For the most immersive experience we recommend using a PC for the duration of your Third Friday viewing.
Pictures will often be formatted in rows of three, click on the thumbnail to enlarge the image.
Thanks for visiting Rogue Gallery! Enjoy your stay!
I travel a mile
From my home, to the train, to the street
Walking on paths of sunlight of glimmering lakes
For a little fresh air every once in a while
I spy a man from the corner of my eye
Beaming on Morrison street
Walking from stall to stall for a little water in his glass
Burning, not quite the colour of barley or rye
Youth's stubborn fervor
Blazing in glance and flesh
Building in uncertainty and frustration
Stays yet to unnerve her
However, I admit to wonder
In times of pestilence and isolation
Where will the train take that man
When his path runs on the thunder?
As for the vernal tide
I must say, I remain at a loss
Drifting in a haze that grows thicker as days seem to clear
As this seems to be the storm I'm stuck to ride
Though I can't quite say I mind
Hearing the tremble of hail stones pelting the street
As whispers of promise fall quieter and silent
And the rain comes again to give sight to the blind
And to the deaf, the falling rain will speak
Pounding into the soil and upturning each new leaf
A tender age, every equinox
Coming to life with each touch of the cheek
Life's sweetest ingredient
Mana from heaven
Fill the cup and run into the tears
So this sickness may leave, ever expedient
Blooming beyond these mortal fears
Steven Lee Matz
It took two long hours for the crime scene crew to arrive, traffic and faulty comms being the culprit. Gus was already questioning one of the punks on the balcony by the time they wheeled away one of the bodies.
Senny was examining the scene, blood stains on the busted table, and bullet holes in the heads of the victims. Blast marks on the walls, each angle required laser-precision from the shooter. Most likely from a modified Mk-3 phase pistol, with the chamber replaced with something from an antique Desert Eagle.
Odd that someone was mixing older weaponry with modern technology, probably salvaging scraps of whatever the perp could get his hands on. A tactician and expert survivalist with some cybernetic gear from a few punks in a bad block. Not bad for an urban jungle.
"What have you got this time, detective?" Senny faintly jumped as he turned to face the chief. His hat dripping wet, while his slightly receding hair was perfectly dry. His right brow raised at the sight of the chaotic aftermath and his left hand in his coat pocket.
Senny cleared his throat before answering his boss. "A massacre and a bad gamble."
The chief pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lit it up. He chomped down on it and started puffing rhythmically, smoke flowing to the ceiling with each huff and puff. For as long as Senny knew his boss, one thing was for certain, he didn't care at all for CigRets. The flavor of a cigar was such a rare luxury anymore that the chief had to go out of his way to buy one from time to time.
The chief looked all around the pile of corpses, puffing his cigar with each nod he made. "A bad gamble with a bad patron." He leaned down and pointed at a shattered drinking glass. "With some bad drinks to go with it." He examined the glass, not daring to lay a finger on it, for risk of contamination. "Call me crazy, but i don't think there was even a drop of anything a human could drink." He stood back up. "See the grimy coloration in the the glass?" Senny looked hard at where the glass was. For what it was worth, some of it managed to hold together quite nicely. A translucent yellowish tint could be seen in the glass, as well as some of the small shards scattered about.
Gus approached the two of them as Senny finished examining the scene. He handed the chief a small notepad, detailing the events described by one of the boy's upstairs.
"The both of you..." the chief started, looking through Gus's notes with a more than focused eye. "You misspelled modification, detective." Gus hated it when his boss would point out spelling errors in his writing. To him, there was nothing more annoying than a stickler for proper grammar. Senny didn't have to worry so much about it. His spelling was usually on point, with some minor errors here and there.
They both watched as he adjusted his glasses and pulled out a tiny box, with a little white bulb on the top. He handed it to Gus and looked them both in the eye, with as much of a commanding presence that said he was the authority figure here more then either of them have seen.
"The both of you are going to the orange zone. I don't want to hear any questions or any back talk, get your asses over there and don't report back until you've got a lead. You boys want to get paid, work'n earn."
He walked over to the bartender, pulling out his notepad and pen. Still puffing his cigar, with smoke flowing out his nostrils.
Senny and Gus walked out the front door, with the box tucked away in Gus's pocket. Beeping and whirring could be heard from the corner. A little bot was wheeling down the street, most likely a trash bot. They both dismissed it and walked on over to the car, their next destination being a little far off. They knew they'd better get started, it was going to be a long drive.
- Sam Matz
Genesis Breyer P-Orridge
February 22, 1950 - March 14, 2020
A great specter is looming over the art world: the specter of Inter|Sekt. For far too long we have watched the artists of our generation turned into a disposable commodity, bought and sold by the galleries, stifled in their expression by the tastes of the art consultants who purchase pieces on behalf of financially minded clients who want a "solid investment".
They have been amalgamated into schools, said schools are a device of gallerists and art historians to divide and conquer the creatives and free thinkers.
For we live in a nation which thinks itself to be free yet is not, they expect the same of their artists.
Our culture has been raped and plundered by the upper echelon, picked apart and sold by the same greed mongers who claim to be it's patrons. The tool which has most effectively stunted the growth of modern American art in particular is the clever indoctrination of this idea of schools to not only the art student but anyone whom even reads a brief survey of the history of art sees that it is broken up into these categorized schools; the philosophies of these various sects creates conflict, division, and ultimately destruction of the morale and submission to the established order. Thus rendering the creative spirit confused and useless.
This helps curb the rebellious spirit of the average citizen outside of the art world in other spheres of society.
Art history is a lie and galleries are dens of thieves!
Inter|Sekt is not destroying the schools or the galleries, we are simply showing you they were never real, at least not in a world outside of that constructed by academics to sell text books to art students.
The reign of the gallerists and art consultants is over when you want it to be.
From the ashes of the indoctrinated schools of every form of art shall arise The New World Creative.
-Steven Lee Matz-
The inter|sekt manifesto
Gus Romero IV