Review

This was all quite simply in aid of the idea that work can be made independantly, without socially aggrivated issues, political preference, or anything else which adjusts and contorts the singular ability of a visual creation and the ownership of such a thing.


Untitled 12/12/09
Talk to me with your eyes
From what you actually see.
Not from behind words best left,
to original verse.
Practised prose is a curse to know,
When the memory works more than the mind.
A Bard bastardised for the sake of you’re your rhyme.
Sentiment. Short. To. Keep. Perfect. Time.

I may not speak from genius,
Or write with elegance or with form.
But I do not need quotations,
To see and know,
That what’s right and that what’s wrong.

The Hes and Shes,
Of verse, prose and song,
May indeed have uttered sweet truths,
Under silver light
Of a world long-n-gone.
Yet for the sake of what’s left,
Stop looking for yourself,
In quips and puns and context.
In their verse, their prose or song.

On the occasion of wine taken in volume,
When speech is freer than thought.
A muddle half verse is soothing,
And prose reborn a comfortable shoulder.
Even the song is sung with conviction and love,
Yet without a thought of the father or mother.

As older I grow I sit further in silence.
I sit now, in a stretch of still silence.
Broken vessels belonging to poorly tied knots.
The do’s and don’ts of politics,
Literatures best, forget-me-nots.
In fragments of intelligence,
Stripped bare of light and ownership
Assembled then destroyed with and without doubt,
Unheard and unknown
I leave again that crowd.
But I’ve nothing if not
Unoriginal thought.