- Vol. 04
- Chapter 07
For now, I shall lower my crucifix down
into the well of your heart, fill myself
up with your paranoid colours and try
to lift what I can of you from the thick
scream of the wet turquoise
your slashing majesty stands in a mystified
trance, double-lost and framed in a furious love -
every raid of paint is a bodiless coat
warming what’s empty and alone
and again, I’ll try to lift you from the violence
because that is not a chair nor is it
a throne. No metaphor can contain
it, or delineate the thing it once held -
a monster of god, a sod, a weight of evil
fornicating with the womb of all suffering
shoeless and forlorn, the hope of
hearts cannot save what is clinically dead.
Tell me his name, the one who emptied
you, your home and back, and I shall do
what needs to be done, nail him to the flaps
you spillRead more >
Shaffic Aboud once might have said
Before there were bombs
There was sky
Palms and boys in black dresses and bare feet
Turning heads on the pier,
Before there was silence
Graffiti artists put kisses
All of us waited to see what would come next
If this was our picture
We wanted to see it in every paper in the world
On every front page
In blue letters
in empty spaces
And paint smileys
That show we aren’t scared of life
Before or after
We just want turquoise
Every day we walk the short walk
(Four thousand steps, our phones measure)
To lean again over books we didn’t write
But maybe wish we had. And every day
The city has been rewritten, in
Small part: it started with a big
Blue Cookie-Monster, who dis-
Appeared by the evening; weeks
Later he’s only an eyeball. We see kids
Writing their names in ludicrously
Contrived designs, in the same spot
By the side of the U-bahn, daily;
Pigment thrown up against the wall,
Chemicals thrown up in the air. It’s
Strange to see such a casual disregard
For the passers by (you, dear one, and I) —
The kids don’t care who sees, and
It occurs to me I’d never really seen
it happen before: like watching a crime,
A car-jacking or a brick thrown through a window,
Or a casual hit of some drug, or a hit
And run. But then, a secondary realisation:
It’s only paint after all, paint on paint,
And tomorrow the wall will be a different
Pattern. Moving by this very morning,
I caught a sense of a deeper shift;
Read more >
As if she is a Victorian reminder on a wall full of telling aphorisms:
What will the neighbours say?
Our home shows us how we treat ourselves.
If she can buff away grey clouds to bring out the blue, drag every daffodil, bluebell crocus out of the earth to flower today, place a spruced up nest for every chaffinch, been and goldfinch, blackbird, dove.
Tidy home is a tidy mind.
All windows opened to "freshen" the wintered home. Windows cleaned outside and in.
She empties every drawer, cupboard, wardrobe, surface, scrubs them clean, spiders scurry off.
It shows you respect yourself.
Washes every emptied item of crockery, cutlery, some unused for years.Read more >
“Our life is frittered away by detail. Simplify, simplify, simplify!” - Henry David Thoreau
Unhung paintings, driftwood, rescued chairs, broken accumulations masquerading as life; oddly treasured rags beyond all sense of purpose or fashion. There are no stoic wardrobes here; no clinical drawers.
The memories add volume: attached scenes outside of any photograph. Yet perhaps the act of living becomes lost underneath the splutter and clutter of such amassment where the years are heavy and space, so fine.
No need to move house: just be able to move to dance in each room with lungs of light, abandonment filling your chests. Breathe and feel the security in knowing that happiness is found outside of objects.
yeah, we say, and wasn’t it? (it was, and more besides)
a (super)imposition on an already crowded playing field,
and beyond that, the dripping brush in the midnight tag
(the game of, rule-less), we, Janus-faced, Cerberus,
nostrils whiffling wide, en garde at the garden gate,
the first pair, exiled to labor by the sweat thereof,
to beget and bring forth (and so forth and so on)
enthroned in the azure, the verdant season (seasoning)
Gone, gone There's no one home No one, none I'm all alone.
Empty chair, faded curtains Blurred vision reflecting even Blurrier memories.
Still moment captured in time After years of noise and laugher Empty chair, empty heart(h).
No need to fill the place In time, peace will run Through my veins Like a lullaby in heaven.
Graffiti blurs an electric green chair into teal or is it peacock blue the hue of a bird seen in books from the Orient … and in dreams of clear mountain streams thrumming to life under snow a last wish to see before I walk to the embrace of "Old Sparky" on death row.
"Come share my blue palm tree throne," you say. I shake my head and you shake yours. We stood and stared for a moment, until I could stand the silence no more. Less than a minute, it felt like eternity. "You've laid your heart out on the throne." You nod. "I ... I don't know how to do that." You shake your head, but you smile. "It won't be fair if only your heart was open. Mine needs to be too." You nod. Encouraging. "All I have is the truth — my feelings, emotions, thoughts. I don't have much else to give." You push the throne towards me and whisper, "Well, that is all you need. That is all there is to laying your heart out."
She always was a dancer he used to say, behind his curt glasses, clipped black hair and awkward mouth, she never could sit still, entering rooms, furious, throwing hands, hair - blue like paint spatters on the walls, no one could catch her words Spraying breath arcs, spittle, tales, across the room. We all loved her eyes, her dirty toes, the movement of her neck and when she stopped, time too, as if for the briefest of brief the brightest of bright, the world appeared to stop as well
Double take in a mirror. Who created this haze? Me in the sarong from New Delhi or me yoga pants from the Upper East Side sweat lodge? Such richness of upholstery fabrics in this plush painted armchair. Suitable for the fireplace in Florida. Turquoise — last season’s color — somehow remains fashionable if graffiti; a kaleidoscope of visual mottos evoking the seventies clashes in anti-color government consent. No politics. Prayer? Which is the gayest of my two thousand seventeen god choice? Still a fan of Mario Brothers and dripping faucets. The fantasy of an unknown repairman knocking on the front door. Kegs of beer, good weed. Return to the poetic choice of a doppelgänger.
What brief contemplation a quick hand a brief view, the eye
refuses to train on one aspect of the ruse
busy, busy eye
My graffiti language is on the wall hiding behind the chair
It's hard to isolate just one piece of word anymore
Some day a wipe will come bringing freedom to all this mess
by then I will be seated having tea.
this guilt, sir, i can't help i see the boat sinking and i too sink deeper into my couch. oh, this comforting nest hardens with the bullet i don't hear, and the tear gas i don't inhale. i am—
ungrateful. beyond the blood graffitis of Caracas, beyond the raging rivers and tanks of the cities you once loved unconditionally.
you. sit in this tower, built from backbone and sacrifice. hold no burden and all burden like a feeling could reign supreme and Make A Difference.
Better men than you have Tried. Better women have Tried and seen their hopes Reduced to stampedes of frightened bodies whose belief in revolution vanished with the gunshot and gave way for those behind them to perish with their hope.
i...Read more >
You pass through like a vision, a blur against the blue upholstered chair.
This room daubed with paint in random swirls, your kiss of graffiti everywhere,
spills the outdoors in, a wash vibrant as you painting in shrill blue, a backdrop, a fanfare.
Might you stay, fold into the chair? Allow it to cushion you in skylight, a blur of colour, you light as air.
Your throne is empty despite a sceptre made of aqua, concentric hearts. The world spins – it shakes its head over the vacuum left behind, when compassion went packing.
We white wash the news. We numb the senses with liquid or pill. But you – you are incomparable. Come back. We beckon you, in earnest, for the chance to kneel at your feet – to visit the burning labradorite star left hanging in the sky.
We retreat, and the walls are covered in graffiti. No full cup, spilling with blame, can possibly cleanse this, so we paint with our veins – throw up our arms and dance with eyes closed, just to awaken the other senses. Read more >
My carnival girl sweet Mon Chéri tart craved by the uncravable Goddess to all who paid cash stuck on that big top box, painted in lurid colours that shrieked fun! Too bright to stare since they gawk, back where you'd gone, and peeked — turned faces to stone
Merry-go-round lass beauty drawn outside the lines, gave extra tonight to pretend that twirl was mine, keepsake locket where I was not a number but a name caught that wink, puff of air held deep in my pocket, next to matches from some dive
Brushed velvet darling black-slipped baby show me what wishes you hide beneath those scars on your arms make-up doesn't quite cover Ruby-lipped lady, how far below does that butterfly rush to escape harm?Read more >
You know how it is when the colours you’ve mixed, the colours on your palette, just sing. When you feel drunk on their hues, sated by their tints, when they shiver through your veins. When all you can see is blue and green and yellow and pink and black and white and purple. When all you can smell is sweet oil and sharp turpentine. When you splash and sweep and swish and smooth. When you are in love with your colours and you paint the walls, the floors and the furniture. When blue and green guide you, when thick white strokes become a flower, when love takes over.
That’s when you close your eyes the better to see the colours, the shapes they will make. That’s when you are dizzy and full of light, when gravity disappears and your colours lift you up into the night and you fly through the cobalt sky, past the dazzled stars. That's when you, a shooting coloured star, flex your paint-brush extended finger-wings and paint the air itself with the colours of your dreams.
I spun round and you were gone. As if the sun had suddenly disappeared behind the only puffy white cloud in a blue sky.
All those blues. We were talking about blue: sky blue, sea blue, turquoise, aquamarine, blue green.
I turned round to show you the shade and when I turned back you were gone. Leaving me with blue graffiti, a single rook, hearts and scribbles,
the sun making midday shadows, standing stupidly in a pool of black behind your hideously hand-painted, overstuffed blue chair. Where are you?
She shook her head in disbelief. What was she seeing? Bombarded by the symbolism in various colours of turquoise and blues. What did it all mean? Was she in some sort of graffiti garden? A maze of colour filled her eyes, and her mind was awash with modern artwork. The hearts stood out to her. Someone has had so much fun, she thought, creating all this. A crazy jungle of paint. Then there was the chair. Perhaps if she made her way over to it and sat down, she would be able to take in the scene and make some sense of it all. She walked barefoot on a sea of blue, And sat on the turquoise chair which blended into the background of colour. She was dazzled by the graffiti garden. Her mind swam. Luckily she was a good swimmer and kept her head. Wow! she thought aloud. Cool!!
