I took a bloc de correspondance on holiday to sketch the people I met. Nothing fancy, that’s a notebook in French. Lead hatched shadows — suggestions in grey graphite highlight. Subtle dimple fleck - bald curve of a lip. Did I mention silver lines of wild blossom hair? Flowing freely in twists and in turn forms a frame.
Fluttering flickers of stillness. Concentration moves faster than a hand. Hands clutching at intended mirror on-page, but that’s not me, is that what you see? Misjudged ideal of imperfect symmetry.
Set in scene, sequined shawl spun loose around the head. Let it…
“In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michaelangelo”
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant at all.”
Extracts from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock — T.S. Eliot
Decrepit hotel suites you insist we check-in to sit at a desk draped in candlelight the flames warmth all we share in this room pardon my indiscretion if this be the way you treat all your women the ones who have come before I and the ones who come after I go indeed high time has come for talking the honey has dried…
You Wanted The Best. Well You Got The Best. The Loudest Band In The World – Boom. Crash. Ping. Infinitesimal Hairs Blown To Smithereens. Never Coming Back Again. Least That’s What I Heard. In My Good Ear. My Sweet Ear. Acoustics Plugged With Wax. No Wonder You Can’t Hear Me Knocking, Mick. Nick? No Wait.. Eric? Forget It. Spring Off. Spare Me The Tears. I Hope There Will Be Ears In Heaven. I Won’t Stop Believin’. If The Wind Cries I Want To Hear Her. All Along The Ear Canal. Instead This Constant Ringing. Overlapping Breath. Hollow. Where Is My…
Living is a numbers game of how many can you do. All evidence of life is squeezed inside a borrowed shoe-box, anyway — twenty-nine years and fifteen square metres. Turn this, flip that, other way, little more, that looks good. Now. Stack that, that too, one more, not the books, other side, on the shelf, no shelves? Fuck it. Cram it in, cut them up, throw him out, can we throw that out? Burn it down. Start again.
In the beginning, there was an empty plane of stainless steel, dull and grey, shrouded in darkness and he said, “let me turn on the lights” and there was light. When he saw the light was good he asked, “White or wheat?” and a crispy white dome appeared bespeckled with imperfect brown craters amidst a gleaming sheet of tin foil, separating the dome and the plane. Once he saw the dome was good, he created the seas dense ripples of white ocean - he spread them far and wide, to enrich the dry craterous dome with moisture, and it was…
Only grains of sand would rap upon my door, tak tak tak – carried on winds from the north, which wilts drought-stricken flowers and drags the sailor out of Spencer gulf. Wide raging rivers bitumen grey weave through built-up forests of suburbia teeming with spiteful steel.
‘What is the city but the people’ wrote William so and so, city-planners aha-ing, drew a square in the ground, said “let’s put it there” and the people followed suit. No need for a map, perfect grid plotted for your neat little life. …
You are my distraction
You leave me soft and numb
The pen rolls out an open hand
Just for tonight - I will succumb
You cry for my attention
Demand I check again - again
Measure up against false illusion
Aspire for every make-believe mountain
You taunt on the precipice
One foot on the safety rope
Tied to the branch you burnt
An echo at rock-bottom, ‘See, I told you so’
You think I think too much
Keep me reaching for some relief
Enough with boresome thought work
Snort a line, roll a smoke, what’s on TV?
You and your…