Foxglove
Monday, 22 February 2016
Monday, 25 January 2016
A selection of poems
Here is a selection of my poems. Some have already inspired artwork in various media. Others may become starting points for new projects. Some will stand alone as the written word.
Hey cowboy
Hey cowboy-
How was your road trip.
It’s cold and I’m drinking cocktails.
The swing dance band is playing hard-
So let it-
Dance.
Sweetheart-
I like the way you shake your tail feathers.
Each and every word a poem.
Come back to mine and let limbs tangle till dawn.
No heartache will happen-
Or dive into your own dreams and stroke away your own desires.
Darling-
Don’t cry-
Because in my mind, in my mind’s eye,
The sky is glorious,
Not purple and polka dot,
And you are the queen of the bees’ knees.
Honeychild-
Hold my hand-
The swing dance band is playing.
Lets-
Follow the people with the painted faces,
And the dark green bottles in their hands-
Rejoicing-
To scrape the stars into a dirty jar-
With long and pointed nails.
Into an exquisite pot of jam,
To gaze at till
Days-
Long-
Gone-
Fade-
Into rivers of chocolate milk on the floor.
Go fetch a straw-
Brothers of blues and lovers of so much more,
And we will drink it all.
Long island ice tea, darling.
Kiss me nice darling,
The circus and the clown
Will spin round and round-
And let them.
Thumbel
When we
first found her she sat on the palm of his hand.
Told us- she
lived in a box of paints.
She was
three inches tall and would spit on her feet in a strop- march up and down
The
watercolours- muddying the pigment.
She sat on
the scarlet for hours and cried herself a blood bath.
There she would
ponder the cigarette musk of his scent.
He loved me
and that was that. But I was jealous- sometimes.
The way she
would sit on his pallet-
Watching the
violet blend with the blue. She would swing from the brushes
In the jam
jar. Giddy-
She would slide
into the murky water, press her tiny face against the stained glass,
A miniature
mermaid. Blowing bubbles.
She didn’t
have to bother with airs and graces.
The anxiety
of keeping a roof over your head. When you work
All hours in
a crippling, crippling office-
And he
paints away his pain.
Recovery
And my
mother said,
There’s
signs of spring all around the garden,
The
blackberry bush
Has buds on
it and I’ve planted new anemones,
underneath
the sycamore tree.
And my daddy
said,
He just
drags it out there,
Leonard
Cohen.
From the pit
of a
thousand overflowing ashtrays,
and a lake
of brandy.
and
the brittle days they blister.
Throw hope across the cold salt sea.
Seven years bad luck-
fucked me over-
fucked me up.
I wrap green ribbons in my hair and
smash another mirror.
She was
outstanding.
As in she
stood out from the crowd, as if she wasn’t allowed to fit in, in anyway, and
anyway she was a filthy little liar.
If she told
you it was raining you’d go to the window sure to find the sun.
A backstabber,
a twisted tongue – deep fried, her mouth was black with lies. She told me-
It’s not
gonna work.
I’m a really
dirty flirt-
With anyone
once I’ve had a drink.
And besides
I think I’m a lesbian.
She was
outrageous.
A royal pain,
a royal pain in the neck, whipping up a paranoid frenzy and smoking so many cigarettes
you were sure she longed to die.
I found her
crying in the toilets.
I found her
crying in the rain. I found her crying out to the grey blue day, tearing down wallpaper
in her newly done up house.
And I don’t
know how she did it.
Holding our
desires in the palm of her hand and squeezing, suffocating compassion, with two
faced change and lack of giving a shit.
But she was
not a sex offender, a dog walker or the chief of police.
She told me-
I used to be
reserved but since then I’ve spread my legs like Lurpack and I don’t deserve
your love or that of the next man.
Wearing purple
stockings she was-
An attention
seeker, a cat catcher, a sexy dancer, a feather in the breeze.
A curly
haired, pale face, freckled thing, whose “crazy” leaked out all over the shop
floor,
Demanding
the right to return a bag she’d shoplifted a week before,
Looking for
a cure for loneliness.
And she told
me like butterscotch-
Nutha notch,
The 88th,
In a chamber
full of flames.
You were stupid
to fall for me.
Monday, 22 June 2015
Photographs from final exhibition
Here are some photographs of the sculptural pieces from my final exhibition.
The final exhibition included feathers soaked in gin.
Shedding skin chairs and shoes.
A crib of thorns.
There was also a film the link can be found here -
Ideas that I have developed and explained previously in the blog.
Wednesday, 10 June 2015
Blue shoes red glove
I experimented with blue shoes and a red glove, both as single objects and also as an exploration of age and damage.
I felt some of the most interesting pictures were close up of the blue shoe and the red glove wrapped around it in an almost womb like structure.
I also took photographs of single baby shoes.
I felt some of the most interesting pictures were close up of the blue shoe and the red glove wrapped around it in an almost womb like structure.
I also took photographs of single baby shoes.
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