a hand reaches for the moon.

the moon is Boss.

resistance is futile.


 

Because I need to share my art holistically.

Because I need a space where I can stitch all facets of my art together.

Because Galleries can only show the images, but there are also the poems.

Because sometimes an artwork gives birth to a poem and

because sometimes a poem evolves into an artwork .

Because my poems and art are inextricably interwoven and are meant to dance together.

 

Thank you for your visit.

Welcome to my head.




Let's invent a new language she said,

One in which even the smartest can play god

on the limbs of others.

 

Okay I said but why

are we doing

this?

You're not the sharpest knife in the drawer, R U?

She replied.

 

None-the-less I broke the code

and saved the world,

once again,

from total annihilation.

 

I must confess however

I found the words floating in my bath tub

along with the essential construct.

All I did was just hold on tight

and run.

 




And it is coming, not a shadow of a doubt,

The Final, The Ultiimate, The Inevitable.

The Call for Last Orders. One More For The Road.

Time, Ladies and Gentlemen Please, it's Time!

 

There are many strategies. Run and hide,

but everything is suddenly transparent.

Try bribery, dust in your hand. Deny,

deny, deny, it's already too late.

 

I choose to go out with The Surfers From Hell,

bobbing skulls riding the waves, waiting.

Spiked boards slippery with mystery,

waiting for, THEBIGONE.

 

 




"...I did my best, it wasn't much

I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch

I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you

And even though it all went wrong

I'll stand before the lord of song

with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah..."

 

From Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen





 

fish, mouse, poet

hooked, guillotined, silenced

 

from the beginning

no possibility of escape

 

I learned to love

the pointy end

 

pain and surrender

dancing the tango

 

so now I confess

with colours on my tongue

 

and holes in my heart




the transcendent, torrid, tortuous sense,

heightened when restrained,

ecstatically freed from cocoons,

winged butterfly kisses

yet to be confessed.



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

These were the cards I dealt

the night I was falling

down another hole,

plus that over the top,

melodramatic, Ten of Swords.

 

Like a dead leaf on a chain

I prepared for The Bardo.

The Hanged Man a rush of blood to the head,

The Priestess higher than I was low

and a X of blades in the back.

 

But all in all it was needed medicine

and between the shadow and the light

I confessed myself free,

returning

as me.