You are as rare as pink topaz, so rare that sunlight creeping in at dawn can halve your life, as rare as fire that ignites a thousand hearts or burns the iciest ocean or bursts the dark sky with shimmer. You splinter needles of that rarest pink, warm the crust of this earth with your imperial hue. then fade when you’ve spent your milliseconds of time, cast across the universe.
Here is the seat on which you will rest On a shore of tranquil waves White-washed with surf
Here is the chair carved with love Cushioned to cradle brittle bones On balmy days under a gentle sun
Here is the place to shield you From the chaos and pandemonium Of this too fast century
Sit and rest a while with me Feel the pulse of life Of us, as we watch from the wings.
You are a doll in Shades of flamboyant colours Are you waiting for someone To sit on the chair? Or are you ruffian-like Waiting to kidnap someone? You bandit. Thugs and thieves are coming To usurp your throne Only colours protect your darkness I'll be damned if you give anyone A chance. You look like you have Done ten thousand things before Like Hijacking Killing Kidnapping Murdering Somersaulting And driving people mad. The world is hazy and so are you. You are only a child. I've caught a glimpse of you Through hidden myths and pictures.
You turned my head so many times I felt dizzy. I felt in a permanent state of dizziness, my head spinning round full of sweet sayings, full of sweet thoughts. Surrounding myself with hearts and smiley faces, happy faces turning to tears now, as the hearts turn blue and I stand, still dizzy, behind your empty chair.
Sometimes everything turns blue, air, emotions, chairs too, with aquamarine and indigo hues. We fill empty walls and other places with scribbling, bombing and tagging, elaborate murals in technicolour and social comments in monochrome marker. Flooded with fluorescent cyan splashes, a surge of symbols, dots and dashes, we’re overwhelmed by the blur and pace of a world that has coloured in every space.
When I came into your parlor, you led me to a chair that was specially prepared, you said, for the next unknown guest.
When I sat down you couldn't see me, and had to do a double take — which the paparazzi who follow me day and night splashed across the tabloids like a graffiti you splashed across the universe, beginning with your own home.
It was all over the walls and drapes and furniture, all over the ceiling and floor. You made your statement alright — that was your freedom of expression guaranteed under the reinterpreted First Amendment of the reinterpreted Constitution.
It was the heart that decided me, so reminiscent of an Egyptian Ankh: it made me imagine desert sand under your bare feet, instead of ecstatic paint droppings.
What would have happened, I wonder, if I had gone ahead and sat down as you wanted me to do? Was that a part of your artistic plan, which I ruined by being so refractory?Read more >
Through the iron bars on the cellar window I can see people’s feet. The sky and the ground are merged. There’s some commotion upstairs.
I examine the skin on my arms. It’s turned pale, almost translucent. Most of the hairs have fallen off. The flesh feels flabby to the touch. The hairline and eyebrows are receding. The first strike of lightning disperses the birds. I use the pole to open the window and crisp wet air bursts into the basement. It’s strange that I’ve never thought of opening it before. I breathe in the freshness and with it all the cut grass in the area. People’s feet are moving faster in tune with the rain. The rhythm gets me into a trance.
The first drip drip drip of water through the window. It’s forming a pool by the wall and I stand closer to it. Blue ink trickles from my fingertips. I take off my shoes and stand in the puddle as it’s getting bigger. The stream cascading down the wall turns into a waterfall. Employees shout and run down the stairs towards the ground floor. Their sounds make me feel calm and at home. The sight of papers floating past pleases me, same as the cold sensation moving up my legs and reaching my knees and thighs. Something is unfurling inside me, as the old me is dissolving into this office cellar, into its grimy walls and the filing cabinets.
A torrent pushes its way through the window and knocks me off my feet. Jets of water are spurting out of the cracks in the window frame. The basement fills up quick. The footsteps and voices above have stopped.
I push off a desk, propel myself up to the window and squeeze between the bars with great ease. The flood level is high and the gale is picking up. I swim to the entrance around parked cars and tree trunks. Read more >
If I could mute certain shades of blue this noise would be more bearable Do you can you can’t you hear that blue beating pulsing the world around and beyond? Blue has a pitch beyond bearable.
If I could mute certain shades of blue I never would have drowned because the water’s dark deep rising waves of black like your irises dulled blind are not as tempting as the blue.
If I could mute certain shades of blue the forever hazy sky would blaze and billow and do you can you can’t you hear that blue her voice which shakes and shames and is unbearable? Gas billows and blazes blue and burns it all to black.
Shook her face in half, shook until her mind was a spattered cave of hyper, splash back, groovy, Jazz Funk – she became an abstract expressionary movement. When she cried, the colour inside her throat was the colour of sky, at its brightest under sun and she cried clouds the shape of swans, of smears, of smiley faces. She had puffy ankles from all her stamping to the beat and her chair was a throne, a sapphire throne of blue and her words wrote blue and the heart she left on the wall was blue and the scribbles and blotches were blue but her toenails were painted red.
Standing behind the blue throne, accretions of shifting surface graffiti light your visage. Look the other way – while we regard you, cast through the lens of for-never. Turquoise velvet grandeur – an ache of pure colour, longing burns in our veins. We will paint our own palm trees, colour our own sky blue sky. Oceans in our ears, shells held high. Forever, I shall hold the brush, as you take your seat, My Dear.
Butterflies spiral hostage to an uncertain spring breeze. Reaching the apex of their courtship they funnel downwards through the foliage, a different route to the first time.
The ritual is the same every year; the players aware of the game ignorant of the outcome. All it takes is a gust of wind to spirit them away again.
Shaking my head, brain leaks, colour, Spatters a white chair Blue. Sky and sea. A fish with no fin, No gills. Drowning in multi-hues.
Underwater world, toes painted red, Heart wrapping a lover’s Knot. Talking of us, you and me, Air bubbles floating. My dream
Filling the void of your goodbye. The Empty chair alive imprinted by Your head, your heart, your body. I remember. Struggle to wake.
“Second level, condominium. He always tips.” She called you Doctor Alexander. I thought maybe you could listen to my heart and tell me why. I thought maybe you’d be someone grand, wanting to sit on this. Maybe imported cigarettes. There are more slogans here than in the subway. I don’t know how long I can stand trying to dodge the spray guns. I don’t know how much or if you’ll pay.
They said splash it with any color you like
I did but then how they bugged out wide eyes
you have changed our outlook we don't see the same
like as if we have been updated a new download
feeling obsolete but that is how it goes
one day you are the shade of the moment
the next a bland shadow.
The royal combed rest of a French cabriole invites with the breath of a Mediterranean sea breeze the promise of a synthesis:
real-world value and bon marché.
It promises flat-rate access to
the image of leaves in streaks, a brilliant white cascade of snake necks thronging in a mist of misheard names, to a jungle perpetuated in riddle:
Pillars One through Four — Earth, Water, Sun, and Stucco — that place you know.
Behind the seen ease, on the pitch screen, a naked universe but for logograms of relentless expectation to express the holy of holies better, truer, left unsaid — but for graphic mimics of the cyan throne, mocking in curves the truth it makes a promise —
carte blanche — endless repetition —
media shrieks.Read more >
Charles spent every Sunday afternoon reading to his grandmother Ann, while she sat in her blue upholstered wooden chair, her finger tapping her chin listening intently. On more than one occasion, she spoke of how the chair had been in the family as far back as the late 1800s.
As Charles now sat in that same chair, in his own living room, he could feel the sunken spots from years of use. Considering, it was still in good condition having never changed the upholstery. Facing the window, he watched the birds fly from tree to tree searching for prey, wondering why his grandmother insisted he take the chair after she passed away.
Charles smoothed his hands against the fine wooden armrests, getting a feel of the workmanship from that era. As his hands moved back and forth he felt something. It was a small piece of note paper taped underneath the right armrest with his name on it.
To my Dear Grandson Charles,
I know you must be wondering why out of everything I own, I left you this chair. It’s not only because out of everyone in the family, you were the only one who took the time to visit and keep an old lady company, but because this is also an antique worth a lot of money. I wanted to leave it to you to either keep or sell. It’s your chair now to do as you wish.
Your Loving Grandmother, Ann
Charles folded the note and relaxed against the back cushion. It took him only a moment to decide what to do.
All the money in the world wouldn’t replace the memories that chair represented.
she closes her eyes and a dream words, wet paint, graffito her own parade permeates the inner walls, silent singing
in there her gaze, ablaze unabated seeking, her feet are distinct and an array of encrypted lines splattered,
speaking — a strangely familiar terrain — unmapped feelings and the mind tries to articulate how to spell the name
the fuel, the flames and the ember
the improvised throne, heart a target, aquamarine here where she placed it ‘it awaits the parade that awaits you
follow through to the edge of the night' ...
There is day, her awakening.
I snapped exactly what I saw: That rubbernecking blur with dark Hair (and arms) cropped short; That heart beside itself; that poor Pretender’s throne, commandeered One night by a hectic horde; That sea beneath the swirling floor.
And the layers in and out of other, Bolder layers, intercut Motifs brimming this way, then that: Beaming phizog, ink-sagged feather, No words but letters bursting through. A life extravaganza in mid-throe, Then to be fixed, and framed thereafter.
Now I see it plain in my own Snapshot: bottom-left, a comic Penguin fixed in a painted panic, Line on careless line Messing up its face and belly. To some, I know, it just looks silly. But there it is. Just as seen.
You've known people like her. We all have. Their big personalities take over and they make you feel so special. They shower you with attention when they first know you, then give that attention to someone new, leaving you behind wondering what happened. You wane in importance.
