Four new, concurrent, paintings revisiting the "Men an Tol" series.
Monday, 30 April 2012
IN RAIN THE SUN SHINES
Coming into the room my
heart and the very soul of
me speeds, burns, she turns
and smiles; suddenly the miles
these past days diminish to
heartbeats, mere spaces between
us. She smiles and the silence
envelops me: I can see and
hear nothing but her. I
want to say 'You look
beautiful today - glowing and
glorious.' I want the day to
begin and end there with
this smile and the silence, a
closeness. This time-stopping
stare.
Sunday, 29 April 2012
Writing erotic poetry
Incredibly difficult to write good, genuine, believable and non-cringeworthy erotic poetry. I've been writing - or trying to write - for a long time, and I still think it's incredibly difficult to do. Got to start with desire, possibly with love and with heart.
Saturday, 7 April 2012
Easter
EASTER
for Michelle.
I made a wish
for someone else: the
me who stumbles
in an old cold
river, the
me who exists in
another place, outside
of time and of
stumbling. I made
a spark thrash between
synapses, allowing
some empathy with this
me; I watched him
fondle a wet pebble he
lifted from the brook
like it was a lost
chick. Wandered over to
him, the woman and the
child he walked
with; kissed the
triumvirate of meek
smiling people on the
cheek, and walked off
alone as small birds
sang an oratorio.
Their peppered nests
sat hot and hazy in
trees, above a whirlpool.
for Michelle.
I made a wish
for someone else: the
me who stumbles
in an old cold
river, the
me who exists in
another place, outside
of time and of
stumbling. I made
a spark thrash between
synapses, allowing
some empathy with this
me; I watched him
fondle a wet pebble he
lifted from the brook
like it was a lost
chick. Wandered over to
him, the woman and the
child he walked
with; kissed the
triumvirate of meek
smiling people on the
cheek, and walked off
alone as small birds
sang an oratorio.
Their peppered nests
sat hot and hazy in
trees, above a whirlpool.
India
MAN, STATION PLATFORM
Put your stomach
back in. That's what
I was thinking.
Though not exactly the
stomach, per se, I
meant the large and
small intestines. Put
them back in; I
don't wish to see them.
I'm not a doctor, a
surgeon. Don't have
x-ray vision. They
hung outside him
(I think he was
supporting them with
a bent arm: rather
gentle, like I held
a sparrow chick
once when it
fell from the nest.)
The colour was
ripe. Pink through to
crimson, whitish
coils of grey
blubber. They
moved like so many
snakes writhing
together. Orgiastically
wound around other
pipes of dull
tripe. Put your
stomach back in.
That's what I was thinking.
Put your stomach
back in. That's what
I was thinking.
Though not exactly the
stomach, per se, I
meant the large and
small intestines. Put
them back in; I
don't wish to see them.
I'm not a doctor, a
surgeon. Don't have
x-ray vision. They
hung outside him
(I think he was
supporting them with
a bent arm: rather
gentle, like I held
a sparrow chick
once when it
fell from the nest.)
The colour was
ripe. Pink through to
crimson, whitish
coils of grey
blubber. They
moved like so many
snakes writhing
together. Orgiastically
wound around other
pipes of dull
tripe. Put your
stomach back in.
That's what I was thinking.
Bill
Bill
Petit Socco, Tangier.
I went from a worn corner
table at a cafe on the small
square in Tangier to a hovel of a
hotel
shown me by a friendly
old
man
I went from the table where I
sat with a native of the
sloped city
sipping mint tea, smoking a stick
of greenery watching old
men hunched with bunches of
spinach falling like rabbit ears
from their cloth bags
We watched the small square
and its crossings (quick steps
on the kerb stones)
The tea was sweet and thick
with a cosmos of green leaves
peppery, hot from the
tannins shot through
with the cells of sugar
he had dancing in the mixture
We crossed to the hovel where the
man with the smile
and the grass asked
me did I want to see Bill's room?
The cell was plain, bare
but much changed (though he
swore it wasn't)
with a small bed and
little
else
in there.
Petit Socco, Tangier.
I went from a worn corner
table at a cafe on the small
square in Tangier to a hovel of a
hotel
shown me by a friendly
old
man
I went from the table where I
sat with a native of the
sloped city
sipping mint tea, smoking a stick
of greenery watching old
men hunched with bunches of
spinach falling like rabbit ears
from their cloth bags
We watched the small square
and its crossings (quick steps
on the kerb stones)
The tea was sweet and thick
with a cosmos of green leaves
peppery, hot from the
tannins shot through
with the cells of sugar
he had dancing in the mixture
We crossed to the hovel where the
man with the smile
and the grass asked
me did I want to see Bill's room?
The cell was plain, bare
but much changed (though he
swore it wasn't)
with a small bed and
little
else
in there.
Boy (for Gabe)
BOY
for Gabriel
The signal fell from the
pot, with a knocked drop
like Wellingtons in rock pools.
There was no sound: the
fuschia-black tint of his
skin in this half-light
hid the blue, purple
spread of the blood. The under-
geared lungs chuckled into
motion, breathing a rose glow
into the slow cells. They
took him away, fired vitamin
K into a pipit-small heel,
and returned him to the tired
icy room. He slept like a baby.
for Gabriel
The signal fell from the
pot, with a knocked drop
like Wellingtons in rock pools.
There was no sound: the
fuschia-black tint of his
skin in this half-light
hid the blue, purple
spread of the blood. The under-
geared lungs chuckled into
motion, breathing a rose glow
into the slow cells. They
took him away, fired vitamin
K into a pipit-small heel,
and returned him to the tired
icy room. He slept like a baby.
Thursday, 5 April 2012
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