Some thoughts in short form….

January 30, 2023

Here’s some stuff I wrote ages ago when thinking about what poetry is >>

Art is the foot print of a soul step. No soul, no foot print – only shifting sands of glitter & flash light grains.

Art is only art when the drive to create is fueled by inner necessity

Poetics is the study of soul graphics. The journey of the scribble doesn’t stop at meaning.

Why must a reality measured in litres and metres be more real than one measured in sighs and tears?

Like a night club bouncer big words can select their own context of entry.


A Question of Me, Myself and I

January 11, 2023

You speak to me, I answer from I. You see a shape that is bone, muscle, skin and hair. I see through a fish eye lens this global tissue ‘man’. I see rags and leathers, suits and socks, bags and sacks that you carry.

I see me changing his tie.

I answer from the beach head I. I watch the light house flash across distant boats. I feed gulls knife gliding over grass hills. I feel Hellenic curves in the open air. I stretch my bow, my ancestor voice and call it I.

I answer from within and without which was, is and will be. My tongue is fire coursing through veins. My hands were taught by Sophie the Cleaner. Look carefully and you may see my thumb. It appears like a man. Ignore the smirk swerving at the thumbnail bottom. Doubly ignore it when it appears like me smiling.

I gently part the folds of grey matter. My instinct leads to pulsing points that lie between synaptic arcs deep within the brain. Neither here nor there, neither in nor out. Just between all and everything.

I answer from I. I walk through corridors of mortality and eavesdrop on midnight conversations behind closed doors. I seek a passage through flesh and blood, marrow and bone. From the heel of God to tumbleweed desires my longing cries out. I clap my hands in rhythm to the stars. I play solar tunes careful not to disturb the wispy boundary of lace spider webs.

I answer from I. I watch lone smudge cloud scuff across sunrise. The quickened spindly net stretches over the skin horizon. I flick a twig of humanity’s tree. Is it I or is it me?


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