Cherise was like that. Her heart was colorful, but empty. She had more than one heart. She handed them out and took them back. She wrote us on the wall, but it became useless graffiti. Her feet were planted on the ground but her head whirled – what was she missing out on? Who was more interesting? More important? Her eyes wandered as she offered you a pastel turquoise chair. Do sit down. Be my guest. Just not for too long.
The wall, scribbled with old promises, turned into chaos. The longer you knew her, the more confusion. She might be exciting, but she was limited. In the end, you wanted stability, someone you could count on.
The strange feet that stay sedated beneath my seat belie the spinning mind that colors time with love rhymes on a blue sky beach On a blue sky beach behind a coloured stare that gazes through layers of blue and layers of me on a doodling spree trying to set my hair free
Memories, corporeal imprints Visual, luminous hue Of turquoise, now green, now blue Floating, swimming into view
Onto this canvass, brush strokes translate Flickers, morsels, fragmented Like granules of sand slipping through one's fingers
Behold, untold Too delicate to grasp Amorphous, layered mosaic Fading, visceral palette
Transcend, descends, distils A gritty, aqua shore Concealing, revealing, colourful pools Reckoning, beckoning My thoughts to still Come sit a while In peaceful solitude Surrender, remember Let time and emotion do as they will
Time was, my thoughts were threads, hanging in hanks, carefully colour coordinated, ready to pluck and weave; I could hold a dozen, two, safely in my head and know, exactly, how each fitted in the pattern.
Now, much as I love graffiti, I am unravelled by its internal usurpation of pattern and order; dizzied by its dazzling chaos; trying, desperately to focus…
Okay…love, faith, us remain pretty well defined… what else? Teal, Straw, Heliotrope, Nankeen; Read more >
If she shakes her face fast enough the bruises blur to cool glass, a brittle band of dark shade across her eyes which her fingertips tap like ice. It’s better than the suck of wet plum.
The glare is bearable through the glass if she keeps her head moving. She stares out defiantly at neon breasts and impossibly bright legs, her own feet rooted in the earth.
The ankles are spattered with sap and shit but she holds them, stiff, nonetheless. This stops her getting lost.
The quiet chair has been waiting for weeks, inviting her to rip her thin white roots from the soil and rest her thighs, dangle her toes, swing her calves to look the world in the eye. Come, hold your head high and still.
But she slurps water through her feet for now, face still spinning, tender sockets, shades intact. In this way she hopes to survive.
His neptuned chair is moored in shirring water, and she, skin like shifting kelp, fixed byssal feet anchored there, gasps a lazuli blue. Waits.
Everything here is further than any known land. Walls mind their rarity of air in illegible things, a graffiti of algal forests where she dare not go.
Some days, his smile opens her out vulnerable as an oyster. On others his hands, cold pious fish, slip, snap her shell shut. All this bruised sea
holds her, caved, an inner immigrant. Maps are lost, scribbled, hidden, he knows she'll never find the way. Listen. A wicking of surface water, linted sails hush past, somewhere lies a quiet redemption of islands, hope.
She is a lost Picasso, pulled between the faces of dilemma and confusion. Watercolour thoughts are smudged, smears of speeding dreams blurring her direction. She drips with doubt, washed-up dregs and views of blue mind-strewn on her landscape. She searches for identity, is caught in the dichotomy: Daddy’s girl. Street girl. Behind her, angry women have spewed out their emotion, but have stopped to show devotion. In front, the last reminder of a middle-class upbringing that wasn’t quite so textbook. Barefoot and frenetic, she eradicates the symbol of the principles imparted, but in daubed, unfinished splashes by a mind that clings to childhood is a lack of a conviction. Her head is dragged through cobalt hearts, a throne and azure statements, thick love spilled in creamy dreams, walls licked and slicked in lavish strokes, ciphers scrawled, conflict clawed, merging, bound. What is her point? She flails in space to find her place and, frameless, waits in the divide. Then Daddy’s at her side again to put her in the picture.
Splash of turquoise, Prussian blue Swirls of colour in midnight hue Colour stimulates the view More of life beyond the blue
Shadow of her former self yet Still that woman you can’t forget Standing still behind the chair Wearing blue ribbons in her hair
Colour faded memories too Amongst the myriad shades of blue Sadness comes and sadness goes Happiness like the bluebell grows
Dementia stealing from the mind But many memories are left behind Bubbling from a cerulean lagoon Underneath a pale blue moon
Paint it as you want but there is no we. No more us. It’s just you. You and your pebble-brained tales, and blue birds of sappiness.
And somewhere between Christmas and mid-February, your tone turned from white noise to shocking blue. Blue noise; you filled the air with static graffiti and chintz hearts.
And by late March, I’d burnt your favourite chair. Tossed out your tacky plastic palm trees and pink flamingoes that you stuck in the deep-green pile carpet.
You said it was just like grass, except you’d never have to mow it. Never tend it; just walk on it. I’ve been shaking my head no to any faint scent of you because
somewhere between Christmas and those middle numbers in February, I lost my desire to go barefoot. Lost my innocence in the back of your tool shed. Lightning is no fun after the thunder dies.
has lasted longer than my own where I went deep into a fugue of Prussian blue and nearly succeeded by dropping into a black hole where the vastness of open space contracted and bent into confused scenes
the violence of rejection has become for you a turquoise haven of abstraction a hue transferred to the reality of a chair that has the arms you do not use for emphasis as your head moves from side to side — a continuous negative
that is still a decision — a complexion of thought shaken into shapes about you as if your own spontaneous designs are images of possible futures not yet deigned to be good or bad just other accidents infatuations that wait in arbitrary places to happen
It is midnight and Elsa cannot sleep. Her eyes flicker shut, flicker open, and her brain whirs, races, speeding through the events of the life, the things she has seen. Her fingers are restless, itching to fulfil a task, something she can later look back on and smile at and say I created this. She picks up her needle and thread and begins to sew, in, out, in, out, her fingers finding their own rhythm while Elsa begins to hum softly. Her thoughts are awash with colour, various shades of blue: royal, aqua, navy, peacock, electric, midnight – Ow! She pricks her thumb, a diamond of blood pooling on the surface of her skin. She wipes it on her nightdress and continues – in, out, in, out, thrusting the needle with gentle force, watching the patterns overlap in a blue symphony. She is reminded of a time, long ago, involving a chair, plush-backed, the colour of calm waters, and a boy who quickly became a man. Or so he said. A boy who took from her, took something deep within, something Elsa wasn’t ready to give; and he, with his lean limbs and strong hands took exactly that, and she was left tear-stained and heartbroken. Ruined forever. Elsa looked at the chair and found that it had started to peel like aged paint from wooden posts, peeling away the calmness, the tranquilities, to reveal brazen white, the colour of pills and hospitals and secret trauma. Tick-tick-tick-tick. Her fingers move in time to the ticking of the clock, her heartbeat aligning with the pendulum. She will not, cannot stop; her breath becoming shallower, faster, her thoughts spiralling on the sapphire blue heart she had drawn over her notebook, thinking that together, they could set the world ablaze. Read more >
He comes from a world of black and white and certainty. Certainty of death. Destruction of his mind, gradual but complete. Even the blood in the streets turns black in the end.
You want his grass to be greener, the way you see it. It comes so easy for you, a once caged bird, released, into a multi-coloured sky.
His cage door opens by degrees, The light beyond is blinding. Everywhere he turns to look. it burns.
You have learned to see the hearts and flowers. He only sees the writing on the wall. Give him a new certainty of time. One day he’ll join you in your sky.
Of course, you won't have noticed me before, looking around the bar, I'm one of the first girls on this shift.
I always dress down at 2am, it's a way of getting noticed, I don't get paid otherwise.
Some of you come for the company — hoping for strong feminine arms to hold them — others just for an anaesthetising drink.
I know all of you, business men, loners, soldiers, goodtime boys.
Well I'm a professional too — make the most of me while I'm here. At the end of the night I'll go back home to my cat and my flat. Goodbye.
Paint-splattered chair, in space which seeks to flance, once graced the drawing room in handsome manse in grounds which, while alive, I called my home where coiffured shrubs adorning nourished loam scented pergola where we used to dance.
The décor pains me as would swarm of ants. the room’s chaotic style cannot enhance once stylish seat where I would sit and comb. Paint splattered chair!
I cannot focus right – there’s no advance to my solidity. I can but glance about disturbing gloam and seethe at memory when time to roam. Paint-splattered – chair?
Your table is waiting We have all been waiting To make edits On your meal, on your life
Won't you sit down We've already ordered A heat lamp could Not save this meal
Always eat slowly Admire the painting we've Done of you Don't you look different Now that you're older?
Do you feel wiser? It seems so. Have some dessert.
Expanding its reach, the unknown spirit begins to move Showing the world what it's really made of. Breaking stereotypes and perceptions, she engulfs every aspect of life. Coloring her world, filling it with love, freedom, uprisings, culture, and her ethnic attributes. Dancing around, she begins to inflict those around her with that oh so sweet feeling of self-love and appreciation. Positivity fills the room, can you see it? That unspoken feeling — what’s it called? Resilience, Breakthrough, Freedom, Power? Who cares, she is who she is and what she wants to be.
As she leaps from one side to the next Creating tribes, setting her counterparts free ... They break through and begin to dance, exploring barriers that once suffocated them Moving side to side, they begin to dance, their new found glory brings tears to their closed palettes. Shattering their glass hearts, there's a sense of spiritual release.
Who would have thought this spirit that was once hidden in a dark corner would have emerged and taken over, spreading glory, peace, dance, confidence ... beauty.
Realizing she’s the owner of her destiny, breaking boundaries and chasing her dreams. She decides to express and share her new found wisdom. So what’s left? Moving forward, discovering new horizons, spreading the joy of freedom and of course, her flyness.
Vivid turquoise, the dream chair waits against a wall of graffiti. No one sits there, but behind it, a time traveler, clings to the chair back, her face blurred by an unknown gravity.
