The fluid filled chamber
echoes with the sound of tiny feet
paddling.
A resonating guttural roar,
the flames are raging,
cracking and tearing through teak floors.
My bones feel the snap and snarl of timber
giving way to the fury of heat.
Smoke curls and twists into my nostrils,
searing my skin, but I breathe
deeply
gulping in,
filling my lungs,
my throat scorched and tightening
until I can take no more.
I run out into the air, my chest stretched taut
my face soaked and hot.
I laugh until I cry,
pump my fists and fall to the ground,
watching as the fire rips through the front of the house
sending swirls of ash into the red sky.
At the very corner of the bed
lies the crumpled duvet,
warm and inviting.
You reach over and pour coffee all over it,
grinning feverishly,
shaking and shaking the mug to get the last drops out.
I want to crack open your skull
to let the piranhas loose,
they are feeding on you.
You wrap a scarf around your chest,
pulling it tighter and tighter,
the fibres ache.
I wish I could hug your mind.
3 a.m.
I hear you chuckling in the hallway.
Morpheus weaves a demulcent tale to arrest the pain,
as Remorse sleeps curled, fists tightly clutched. Destiny
sneaks in, breathing deeply, struggling to keep silent,
an eye on Prophecy waiting by the window, nodding to a knowing rhythm.
You light a candle and pad softly up the stairs. Turning suddenly
you trip, fall heavily, as flames start to swallow the floor,
taking over the walls, cracking the paint,
splitting fibres, reaching the room where Remorse,
immersed in soothing dreams, fails to rise.
On the crowded train
the territorially hostile shuffle
and I can see the photo project explode in my mind.
Colours and textures imprinted,
but the container does not give
and it is stuffed
full of boneless sea creatures.
I struggle to find breathing room,
inching my way to the front. Then,
through the glass I see your face,
your hands twirling the shiny metal keys,
your lips a grin, beautiful, a faint green
kissed by the neon light,
as you retreat into the muds,
and leave me to my plight.
Energy unhindered by the endless edits of societal conventions,
that have chalked up the rest in tinker, tiny, pristine boxes.
Of course,
none could hold you
- but then,
none would want to.
Exiled by the instream,
isolated by the sub-group,
rejected by the rejects,
taken on as pet projects,
no one reflects you
and nothing speaks of you.
Yet,
you remain
a scratchy noise
in the plush, modulated background,
threatening to metamorphose,
puzzling forwards decade by decade,
negating the well-worn barriers
- one day you’ll get through …
but, really,
would you want to?
growls at me
and I like it.
Infused with stolen aspirations
struggling to find a path
in dominant sickly sweet
stanzas overladen with melancholy
and overwrought thoughts,
I wish I could hear it out loud.
And touch it.
Skin on skin.
I imagine it sounding like a dense, gritty guitar solo,
or like dusty, fuzzy noise filtering and sparking
through an unseen vent
in the corner
of a crowded room
where nobody reflects the sound
and where nothing fits quite right
and bad poetry provides
welcome respite.
I was in Sloane Square/Kings Road on Saturday, I had wanted to see how it had changed from the brief time I spent there in my early teens. I didn’t recognise it … anyway, I happened to go to the Saatchi Gallery where the exhibition Abstract America was on. All the exhibits were pretty stunning and raised a lot of questions. However, one in particular stood out – “Kiss Trap Kismet” by Sterling Ruby.
Kiss Trap Kismet, Sterling Ruby, 2008
close up, Kiss Trap Kismet, Sterling Ruby, 2008
When I first saw the installation, I was drawn to it by what felt like compelling and overwhelming raw energy. Even on the plinth, it appeared like the installation was going to spill into its surroundings, sending out rising feelers to all edges of the space – taking it over. Amazing rage – thankfully contained on a plinth. I was convinced that the artist was gendered female/identified female. For me the installation appeared to be a dialogue about the outward manifestation of female anger – where, sometimes, it is argued that it is male anger that focuses outwards and female anger is focused inwards. A bonus was that it was shiny and I kept wanting to touch the surface. The installation rocked.
Other interesting pieces were the series of haunting can sculptures by Paul Lee. These pieces felt like a meditation about loss, youth and desire. All lined up in a row, the sculptures looked forlorn and gave off a melancholy feel. And, at the same time I felt like I was viewing an intimate part of someone’s life – so it felt a tad voyeuristic. All in all a really evocative piece of work.
Untitled (Can Sculpture), Paul Lee, 2007
Then there were the Sentinels (Orange, Please Hold) and the Watchman by Ryan Johnson. A feast to the eyes made of plaster bandages. Originally the Sentinels had marker pens tied onto them for people to leave graffiti – it was interesting to read the comments and I felt that it added value to the installations themselves. The Watchman was a little creepy especially with the chains of keys round it’s waist and the hooded coat – I think hoods on anything inanimate look kinda sinister. The orange Sentinel evoked a pleasant feel and Please Hold gave me a sense of living through a nightmare where everyone and everything is completely unreachable. All in all the exhibition was excellent, the gallery space was to die for and it was free – so, accessible to all.
Sentinels and Watchman by Ryan Johnson, 2008
Amy is flustered. She is mid-rant, ‘… this woman from some society for the prevention of cruelty to animals … on radio and she was discussing how they are trying to get mink farming banned here because minks … oh, so unlike cows, piggies and sheep, are not domesticated animals‘, she arches her eyebrows and flings her arms up in disgust. With renewed zeal she continues, ‘So it’s not fair to keep them in cages, unlike piggies, and kill them, unlike cows.’
She places her hands on her hips. Tapping her foot she watches me and continues, ‘Never mind that none of these par-ti-cular minks have ever seen freedom.’ This is her argument and her tone is high pitched. I look up from my book. Noticing my full attention, she continues, ‘I felt like ringing her and asking her does she eat meat? Does she use fly-spray? Sorry, but sometimes the arguments of the dolphin friendlies baffle me … honest.’
read more…
Feet like clay,
cracked, calloused, bruised
uneven
- and hands,
tiny cuts, laced with red dust,
forced grit grates under fingernails.
Parched lips dried and split,
the scorched air burns,
seeps in, tightens skin,
as you break rocks
every
single
day
to build a city in another land,
for the coins clutched
in the palm of your hand.
(of the 1.3 billion people living in absolute poverty around the world, 70 per cent are women – Amnesty International)
A marionette in a crimson crimplene tux
pirouettes down the sparkly walkway, gliding
in and out of the light, her sculpted
face moves from side to side, as if to beckon
the audience with her gaze. You work
the strings deftly and rapidly, your motions
drawn inwards as if you and she are one,
she spins and dances to your lilting song,
and we are twinkled away into another world.
Alert mechanisms
from within
tell me
you are here.
A sorcerer seeks
the hidden gleam
that has burrowed and twisted
into a deep cavern where you kneel,
working plaster effigies of people lost
into the wall.
