white as goosefeather
the fabled egg
soft stones still breathing
tideswill siltswept hushed
among a worlds treasure
a cloud fallen angelblunder
defiant & serene
here boulderlusts occur
minute apparitions of sun litter
lure eye and hand transfers surfaces
chalkskin shimmer stonewhisper smooth tongue
thick with ocean language
it is an island risen
seen thro the
fathomless spinning spiders
lace the interior w/ icicle bric-a brac
times insistent upon them
and rushes to
hourglass freefall from the forest of quiet mushrooms parachuting
to umbilical gut cave
seedcluster of sullen gold
in the honeytombs of fruit
green gold earth brown leaf cluster
crinkle chuckle scratch rattled
those dead brown buds as rockets arrive nowhere
sloughed articles slung scales
summersleep slumberous yellow
droughted tongue brittle lickt skeletal chitter
a clutch of wrought fish
the bud shots speared ascents
the wood knot
slender aging knuckles
to speak of gossamer and bones
the dust guttered terrain of nightmare
heat stung & busted
the crackt deck
the furious atrocity of leaflessness
parched and restless skint
sacked and roped
the calico wings
(the bird will not fly
its dream baggage and weighty haulage
noosed w/ convictions
ribald and slum drag pantomime
those feckless & dumb urchins again
to the rigging then
where his old and snarling hands
wrung a story from the birds neck
A woman in front of a blank wall.
She is positioned between two rectangles. Over her left shoulder a dark
rectangular frame from the perimeter of which light emerges. Over her right
shoulder a light rectangular frame from the centre of which light issues. The
two shapes are angels. The woman and her lucid angels pose for the cameras.
There is polite jostling, some announcements then a muddle of muted sounds
which hang in the room like a net of lazy grey birds.
Various trillings and splodges of laughter. Mostly off-yellow and sudsy.
The woman wears a mannish oat-coloured suit and white shirt held at the neck
with a black cube brooch. She has
not quite allowed her mouth to smile, although there is one, gathered beneath
the tension of her lips.
The woman is not beautiful, she has always thought her face the shape of a
baking potato. Under the spotlight as if awaiting surgery, in the pale and airy
interior of the gallery, the worry of hospitals canít quite be shaken off. The
light is manufactured and soothingly something.
She keeps her arms by her side and doesnít drink, smoke or fiddle with her
jewellery which might be a temptation as the black cube at her throat is high
and lodged in the small hollow of her clavicle, so that anyone considering her
feels the urge to cough. Itís a weight. Dense and shining with absence.
She doesnít speak. The black matter at her throat is a miniature coffin for the
dead voice of the artist.
The woman is an artist.
Everyone at the opening knows that the artist cannot speak. The information has
slithered its way through the gathering.
Her work, it is hissed, speaks for itself.
Everyone is desperate to discuss the missing voice, but for now, they bite
their tongues and work hard at being unembarrassed by the artistís
silence. As a result more than the
average amount of wine is drunk. Nodding and toothy smiles prevail and the
artist is left with the impression she is surrounded by people that at any
moment will reveal themselves to be horses.
What has become of the artistís voice?
Later the horses snort softly around dinner tables and whinny and stomp
in cafť bars. Stories of illicit and violent sex spark and shimmer. The matter
The artist returns home to occupy the myth of sleeplessness and looks out of
her window. Some of the buildings shout and slam, but mostly, she has noticed,
they are stubbornly silent. She wonders if they realise what is going on.
The angels of light and darkness hang quietly in the art gallery.
The artists voice sings along with the jukebox. It is not in tune and doesnít
know the words, but doesnít care. Before long the voice will dance out into the
street, clatter and splash in the gutters, shout across tottering rooftops,
dodge the shriek and battle at chucking out time. It does not know where it is
going and will get into terrible rows on its way. It tells lies. It tells the
truth. It rushes on into the dark.
The artist can do nothing to save her voice, she gave up trying long ago and
The artist undresses and the woman creeps into the night. Somewhere on a street
her voice sobbing.