Centered between the sturdy green chair legs, her own shins descend, and her feet are anchored in a blue and turquoise tide that ebbs and flows across the crazy wavy floorboards.
Held captive, she has painted her toenails— a gesture meant to ground the memory of who she is as her face keeps shifting, the speed of her travel recasting it like a sand sculpture destined to dissolve.
I’ve never seen the chair in waking life, but know its house, one I also visit in my dreams— one whose stone facade is graced with red azalea, and whose spacious extra bedroom beckons from the basement where the mural blazes.
I know this room is in that house because the mural has migrated into this dream, squeezed itself into a strip where the wall meets the ceiling— a gaudy rendition of The Last Supper, neon colors pulsing like a beacon above a painted ankhRead more >
Scribbled white flower, stellate or trumpet brushed chair back, tie and bind the bellflower...
Black leathered nymphet, blindfolded and blurred between violet and green, what hint? what tint was the last to be seen?
Was blue blue before there was a word? Was blue? Blue was blue before and after it was noticed. Was blue rayleigh scattering, cried the lamenter? drips of heartshaped silphium seeds was scepter. Was-scepter, commands the latecomer!
To us! To us! The rest pinked, purpled, and yellowed asemic. The graffitied wall screamed hues of lapis lazuli; sky, sea, and eyes blurred of teal, blurred of ultramarine.Read more >
Time ate away at your face Gouged out your eyes Until hollow sockets were all that remained
It was once beautiful As were the hands that rested serenely on your lap The same hands whose veined rivers pulsated and bulged over paper thin skin towards the end
There were still stories in your face Stories in those hands that grasped, stroked and cupped life All its wonder and misery
Since you’ve gone Everything has turned blue
The vase on the table across from the blue chair Filled with forget-me-nots Its wilted petals will soon scatter like confetti onto the rug below
It’s not blue yet But the days pass in slow motion And I’m quite sure it’s turning blueRead more >
Barefooted Janus sees you coming. She's a stealthy mover, sheathed in black, negotiating graffiti-strewn turquoise streets.
She sees you and your heart lacquered up like so many layers of lipgloss, dripping hallelujahs and hey girlzzzz. Shimmering like the incandescent light of a bubble, bubblegum pink, lemon fizz yellow.
And Janus sees you going.
She sees you, bending from your spine like a comb binding, folding yourself in two to protect what is left inside. And what is that? Just pieces now, scraps of organs stretched too far and shredded thin. Red ribbons.
The god of transitions doesn't care what happened in between. She wasn't looking.
She felt as if she was there and not there at the same time. Partially present, like the contours of her body have melted and some of the atoms slipped away in a parallel universe. She was there, but also a world away. Tiny sweat drops were covering her body, giving her the illusion of being fluid, even liquid. A little bit and she would merge with the background. The colours would soak her up.
They painted here for years. The splashing happened one night when they were drunk, and continued whenever there was a stronger emotion. A whole turquoise bucket for the sold out exhibition. The remainder of the deep blue after a perfect night out. The loads of white for the small quarrels. The black for the first cheating.
They threw parties in the studio and tipsy guests drew on the walls and on the floor. There were bits and pieces of scattered thought, emotion and lust on their doors and windows. A spontaneous poem in yellow in the desk on the left. A scary amount of red with imprinted hands on the middle wall. A childish cloud-filled sky on the ceiling. Their quarrel splashes mingled with someone’s profession of love, their happy sprays stained someone’s darkest hour. They were exhaling everything from deep down inside, and it transcended and changed meaning and echoed and came back in them.
She slowly walked around the space, close to the walls, touching the paint. The different layers of colour were telling a story of their own, a subtitle of their lives. There was too much of them, too much of everyone else in these four walls. We need a new beginning, she thought, we need a fresh canvas. She kneeled down and picked up the spatula. She started with the black.
She could feel them vibrations earth and time turning youth and old age blurring A switch from dolls to useless canes holding firmly to what seemed real in life any anchor she could find an arm, a chair, a false belief. Early years in pink painted bedrooms grew into teenage years of angst protest posters, peace sign decals a boy, a man, so many passed Now left here standing, shaking from the rush of years. Her life, her life now surging fast.
Grasps: rubbing radiant this cold stone clap of time and time and time...
trundling and rolling down south (tho it felt like north)
heat on doors and windows. my Breath HOTandHOT AND HOT and
cold high air, reaching,
and rea ching and
My leg rubbing against yours in the pit that had been someone’s room earlier that day.
I watched as you and your friend each did a line of cocaine as my pupils baloo--ne,d inky black , higher and higher, too high to re ach
a partRead more >
Born with a whimper at the end of the roar thundering champagne bubbles in free fall hurtling towards thirsty brown sucking earth dustbowl, they called it everyone knows that skinny dirty grey woman in the photo all the colors drunk from the wind trapped in depression glass.
She sets her pretty face west the odyssey of the queen anne chair hitching with her grandmother across endless open green before country in a dusty covered wagon behind six musty mules and a glistening black gun lounging poolside now under sweet orange trees in the turquoise breeze of the Pacific.Read more >
"Oh my God, what have you done?"
For once, the rising whine of Abby's voice held a genuine question. Nick shrugged, gestured with open palms — surely it was self-evident.
When Nick had turned up looking for a place to crash on Friday, Abby had been on her way out.
"Mi casa su casa," she'd misquoted from a film, and thrown him her spare keys.
By midnight he was thinking maybe he should have asked when she'd be back, and as Saturday's sunrise sneaked in through gaps in velvet curtains his jiggling leg could have powered the espresso machine if he'd only found a way to harness it. Exactly what was the point of exchanging the familiar solitude of his studio for the creepy silence of Abby's empty flat?
"Do you have any idea how much this was worth?" Abby demanded now, fists on hips in the hallway.
"I guess you can't knock the wall down and sell it," Nick said, "but you know, if we get a good photo it might make a decent print. Get it done on canvas, bump the price up."
"That was a genuine antique chair."
"It did look old. Musty. Depressing. I spent one night in here and I knew exactly why you're so uptight all the time." Abby stared at him, Nick guessed she hadn't expected him to show that level of insight. "So I figured I'd cheer the place up a bit. What do you reckon?"
She was speechless, and Nick smiled as the room suddenly looked brighter. Read more >
Dream with a river of signs as violent as beautiful, wake up with the indelible convulsion of the waters in the body. Bleed colors and feel the urgency of the unknown. The usual streets are now blurred and the faces previously loved are now broken. Drink by the eyes the hallucinatory light of the sunset Walk without direction and live the untranslatable ecstasy that only feels the spirit that does not know where it goes.
Life’s barnacles had encrusted my memories, I could no longer remember my brother’s face, Sweet sixteen was far from sweet for us, A summer holiday, sunshine, a slight breeze, gulls sweeping overhead, girls and surfing, An ideal scenario for us to indulge our passion for riding the arching breakers as they raced towards the land, It was a game, Hunting for the biggest, highest and most powerful waves; generated in the ice-blue unseen depths, by the Sea God’s fickle temperament.
The cove was not new to us, We had surfed there in all weathers. But that day there was a stillness that we had never experienced before, A cloudless sky transformed itself into a raging storm within minutes, Accompanied by volleys of trident-like flashes of lightning, We headed for shore, but were catapulted from the security of our boards.
I was washed ashore unconscious, And discarded on the beach like a piece of human flotsam, They never found my twin’s body, Now on days when the sun is beaming down on the Sea’s azure surface, I will remember him and trust that Neptune adopted my mirror image and made him his acolyte, So that my twin will stand forever, a youthful shadow behind the God’s throne, In his palace built from the havoc of wrecked lives.
How can I sit upon pastel oscillations’
causational heirloom containing contemporary
freedoms within all angled perspectives of delineated
Shoes, elsewhere, my staying is appropriate for philosophies apparent beyond the metaphysics of hidden and absolute syllables—
fortune, here, fortune found space needn’t exist beyond the tongue tiring amid dialogical apprehension—
within these colors I will find what was left with intentional happenstance, a jazz of discover
portending what rhythm does in the coldest momentum of isolated
where does blood die along the way? I want to know myself out of this body, into the realm of soil and space. the universe swirls each morning, thrusting me from my bed.
I want a celestial body of my own elemental formations instead of fragile skin and nails. worship my orbit. lick the rings of my planet and savor the tang. this chair is only a prison for the physical, not the thoughts.
reform me, creator, let me spill over the edges like a tide.
Somewhere between innocence and lust, Halfway past the point of no return, That's where she lost her soul, Spaced out on a quest for fame, Slouched down amongst the graffiti, She used to be somebody's daughter, Now the city has swallowed her whole, Leaving a nameless face, Wandering aimlessly in the crowd.
With her perfect figure, elegant clothes and careful maquillage, Celeste was beautiful. She graced the salon of Madame Douvier’s maison de passe by her mere presence, seated beside the window gazing at the world outside, but seldom uttering a word.
Henri loved her but could not afford her – she was reserved for the wealthier clientele – but he refused to settle for another girl. He would sit, wine-glass in hand, talking to her, and over time he began to see beyond her painted face to the soul that was fading in this place. Each week he visited, talked and left, until he had sold, saved and borrowed enough to buy Celeste’s freedom.
When she joined him for dinner that first night she found an envelope on her plate. “What is this?” she asked. “The key to your bedroom,” Henri said. “There is only one.” Celeste gazed at Henri, at the candlelight flickering over his homely but earnest face, and decided. “I will not be needing it,” she said, and placed her hand gently on his.
amma, when as young as she would ever be to me, talked of when she was a bride. ‘the houses limit the ocean. run off now. let me stitch’ as she ran her nicked digits over our cares, little wishes. ‘save every nickel for a rainy day. get me some paan.’ our boxes and knick knacks held our stories. old wife, poor soul, young widow, mother to a hundred sons and not one daughter, atulprasad-doting paan-maker, i knew you. letters are always read too late, writ too soon.
a wooden door called ‘fancy corner (india)’. by this road i walk down every night. nothing too fancy about the green, old, scrambling for support, colour eaten by rain moss and rust. i lost a cat by the door, i marked it with charcoal in my mind, words in the lost section. ‘at the end of my suffering, there was a door.’ i have been handed ‘an atlas of the difficult world’, now to spot myself on it. this society is desperate from the need to save from itself. i try i fail. i will recede to polite dismissals too, ‘peace of mind’, ‘an air of civility’, ‘quality life.’ rage died old in a rot bed. then, what? nothing.
