Look at your chin

Look at you chin

Your big chin

Your big chin

Your long chin

Your long big chin

Your mighty chin.

Look at your mighty chin

Rising up to the clouds

Down into the volcano.

Look at it grow

Look at your mighty chin grow

Your behemoth chin

Your tectonic plate of a chin

World moving chin

Look at your chin

Look at your chin.

Please help.

The black dog is yapping at the door to my sleeping bag, and he won’t go away.

You must know what this feels like, lest you forget the rambling man in gin-sodden overalls that would tap-tap-tap on the mirror of my tutu, late at night, begging for harmony.

I could never offer harmony, only my perpetual freehand.  My pneumatic drill of a hand, with rampant energy and an overture of half-baked desires.  You’d take it up anyway, even though you knew it would leave you feeling lemony-fresh.

Well, my perpetual freehand is perpetually free again. Twitching.

If only I could ram a screw into it, pin it to a piece of wood, but I hear this has been done by another fairly recently and a fat lot of good it did him.  My other hand is pretty useless anyway, doesn’t have a poker face, would never get it in in-time.

Yapping in the alley and kicking bins over in frustration, red eyes bulging and a permafrost clinging to its huge hanging balls.  Disdainful creature.  Black dog, back-yard dog. It doesn’t just wait, but revels in the constancy of madness.  Once your mad, your always mad.  You can try the glove on, to see if it fits and then you find its a chinese puzzle, the more you pull the tighter it gets.

I wish my hand was permafrost but its always hot. My red right hand. My filtching, feltching godhand.  Hurling thunderbolts into the arses of well composed daydreams.

I’ll wail into the bag and wait to see if I answer.  That way I’ll know if it’s real or not.

Chew The Grits

A death clutch trembles,

Over the city that once was.

Once was what?

Once was not.

Or ever could have been

The thing you said it was….

Left in a broken dream,

I beat my wings and fan the flame.

You lick the ashes,

Chew the grits.

As a herald stamps his message, in time,

With the cat calls

Of bulging construction workers,

Onto the broken breastplate

That offers no protection,

No future.

No Hope.

No sanitation.

I want to build a house

Walls made of sheets of rain dancing on a car windscreen

Rooms like a book

A Comfy chair to half eat biscuits in and mourn the lose of others to a mug of tea

Walls decorated with memories

Floorboards a symphony of autumn leaves and winter morning frost crackling under feet

A carpet of spring dew

Bookshelves with the spirit of elves whispering stories whilst our

Eyes go on holiday in pictures on the wall

A sofa so soft

And a silence in place of the violence of sound

Green is nature

Nature is life.

Red is blood.

The guts of nature spilled over the ground.

Red is insides coming out.

A window points to depth

A wall reflects and absorbs flatness

All thats in the frame passes before being reached

 All ascribed to the crumbling surface is soaked up in a dry mouth

Idealism has depth

Realism has flatness

The place is flat

The Journey has depth

Love is depth and desire it flatness Read the rest of this entry »

Tragedy is not singular. Each artform has its own form of tragedy, as does life itself. Lifes tragedy is obvious, the inevitability of death as a consequence of birth.

Narrative, literary, tragedy is the closest to this. Moving through time and space it necessitates plot. The tragedy in narrative is always tied up in cause and effect. What will happen is an inevitable consequence of what is happening, the end is defined by the start.

Photographic tragedy is different. The photograph is about a moment in reality which had been. Its static nature only focus our attention on the inevitable death of the moment recorded. It is not held in eternity but killed and embalmed. Photography is never about idealism but the depressing realism, the shadow of reality. Its oppositions are tragic reminders of lifes tragic transcience. Read the rest of this entry »

Everything divides into opposites

It all decomposes into mapable coordinates

Composed artificially for need of idealism

These constructs are ascribed to our particular psyche

The imprint of a repetitive history

Never intrinsic but forcing its way beneath the skin

The vertical is male Read the rest of this entry »

Reflections in rivers. 

Sat in a bath crying. Honest tears but deceitful sounds which look for so many things. Searching for sympathy. Hoping to rediscover the affection. Wishing to cause guilt. All they create is more realisation of the accuracy and the growing possibility of resentment. The further I go one way the further she goes another. Read the rest of this entry »