ADAM BROOMBERG & OLIVER CHANARIN, ‘BOUFFON’, 2015 ICA Studio, LONDON, UK – August 3, 2015 ©MULUMBA TSHIKUKA


to lust is to live…

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iris
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gin
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lime
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casava
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pure
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hold
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fuck
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http://www.fig2.co.uk/#/31/50

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LACEY CONTEMPORARY (featuring ‘Infinite Summer’ by Geoff Diego Litherland), LONDON, UK – July 11, 2015 ©MULUMBA TSHIKUKA


Like a tap with no running water

An infinite summer short of sun

Cocktails without the rum

Life would be miserable indeed, without an artist for a friend

the artist
hands off my life
portrait with artist
pink and blue
next door
off to the side, left of the entrance
masterpiece
dance off
interlude
downstairs
grey clouds
sometimes I am god
facade
i love lace
dizzy
claire clear. red dot
Aftershow
the orgy following
unselfies
two fish in the sea

Hooray for art – mind trip to London Westbank Gallery – Westbourne Grove, LONDON, UK – April 2, 2015 ©MULUMBA TSHIKUKA


Hooray for art.

This was a good show. Beers in a tub. Butts in the rear.

I did not wish to barf. I did not fart on tart.

Hooray for art.

Art for the cat with a pocket square, so happy I left mine home. Art for the toilet dome. Art for gold guns and red gloom. Art for penitentiary-skinny girls in white heels. Art for mixed-race stars and future tsars.

Art for the heart of Tim Fowler and scratched eyes. Art for great art. Art for shitty, what-the-fuck-is-that-art.

Hooray for art.

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CUP OF TEA #2


green life. photo: mulumba tshikuka
green life. photo: mulumba tshikuka

A witch approached. Gentle as darkness treads a tombstone, she placed an egg on her head.

***

Senselessly fearing the egg would break, her body stiffened.

The egg did not break.

Instead, a razor-sharp pain shot through her shattered soul.

The same shock received when she met him by the fountain the day he surfaced.

Dear Goddess, #1


Perhaps for you, he is dark and handsome. Robed in velvet, eyes seductive violet.

Or perhaps yet, you are a fairy conferring with invisible energy; an ancient tree by a creek; anything but that dodgy character of dubious, grangerized books.

We are all entitled to delusion.

For me, she is an ethereal woman, one with my body. Her bosom anchored to my chest. Her thighs trembling with mine. In the crown of my head, conversations entwine, psyches confounded. We drink wine and break bread. We debate questions with no answers, disarrange puzzles with concrete shapes. We toast to temptation, distrust revelation, plodding through life light as a delusional illusion.

photographs, people watching and mindless confessions