I am the blue chair. I sit, waiting. I need to feel the caress of an ample buttock. I am the blue chair. Blue, because I wait for someone Who will not come. The red chair is taken. The yellow chair is occupied. I am the empty chair, The empty blue chair. I sit and wait. It's May. But will May ever come?
In a random universe where chaos reigns we try to impose order a lot of the time quite successfully. It’s not unique to humankind to want order; bees, ants, meerkats and many other species have societal structures and hierarchies. Time once again to check the clock and plan where we are supposed to be.
Roads full of metal boxes, a flammable tank on wheels, the individual inside and a lot of unpredictable behaviour. Will they turn left or right, put faith in their indicator lights and hope they will follow the program? Be surprised there are not more accidents, more deaths each year on the roads, symbolic of society in general; it, with all the chaos, when all is said and done, functions very well. People are like the weather, unpredictable but patterns do emerge over the eons, so in a random universe where chaos reigns there is hope, better still, there is some certainty.
It was once said by someone about us, that the general public doesn’t know what is happening and it doesn’t even know it doesn’t know… the supermarket is a place where she works, she sees the randomness of it all on a daily basis, where chaos theory meets 2 for 1 cornflakes. Even though the aisles are clearly labelled no one knows where anything really is; customers could take time to look up and make sense of a little bit of information for themselves every now and then.
The background radio plays the same tiresome songs, the trolleys take on a life of their own, where people would not think to drop litter at home or in the street, would quite happily do so on a supermarket floor. She thinks to herself, is this where we are at, are we still in essence hunter gatherers but doing it in a hyper-reality disconnected from nature, apart from buckets of manufactured flowers for sale near the compost?Read more >
Where to focus What to rivet on She spins her black-haired head Engulfed in blue
A mirage, a collage words and pictures and one solitary object a chair in blue
Barefoot, concealed, the chair center stage She stands out from the backdrop A body interloping
Only one word emerges, and why is the chair so big? Is it to hide her or invite her to sit?
Dizzying graffiti frames her delicate body Blues and blacks in a flesh-toned world
Will she come forward? Will she turn around? Will she sit in the chair? Or just pass by. The lady in black on blue.
You can only see him from the corner of your eye —a wisp, a blur, a shadow. His art is to remain hidden. He walks on slippered feet, stands behind velvet curtains.
When a guest drops a silver spoon onto the Turkish carpet, he whisks it away before anyone notices. The wine is poured, the soup is served. The guests lean in over stemware and dinner plates, telling tales, laughing.
They suck flesh off tiny quail bones, crack lobster claws, slurp oysters from their shells, belch discreetly behind linen napkins.
They do not see him there, watching.
There is a woman behind that crazy wall of blue and pink graffiti. Almost eclipsed like a pale moon covered in earth’s cold shadow. She hides behind the easy chair set out for her like an empty throne, the only solid place left for her to sit, one more number in an old formula she’ll never solve. Refusing to fit, refusing to make peace with all the arguments against her writing her over and over again so bright and loud she loses her face under a blur of ink and can’t find arms to raise against her cruel redefinition.
I stood behind a chair which you had recently vacated. I had the intention of sitting there to write to you: a letter of such precision and finality, that it would inescapably show what it meant for me to be sitting in a chair still warm from you.
But the longer I stood behind the chair, the more formidable it became, and the more I became just a figure standing behind a chair, anticipating words: and there were so very many to choose from – they needed to be tamed. They scrawled in all the wrong directions, got up my back and in my nose and stung my eyes and began to perfectly unravel me.
And with mounting despair, I had to acknowledge that what I amounted to was totally illegible and not repeatable: something you would mark in the margins with a scratchy red pen as ‘too verbose’, or ‘unclear’, or if you were in an uncharitable mood: non sequitur mixed metaphor split infinitive.
It occurred to me that I have wasted too much time thinking before saying what it is I mean. And what it is I mean, I could hardly say, but that I’m going mad from meanings.
White knuckled, I watch the chair tip backwards. And nobody – nobody – falls out.
Cross-section of an ornate doll’s house inside a human heart.
For all the delirium on the wall this is the brightest I’ve seen her. She might remonstrate and shake her head shrinking behind the throne but I see her painted toenails and I know her inside-out.
Slim focused lens upon an angst-gilded chair, strafed with candy shop paint.
She wouldn’t sit (too restless) prefers to stand in the hope that she might be carried away out of the doll’s house out of the heart she’s ready to leave behind the colours of bleached coral, the sickly-sweet colours. Her toenails are painted and she’s ready.
Show me the psychedelic blue, The electric that curdles my blood, Reminds me daily of the days gone past.
Show me the psychedelic blue, So, I may not rest easy now. I must recollect the public shaming.
Show me the psychedelic blue, Come, bring forth all the puking psychedelic now, All the bile that comes tumbling out.
Yes, the same psychedelic blue of pain, I've recovered, the psychedelic's now gotten lighter, It's a lovely, sky-blue dawn now.
From my throne I look at you Feeling sorry for you The jester The fool I tried to help things You took me as being cruel I took care of your precious jewel You treat me like a Janus-faced dragon Someone, something you must destroy You slash, you cut, with your graffiti sword Hoping to kill or cut close enough to send me crawling back to my castle The strong alliance that could have been One that could slay the true evil beast With scary fangs that flash you blind right before they feast You have no idea until you're bleeding out They prey on you, me and everyone that comes into their small path The truth will come out I'm not the deity I am just and true Some might say, even you, I bleed blue
Curious stars crowd the open window Peter splashes turquoise from the magic shore the room is ablaze John and Michael jump on the bed swashbuckling bumping their heads on the ceiling
The pink flamingo sits scratching his head mapping out Second star to the right
Wendy leans in for the kiss looking all directions clutching her acorn necklace something yanks back her ponytail
Tink zigzags around shooting stars scattering pixie dust Peter grabs Wendy’s hand twirling in a dance of airRead more >
Up from the throne, out and about, Chaos is his name. I stand, left behind, bewildered. Is he here? Is he there? Is he the Scarlet Pimpernel we seek everywhere? Or minion of the evil one cleverly disguised in soft colors, calming, calming. My head spins. Chaos surely reigns, yet who is truly on the throne?
There is a logic that is only found by walking barefoot you must step on every crack between the paving stones sowing ox-eye daisies and lady’s slippers in the gaps. The strongest will grow in the poorest soil. You trace a single word in the dust. I will circle your wrist with a chain of forget-me-nots, stems slit to poke their heads through. Pull up a chair, and let’s see if the shoe fits.
little blue heart full of deceptive love a two-faced king scorpion full of poison, and a snake full of teeth; your mouth was a black hole where dreams went to die and you kissed me— i never knew life could be so painful until i was recast into the world reborn from ruin i had to form chaos into a compliment then i realized you were just a boy pretending to be a man afraid of your very heart and its purpose you kept its winter but forgot each other season.
I have decided that love is not possible between the bee and the flower.
I tried, swaying on painted legs perfecting a palette of every hue, some would say gaudy.
Perfumed and pouting I fluttered, I needed you.
Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me
but you always supped on the purple one and sated flew away.
Consumed, I am deserting the fecundity of colour, developing a fondness for fermenting.
I crave the comfort of a malodorous descent into a silent Sunday, living on my back.
My haemorrhaging abstract hues
bleed out across a black and white world,
slit veins splattering across lifeless walls
refurbishing your domain, painting pigmentary fragments
across your thrones, my spectrum washing
over edges of mindful frontiers.
Look, the moon is high, and I bleed colour for you.
Come cast yourself in my shades.
Colour is nigh
you a blurred shape on a callous canvas. Life is a constant checking of traffic; looking left, looking right, before risking a step onward. It might be better to rest. Sit here.
A padded chair beckons; soon you don’t even know where your haunches end and the cushion begins. Any imprint fleeting then gone like a dent in dough. Babies’ hands in plaster last longer on the nursery wall than your pale, sorry softness.
But pure alkaline turquoise, the clean carved bleach of white, cuts and cleans, cuts and cleans. Perhaps you’ll leave a smudge of self behind, discernible only near colour.
You don’t see what I see.
This is my safe space. I offer it to you as a one time only deal. Not a question asked in either direction, so get yourself parked. My eyes have it within them to keep you under guard.
I’ll look everywhere for you among the greenest of hearts and faces of us all. Don’t look back; you’ll see that someone has walked a mile in my shoes and they are a mile away with my shoes.
I will not be leaving you alone; if you copy me into your world. I offer myself as a panopticon. My eyes go everywhere for you. What could possibly go wrong?
and I hear their voices and I hear their voices and I hear their voices amen
blue zig-zags wry sardonic the register of love of loss of what was once yearning for yesterday’s tomorrow or tomorrow’s yesterday reflected in cold metal warmed by the hand that held it that hand might turn traitor and plunge it abandoned into a stream of ice floe
and I hear my voice and I hear my voice and I hear my voice amen
Painted nails, Smeared lips a stained red, Cover girl, Attempting to hide, Dress pulled down, A little too tight, High heels spiked, Lost in wave of hashtags, Meaningless compliments, She poses, Strangers gawk and keep clicking her buttons, She washes down the attention with a flat off-brand soda, At least someone loves her, Even if she doesn't, At least for the night.
The graffiti is hellishly bright on the wall.
