the dumpster.

 

Similar questions, of the necessarily erotic, of motherly affection, of motherly love, care, sickness and of bodily death, of timeless iniquity deprived infinite rage, of vindication, why the fuck won’t this trash bag open I know there’s a half-full Boosted bottle of Naked Guava smoothie in here I saw it I saw it thrown away by some bottle-necked glasses snicker-wannabe in Breslin’s second-story men’s Bathroom, of shoes, shit and of life after corporeal cessation are suggestions of critical insight by the piece’s reflection on late 1970s dialogue. *

 

*Here he is talking about reviving his mom.

 

Bananas I ate early in the quest for the right home space feng shui came in use later, but I never knew where to put those peels so I settled their uses as duplicate: for the nervous digestion and the preparation of self-destruction ready to receive. *

 

*Penetration.

 

Never quite got that banana peel pile placement right…

 

The art! The art surpasses boundaries of modern discursive thought with its remarkable handling of form… a sentient structure active and still-born in modernism’s embryonic fetus bag. No, no I’m sorry, amniotic sac. I meant amniotic sac.

 

Time has gotten away from me…

My final moments with my mother came with a rumor that she had expired now and her brain had latched onto the loveless bond of a hospital waste basket.

 

My mother’s body never meant much to me, but it provided physical comfort, however shallow, in the days after her soul’s untimely departure.

 

I mean the mortal sequins of existential refuse kept me busy for a couple days before the men in squatters’ uniforms* came in their greenish-tan-greenish tan band skin suits looked me up and locked its copy crying man tears but I’m not no man I’m a continuous reversal of excrement and its suit is only of green and grey back metal.

 

*Public Safety found former Hofstra sophomore Tommy Gretchen, a film major with a minor in philosophy, living in the dumpsters behind Breslin and Herbert after an alarming smell drew crowds of Hofstra cats, a raccoon and senior faculty from the Fine Arts Department. Upon discovery, Gretchen, like the raccoon, fled in a scurry of shrill screams and frantic movements. He left behind a collection of Naked Juice bottles semi-formed into a shape resembling a giant plastic dildo, piles of banana peels and the rotten remains of an unidentified body. Gretchen first went missing in the days following his mother’s untimely death on January 22nd, 2016.

 

@majortom That nail-rod shitter brought un-famed techno-gofers to the grape farm one day, January 22nd, and they stunk up the whole breach not much like these two fecund greyish greenish grey lollipop incubators which happened to be just the right size for charging my banana poppers… *

 

*Penis? Penises? Unclear.

 

And I did, oh yes I did, I charged those banana poppers.

 

Finally,

Warholian containers of stilted green and grey metal shouted,

 

MONTBLANK PENS ARE BETTER YOU PIECE OF SHIT

to me yesterday, January 23nd, and it stood up too, opening the wide sky to shine its glancing venereal juicer down on my poor mortal eyes. *

 

*Fucked BY the dumpster? Unclear.

 

My feeble salt and paper cracker mind split right down its meridian axis to vacant loose ghost holes now open to the entrance of my loosely plagiarized experiment- the art can of macro-seeking genesis peeled inside itself past to deposit my poor mother’s soul into me* -and I became pregnant with her eternal essence .it came like a flood into my causal statis-chamber, my I belly belly

 

*Here he is being fucked by the dumpster.

 

Now six months in I’m still on the miraculous train lavishing the Newest Hofstra Installation, but from afar it doesn’t look too good, I Can barely track the carnal doings of metal waste baskets from my telescope twenty two feet about the watchtower* it’s obligatory with all the tans skin suits runnin around, but the man is still running and I’m keeping the saint alive, oh my poor old Mother’s soul.

 

*Gretchen’s current whereabouts are unknown.

 

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