Purple faces grinning, white eyes smearing like tears. Green hearts encircling butterflies end in crosses. Black and pink and blue, loopy writing, jagged colors, never stopping, layering on top and on top and on top.
There’s a blue chair with green legs and it’s the ugliest piece of furniture he’s ever seen. Its blueness is unnatural, blueness like a kid’s blue raspberry tongue and his ex-girlfriend’s hair.
It’s all unnatural, all insane, and it spins around and around and around him until he blurs out entirely.
Sit here, I dare you, again for Sakhalin, salon moments, pore over the Poet, crease of hip cut before me like diamonds, spine coilsprung to recite. Talk to me about LaMotta, the animal, warm bright rocks on me the primal the literary ones, you are coal walls lit up, it's dark, I'm awake with you. I scribbled hearts on your wall, don't ask me which books I stole, indecision could kill, just touch me, here in the blue.
She's a blur with two faces, we've caught her turning one way and the other. This is the point a new world is made: you've seen the film, every choice creates another life. She turns right. 'I'm leaving you,' she says to the boyfriend, the artist; She turns left and thinks, I'll be his muse a while longer. The artist slaps more paint on a wall; daubs words over words, hearts over faces.
Bowing around spilled coffee A wife can't be your life But isn't it decisively so? The beats, I – I don't – Did you – Last Wednesday – A senior citizen rolls a ninja turtle carry-on, in front of the cafe. We all laugh, the British girls and me... She moves fast, onward with precocious vigor Turns the corner, and it's only me again. Before now it was us and them. I feel separated, my jaguar walking stick leans into the crook of this wooden storefront bench And the red woman struts by Like it's the same old scene Whether I am offered Or it’s said; here, have one more cup of coffee before you go.
I'll argue that my desk feels snugger than a pantsuit.
The smoker walks by, that's it. I've had it.Read more >
Amy had been brought up in Coven 13 and had seen many a to-do: magical woodworm causing mid-air broomstick collisions and even the odd plummeting sister narrowly saved by the emergency services; warlocks dressing up as mortals to protest against equal access to children; and teenage sorceresses auditioning for X Factor where they had screeched like spiked rats yet glamoured the judges into thinking they were wonderful. Her old room-mate, Cheryl, had been very good at that.
But today was different by a long wand – a tool Amy’s clan refused to employ: it was too common for witches of their calibre. Amy picked at the wart she had been nurturing. Sure, there was a lot of Hollywood stuff about stereotypes and witches really being pretty, but seriously – how else was one to commune with one's mediums. The demons might look like cats, mice, dogs or ravens, but they were all of one mind as regards human “beauty” – they hated it and wouldn’t be seen dead or half-alive near some pretentious wench with a hankering for love and fertility spells.
As to Big Horny down below, Amy scowled at the appellation. She didn’t get the humour behind that nickname. He might have been The Most Beautiful once, but the ugliness inside tends to migrate to the surface. She shrugged, suddenly noticing that her pubescent chest had begun to move in a significant manner. She pulled at the top of the dress and peered downwards with raised eyebrows and got distracted with a few more experimental shrugs.
Today … yes, today Witch Weighs Up, the daily news programme, had issued a bulletin about the weather control station orbiting the planet. The motherboard was faltering, causing irrational winds and several witches were rushed to woodwork shop with severe burns. There had been worrying rumours, but these had been hushed up by the Magic Marquise, oversight of the Grand Council.Read more >
I'm here in this strange land,
no one to see just the magical air I breath,
this colorful place makes me feel like a saint,
I think I’m dreaming although it feels like the right place,
the smell is so sweet like I'm stuck in the breeze,
it feels very clean although it's as messy as seen,
my mind is at ease this is the safe place for me,
I'm floating in this peaceful scene like it was just meant to be,
the birds tweet makes me start grinning my teeth,
my smile is so fine I feel so divine,
this magical place is where I'll be spending my days ALONE.
We stand at the end of the tide letting the water make friends with our toes. Something caught my eye as there was blue paint left on my ankles. Then boom — a huge tsunami wave of paint was set free all over us and then the party started…
Three seeds were left at the tip of our feet with all different signs on it such as the logo of black panthers, nazi and peace symbols. We all took one each. There was a flash.
A loud noise was buzzing from the sky, it was getting closer and closer it’s now coming into a rhythm. The whole area turned white then paint squirted from the ceiling, huge amounts of people appeared, everyone looked blurry, music was all over the people were going crazy and then every person went into slow motion until a balloon popped and then the whole place fell into the ground.
Blurry views this community brings The bright dream these people want you to think Fake lights they shine dem burning up my eyes Lord give me one day to really feel alive
Brutality in this world and nobody likes it But they hide behind their doors not out tryna fight it I'm going crazy can't walk in their light cah i'm afraid of my shadow Looking left and right the industry's making people so hollow
Souls caught and dragged in the fire and camouflaged with the bright light Come on put up a fight Look at our sisters and daughters discriminated by the light Tight clothes and skinny thighs is what the light likes
Will you love me tomorrow when my love might be colder My bloodstream is growing older and my beauty might be tender But baby all i’m saying is don’t let me go we all need a lil dark to get us even
To love her Is to be pushed aside When her art possesses her She wears three rings on each hand None of them A promise to her baby daddy
She dreams and so discovers Traversing the wicker chair’s seat, beetle-backed Roaches roaming the lattice of twigs Her eyes flicker hot, a frenzied weave ensues A steady, dull buzz growls in her throat The unborn child yanks the back of her tongue Ringing her mouth open, a dry heave
Her baby’s father must return the party prop Demand their money back in coins, quick She will paint one of the living room chairs As an offering, turquoise To cool the baby’s hot spirit White painted plumes to temper the flames.
To love her Is to be pushed aside When her art possesses her She wears three gold bands on her ring finger None of them Promised to her baby daddyRead more >
HEARTS ARE US MUCUS MASCULINE FEMININE VINTAGE WRITE ON ME SIT ON ME LEFT RIGHT AQUAMARINE YELLOW BLACK PINK ROCOCO FILMED BY THE VIDEO STAR NO SOCIAL MEDIA IT’S ON VHS NAKED LEGWARMERS NO LIPSTICK NO SOUL NO CEILING NO DOOR NEW YORK? OR PARIS? DRAMATIC BUT IS IT ART?
Hello and welcome Welcome to this season's attraction Fill up your glass and snack up Because the show will take some time So hang your coat and take a deep breath There is a lot that you have to see.
We have our clowns here They keep smiling through their pain Staring at the world Tears of shades Painted faces, blank expressions Grinning at fate
Here is the dwarf Looking up at you all People bowing their heads when talking Jumping right up after being thrown around And to find a net after every cannon shot
And here we have our acrobats They keep on swinging Synchronized movements avoiding their fall
The juggler juggling fire and blades Knows it's only fatal if it hits
And the bikers in the cage Roaring with rage Know that to halt is to fall To never give in to gravityRead more >
Where do you come from? Strange alien boy— feet almost human, smooth torso a toy. Black streak-like bandanna hiding your eyes, action man guarding a turquoise disguise Is your actual home beyond the stars— or are you quite simply the boy from Mars? Bright fusions of blue project a delight, your astral paintbrush reflecting the light. Hearts, butterfly, pinks, green and corn yellow plus splashes of white, keeping some mellow. Standing behind the celestial seat what are you thinking, is your work complete? To leave me not knowing would break my heart Please give me answers and teach me your art.
Yes yes yes I know all you want is order and calm, white spaces where darkness can’t hide then pounce to drag you back to the lair you left –
but but but this is what life could be, the fizzy sun blessing our kisses, hearts rioting when our hands touch, a spray of electricity with every kiss, kinetic joy wrapped in a palm leaf –
sure sure sure still is good, but only after we collapse in a happy heap, spent.
Why is all such a maze? Why does all have to be always a puzzle? Can I not simply relax and let myself breathe?
Well, I have tried to. So I shall try again. I will try to try again to try again, and maybe I shall then answer myself. That will be delightful. Oh yes, it will surely be of much delight.
But what in the case I forget what the question was? Did I really ask just a question or was there more than one? Am I simply thinking too much over what my questions could mean in lieu of thinking about the matter at hand? What is the damn matter at hand? Is the matter at hand to know what the matter at hand is? Or was?
Well, if there was a matter at hand there is a matter at hand at now. If, of course the previous matter at hand was not solved. Was it solved? If it was not solved then there is the previous matter at hand and then the current matter at hand. So really, there is not a matter at hand as much as there are two different matters at hand. But are they really any different at all? They still seem to be only questions.
The matter at hand seems all-together-different now than the one before it.
I need to stop; this was to be a brief moratorium. Sure, a brief moratorium, but from what? Why does it have to be a brief moratorium when I am about to write? So if this moratorium was to consider writing, and it is such, then it was not a moratorium at all.
I see I have a tendency to get fixated on simple words. I shall stop my fixation now. But does that end my moratorium? If the fixation ends my moratorium then the moratorium was simply a fixation, and thus not a moratorium at all. Why cannot one fixate and morate at the same time?Read more >
The window, heart-shaped, draws its own curtains. We move through it pretending to be shadows from another time. A thing that can't be tagged won't have hurt sticking to it. There is a desert with Ra hovering like the eye of an eagle, trained to spot movement. Among all the anarchy inside this giant mind of a universe, a dream is a stilled centre.
It is there where we are headed to, our clothes shed everywhere like an orgy of molting, our skins shed like discarded bodies.
The only way to get around a regret is to collect every bit of it from the coils of thought. They call it art, penance, therapy ... death.
We sit under walls with cupped palms and the colors of the viscous merge and mate with cliched shapes till Venus seems to read like Us and the faces are blurred into anonymity. There is no way to get off this saucer.
The cup is a mirage painted by tired limbs and beyond the hearts and the butterflies is a single night not colored with psychedelic wants, just a cool river breeze of a night ... You see ... the regret can no longer be replaced in a box and instead hangs like the last leaf from a branch. It keeps us alive till we keep it breathing.
Breath infinity, soul crossover, forced re-entry A newborn cries
to sit or are you asking me to stay & live a life? & will this seat still be there if I say no but reappear breadfruit in hand & a moon-slice sickle & say stop turning your head to find me? crack this green heart open for cream & a little mercy
The seat and the lady signify a throne. A lady leader in a rough area is still a step in the right direction. The hearts are the signifier of a relationship that has fallen apart. The greens are a calming color, but clearly the woman is on the move. Overall, this piece is one of a kind showing love and power to all women.
Sometimes a world moves so fast you don't know how to control it. Constantly engulfed in the future or the past and forgetting that you are here in the now. Every moment is a different color, every moment is as important. Don't let society tell you that only specific things are important. We are here now. Be here now. For now is the only thing we have.
She sits the chair in front of the graffiti and starts the camera. Shutter time is high and she shakes her head side to side and her body moves side to side and she keeps her feet still. Lines and streaks and drips deliberately scattered and spread around the chair and the wall, but not the woman, who is clean.
The man to my right believes he is a crow, and the words that he gawks label my frame in the memory of the woman behind me.
I am made of death, the former buildings of nature's cities, and the labor of pulled plumes. To me the world is made of chaos, weight, and confusion.
I am what holds and comforts, and "that thing" that he sat in the day she was taken back. We are a memory to which my contribution gives the most depth, for when he finally left, she stood, looking at me, wondering why I was so awful.
The world is full of chaos; I do not know why, except that my bones have been chiseled and my stomach stapled flat and for that I sit assured.
The pressure builds my brain scatters like a stepped on worm over a scorched side block The To Do list lengthens I need a break My art My sacred time When I can be my truest self pure form like acrylic paint splash. the wall is hit a rush of endorphins more and more a splatter here and there screw my helicopter parents my room my space the outside world isn't welcome here
The throne is where we imagine ourselves. At the top, high above all others, no one to tell us what is right and what is wrong, a place where the only thing we answer to is our own subconscious. But how do we get there, and what will do when we get there? These are the questions we must face, the questions we must leave blank, open-ended, because, alas, what we wish to conquer already has been. We set goals for ourselves, ideas of where we'd like to be or what we hope to become because we see others there. We notice their accomplishments and hope for those to be our own. But how can they be ours when they are already somebody else's?
So, this is what I say: Go out there and make your own strides. Take your own steps toward coordinates you set for yourself, beyond your town, your city, your country, this Earth. Beyond Mars and Saturn and Jupiter, beyond Neptune, Uranus and Pluto. Whatever you know you were put here to do, make that happen. Go past what is perceived as possible and accomplish your goals. And one day, you won't only find yourself atop the throne, you will, too, have painted it your colors.
Flowers painted on chairs see no bounds. They flood through arms and legs, not separating one petal from the next. Those who danced among us, seem so faded now. Their arms and legs, that once supported skies drained on chairs, have now been severed, and pulled from memory. The trouble with our prayers is that they are buried by masses. Written on walls showing no intention of leaving, our cries wait unheard. What keeps us together is not mere carpentry, it is that we are an irremovable audience of skies drained on chairs, filtering clouds of blue light.
Waiting behind your blue chair, the ghost of you joins me in a graffiti storm of grief, and I try to pretend that I never cared. Waiting behind your blue chair, what we have lost there I don’t dare try to discern, watching one after another falling leaf. Waiting behind your blue chair, the ghost of you joins me, a graffiti storm of grief.
Love. But only in the background. Too many interactions end up like this, with the real feelings hidden and the easy ones revealed. Love is hard. Happiness is easy. Anguish is hard. Sadness is easy. There's another dimension lurking beneath the surface.
Like an empty chair, our conversations serve a purpose. They allow us to communicate with our contemporaries and to confront our enemies, to advise our students and thank our teachers. Like an empty chair, our conversations could be put to better use.
The targets of our words are a little blurry, obscured by all the pleasantries. Is that person standing in front of you really good or fine or okay? Or is there more to the story? Our phatic beginnings to conversations are the largest contributor to the fuzzy connections we make. Let's get to the point, right? Get the small talk out of the way. We're all too used to shooting the breeze to cut it out completely, but come on, let's get to the good stuff.
If we do, maybe the love will come out of the background, along with all the bright colors and sharp lines and artistic creations that come with it. Get rid of the empty chair and the fuzziness, like calling from a landline instead of a cell phone, and you see so much more. What's behind the chair? What's behind the person? I wish we could see.
When your world feels like a splatter of bright paints. When everyone's own pen writes over your paper. When the dark background persists as much as you fight. When the chairs blockade your being from view. When you stand on the thrills and chaos of society. When lips wear a smile but pupils melt into tears. When everything is vivid and only neutrals stand out. When it looks like your head is spinning, but the walls are on a swivel. When your eyes find a teal heart In a sea of vibrancy. When the colors of the world blur your clear cut vision, you are only grounded by your feet.
Those who stand behind the chair often seem out of sort; however, those who slump over sitting find themselves feeling short. Strength and pain or weakness and comfort, it's your choice.
Would you rather or rather you would? He said, she said, I said you could. Can one be blue and not cold or not sad? Can one be fiery red but not hot nor mad?
You don't belong in the busy city anymore. The faces and structures all blend together and you can barely recognize yourself. Once you choose to move away, coming back won't be an option. The bright lights and vandalism will frighten you and you'll just want to return to your safe and quiet home.
Behind the chair, she shook, remembering his paintbrush swiping the previously untouched leather. She loved how he made everything into art, how he took something so bland and conservative and turned it into a rebel. His death was as messy as his paintings, with no explanations or apologies. The room was full of the chaos he left behind, the only environment where she felt she could feel the world truly surrounding her.
The graffiti paint dripped down the wall Forming a new image that we can see Weathered away by rainfall
The beginning image quite banal Although the artist couldn’t agree The graffiti paint dripped down the wall
But not the painting does enthral Flowing blues of the deep sea Weathered away by rainfall
Now the paint is splashed in a natural sprawl The art has now become free The graffiti paint dripped down the wall Weathered away by rainfall
Perhaps it is the thought of the chair that frightens her. Perhaps it is the essence of the chair — not its screaming teal, but its slipperiness, its weight. Perhaps when she looks at it, she sees the man she has been running from. He will hold her there, if she sits, with clammy fingers tight around her thighs. She will stop breathing so he forgets she is there. He never forgets. She will not breathe, but he will hold her there, and she will die. That is when the colors appear on the wall: the vibrant stringy winds from all of the places where everything glows and no one sits.
Whatever sat in the chair ruled the universe with its eyes alone could see beyond the farthest galaxy as if the emptiness were in its palm and knowable as the air it breathed.
Whatever it was it was a monarch overthrown a child grown old the universe itself the emptiness
Traffic paints the night again, lights smearing curves round the coast road, smudging the late bar crowd spilling back to the city
while high in a hotel suite the beat of tomorrow’s sun is already heating your blood, itching the soles of your bare feet.
The street calls you to dance, but first you paint your face into focus, dress yourself in colours you’ve just discovered, peel a new name from chaotic walls, forget everyone you’ve ever been.
She can’t find the words to talk it all out or she can but the vibrations in her throat hurt and hurt is a trigger that shadows a boom. No headroom.
Moving house, she can’t move house, the packing involved and the books she has she might get around to and the bank statements she might be needing. All the impeding things.
People who use their eyes to stare and those who stare with stern expressions even though they’re not looking her way. People who stare with thoughts when they’re not about anymore.
Burning on hot days, getting chest infections. All the getting things. The passage of time and diminishing returns and she doesn’t feel the sun when it burns.
The quality of the build, she hears all these stories, cracks up the walls on the news, she tries to feel the sorry she should. Her own concerns filling the space like cuckoos or expanding foam.Read more >
It’s hysteria of the brain. A twisting, fractured need to move, to spin, because maybe if you spin fast enough your thoughts will align again.
The world is a kaleidoscopic blur: bright colors and impact and pain. That familiar feeling of your brain slapping up against the inside of your skull, flesh slapping against walls, pain racing up nerves.
You’re supposed to hug yourself when this happens, curl up with cuffs and binding sleeves hanging in fractal thoughts and drugged acquiescence until the need to move dies. It’s what’s good for you. But it doesn’t feel as right, doesn’t make as much sense as when you spin, when suddenly it all lines up, when you see the world in crystalline perfection and everything makes sense.
So you spin until you stop until the spirit catches you and you fall down, your spine a backward arc over the turquoise chair and you stare up at the leftover spinning and watch everything align until, for a moment, you transcend this body, this hysterical brain and see.
The art screamed at me. Then it whispered in my ear. It captured my imagination As it flowed under foot And above my head. "Look up!" it said. "Look down!" "Be part of me." So I sat in the chair and Became performance art With these beautiful colors and My words.
It is the space you occupy, the silken broad seat of memory. Chaired by ones that seem to matter. The powerful people who see no need to shrink like I do every day in shreds of my mind when I remember the blues gifted by you in deceitful munificence. Our secret: you are special princess, do not tell, do as I tell you.
After forty years I damn you, father. You were the sinner, though I make confession on your behalf.
she’s still whirling in transformation from frog to princess after the kiss from that manipulative man with his sleek voice: come sit here with me my darling promising the moon, sun and sky
webbed feet in one place, mind reeling her toad-like head distracted by a cacophony of white ‘n blue what will the future hold? even Snow White was nothing but a caretaker
She threw the abundance of her desire Into the hollowness of every day And came back empty. She called it scarcity.
The world gave her much to fill: Hours, forms, hearts, rooms. She wanted to fill them with Fresh-cut flowers, Night skies so close you could drink them, The sound of paintbrushes chiming against the rims of water glasses, ‘Other: Please specify.’
Her desire tasted like her mother’s friend playing piano after dinner. Desire taught her that some families play piano after dinner And call it dinner, not tea.
It taught her the shapes of other people’s lives have softer edges. That you can over-water flowers, and rancour desire with too much thought. That desire is a glass that can only ever be half-filled.
She wanted a heart so boundless It would lift her clean off the streets On the long walk home. But here she is, On the same dirty pavement, And her heart is nowhere in particular.
her brow, eye sip lipped blur flinching side to side slide
into turquoise and cerulean uncertainty.
At a thousand seconds arousal an atomic bridal
slur — gendered in a pattern not of her making.
Vinyl surfacing wrapped shrink round so trapped
in reflection: belief critical to self aqua ecstatic-
time will be latex, a dance électrique torqued contortion fantastic.
My tag is green tall Live lines My voice in chorus
I've paint in my pocket Soft weight, putty, playful The walls, ground, world, are canvas
The back of the chair is old gilt and gold But its seafront reflects sky
When the light shifts I sink through its surface My tail splashing Signing my body beneath
so much depends upon a blue arm chair spattered with painted graffiti beside the blurred lady
so little questioning outside an orange body dethroned removed from blank darkness on the far side of the actual princeRead more >
He painted his Colors on me— Handsome with Delight Feelings of mistaken Identities and Misconceived notions of Failed relationships.
I am blue. I m a green. I am violet. Watch me become Pink As he brushes each Piece of the canvas, Leaving no space Bare.
Evolution begins with The blink of his eyes. My gifted frame Blurry before his sight, Shifts into two people... I love me and I hate me However, he is the artist. He is making me What he wants me To be.Read more >
Yes! The vibrant colors are us, as are the hearts. Shaking your head no - but knowing that "yes" is what I'll say.
Seated and waiting for me you smile.
Memories surround, muffle the sounds of hurt
I cry blue tears
Knowing that "yes" is what I'll say
we – you and me – us
a broken, repainted couple leaning on each other for love
stands behind the sky-blue satin armchair in back of the abandoned brick building where she and Diego now squat.
Brush clenched between her chipped teeth, she has painted white palm leaves and sand on the blue chair
that someone else had spray painted before. She is poisoning herself with oil paint, turpentine, and tap water.
He kills himself with fast food: taquitos, beer, and pizza from 7-11, with too much work. She will
lose their child here in Detroit. Around her, blue and teal graffiti floats against the pink wall like ghosts.
She remembers the animals and objects, the dying fetus she had tied to herself with ropes of blood
in the painting she had made once before. This time her hearts and letters float free. Her blood
is only Diet Coke and Gatorade. Wearing black, she still holds all the pain and longing she’s brought
with her again to this city that froze her out years ago.
others in The Building called me the painter girl. The artist on Level 2. That’s how they saw me. A painter.
Me? I tried to make meaning by painting. That elusive human thing we do. Trying to find meaning and put it on a page. Show it to others to try and make them see.
I looked for something new by mixing colours endlessly in the hot and airless studio in Hackney. It was a dilapidated building, graffiti outside, full of start-ups trying to change the world with apps and tech platforms that simplify the complicated. Or the opposite.
On Level 2 there was a small kitchen unit at the end of the corridor with a grimy limescale encrusted kettle, coffee splatters on the work surfaces. I’d make steaming cups of instant hot chocolate and watch the clumps of powder dissolve and change form, watching the steam go on its own sporadic journey while I warmed my hands.
I remember the windows were incredibly thin throughout The Building and on windy days, when they shook at that invisible force, in my mind’s eye, I could see them shattering — a mist of glass shards erupting into the poorly heated rooms. The whole place was what my dad would have called 'a dump' but it had determination.
My studio was small and despite the large window that claimed the entire length of the left-hand side, the light was poor. The area was built up so the other buildings opposite claimed the light that I wanted for my own.
I had a view of the carpark and a council high rise that had strings of washing hung out on the tiny balconies.Read more >
As the cold morning draught brushes my face I close my eyes and take a deep strained breath The montage events rush through my mind with a hurried pace
So much that I am unknown to So little that i am aware of So much I can be known to
As the sky turns crimson red Towards the shore the sea gulls rush And tiny species awake from their bed
The white sand with its soothing touch The gentle waves that oscillate The chirpy sounds that seem like dutch
Such variedness such diversity Left me amazed and in awe As I realised nature too can witness such glory
A blue chair stands as a remnant of a night long ago and almost forgotten when bright colorful streamers were thrown by happy and elated thankful hands I heard these words, peace at last is well worth celebrating Too young, to really understand I stood at the top of the stairs Woken by the joyful voices, I crept down and stood barefooted behind the chair, you saw me and whispered, darling daddy will be coming home soon now I stood behind the blue chair looking towards the door and waiting The blue chair now stands in the window of a second hand shop slightly faded from time, but I still see the colorful streamers and once again I am barefooted behind the blue chair and still waiting
I stood bewildered at the top of the stair
"Whoohoo. Anyone home?"
Nostrils flaring, Marlene was now yodelling through the letterbox, trying to sound upbeat. She'd been waiting too long. Her visit was way over due. Physically she'd moved on, but emotionally and financially she remained dependent. Dependent on love, friendship and the unpaid rent which was now an invisible elephant between friends. She'd left voice-mail but wasn't accustomed to being ignored in real time.
Grunting she buzzed the doorbell again. This time pressing long and loud with her shoulder, whilst fumbling simultaneously for her phone. On her haunches she peered through the bristles then through the spy-hole snorting at her own ludicrous predicament. It was her house.
"Lola this isn't funny now. I'm not angry. Is Jesper with you? Come on Sweetheart! Open up for pity's sake, it's raining dogs out here!"
Marlene wondered whether to break in. The calmness she'd promised herself was dissipating. Eyeing the porch window she scanned past the gnomes on the front lawn looking for a brick.
Inside, Lola's barefeet were clean. Her soles treading their choreography on non-slip linoleum. Every other inch of her body was dripping art. Jesper, light headed (after the fumes from the cans and smokes), wasn't out of the picture, just in recovery after the mind blowing session.
Filling Marlene's empty canvasses with doodles and graffitied expletives, they'd used brushes, gloves, rollers. It had been his idea to strip the wallpaper. The three had discussed redecorating as part of their new arrangement. A way to cover the outstanding rent payment, in lieu. Though neither Lola nor Jesper had intended for things to go this far. Read more >
got that sudden itch, but it's all blue roses
hard and distilled
been flying all night, just need a seat
any will do
missing the way life used to be, nostalgia is the product of a lonely lazy mind
get the party jazzy, the nerve jumpy, clean out my eye.
I was vexed. The tip of my tongue burned with the sensation of pins and needles. I didn't know what to do. Back and forth past the window, where do you release so much anger? Suddenly, everything around me just seemed wrong; the way my bed jutted out into the centre of the room, the cluster of DVDs in one corner and the bare space on the left side of the room. It all needed to be rearranged, the colours were too dark and the carpet just...aghhhhh!
I ran my hands over my hair, not knowing what to do, breathing heavily, willing the anger to escape through my nostrils and into the air. Lost, gone. But no, I was just staring. All of this anger making it seem as though my whole life was disorganised and it was then that I decided to pick up the bundle of art supplies that hadn't been used in almost a year.
I took the brushes and the paints and started filling the walls with doodles. All the smiley faces, love hearts and flowers, reminiscent of the hoard of old school books in the attic, popping off of the walls. Lyrics, quotes and ramblings.
My final act of release was pouring the Marine Blue paint left over from the bathroom revamp over my antique chair and watching as it dripped onto that god-awful carpet. It was all quite cathartic and purging.
My smarts, in all these short spans, have worked itself to a flurry. I have waited a long, long time, readying my happiness in a hurry. Far away, the chair awaits, asking me to take a seat. But alas, I am yet to find a way, that stills me to make ends meet. 'Ahoy, this path! Take this one!' it sounds, from this very, very far away. So I pack my colours, and chimes, and break into a run, just to stay. This is how I break, when I reach, finally reach, the stray path frayed. Under the guise of all that appalls, into stories I've been broken into and made.
Ah, the chair, awaiting to be seated, I find, is holy – a destined fort. This chair, painted in chimes and stories, I find, is mine, made in a mission I'm yet to abort.
This occurred to me last June when I was dancing with Farrell at the Acropolis, a disco in New Jersey - Jersey City I think. Anyway Farrell is a man who spends seven months of the year in meditation retreats, four of those months in Nepal. He left home when he was sixteen and joined the navy two years later. Now his arms are blue with tattoos, cheesy and lurid tattoos of women and hearts and snakes and ribbons with words on them. A blurred woman in a one piece bathing suit stands in high heels on his whole left forearm. At one time she was pouting as though she wanted something she wasn't getting. Now her mouth is smeared like a sad, drunken woman's. Looking at her and then at all the women around us, much younger, with crisp color-shined lips, I had a minor kenshō: it occurred to me that most people in America would either die young and vapid or die old and blurred. Farrell and I both had children who had died young, but neither of them had died vapid: his daughter committed suicide, which sometimes seems like the most rational thing to do if you have wisdom that you can't share with anyone; my son was hit by a car in the middle of the day, looking the wrong way on a one-way street. Seventeen years after his death, I just buried his ashes at a Zen monastery in northern New Mexico. Farrell dug the hole. I wanted the earth to hold my boy in his womb-like urn for me. He dropped out of high school because he was smarter than the teachers, and much kinder.
This was Farrell's last night before his four months in Nepal. I yelled over the music, "Do you think all these beautiful women feel as lonely as I do?" He yelled, "What?"
behind this elegant chair, my spinning world is a blur.
images upon the wall, a colorama of my life, flow from a tide of graffiti in my heart.
My bare feet, My thoughts, feelings, disconnected from my face.
no words to describe, the splashes of colours, as they perforate my mind.
so please be seated, my love, and in this chaotic space, help me find our peace, help me find us.