Tag Archives: collage

Something Is

Be it a persona, let it be.

It is but an empty shell that carries

A Mission. Let it Be.

It will need to move about, it does.

But within there is something resembling

A Stillness

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And the new

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Diving at last into my birth-water (Part 3)


‘My blue angel of cement

she cracked there and then.

A body, two, rolled on a pain canvas.’


With me, three, in frozen meditation space.

I stood of silence, my mind

blending with the red

as all the birds took flight

I unglazed her melting through the pavement,

would have if I could have,

it might have saved her.


‘He, too, the crow, at the funeral

in a tux and white gloves

is now a dead man.

It is not even his Work of Art.

That Silver gelatin print (350 by 270

Millimetres) belongs to the artist estate

and to Harry Schunk,

the man

who took the photograph.


I never got to tell her but all the same

She was my red fire heart gold. She is my

Fire in the heart of the void.’


Him? He would only paint the sky

And refused to paint himself.


Harry and I go to that tree

Sometimes and stare at a new gold vein

Trying to tell her tale.


Sweet worms massaging

Sun penetrated whispers

Of Laika still in orbit.


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Diving at last into my birth-water (Part 2)

Before, my thoughts up there, then

They were so cold and sober:

‘I once signed my name across the sky, that day as I lay

upon the beach of Nice. The sky I since call mine

is what I will inhabit now, if only for a brief moment.

Without a parachute I stand

on the verge of the ever-vastest.

I happily proclaim ‘Take care!

as I catch air and air

will only touch me.’’

But I, the real I,

stood on the side, would never dare

to smear myself with paint, would rather

put on a tuxedo and white gloves, make the in-pieces-

lady-whole – a piece of art completed, under my control.

The shape of the body, its lines, its strange colours hovering

between death and life, the fires that burn the heart

hold for me no interest.

The leap off an old suburban house, a comment on the Front

Page of a mock Parisien daily France Soir.

I regret to reveal that she was not a part of my plan.

I created her death, I admit, but then I truly did not see her.

If so I would have said:

‘A little to the right,

over to the left’,

maintaining myself the one to crush.

An Olympic diver in his prime

avoiding so far falling

under the spell of that train-phenomenon dreams,

of brusque landings in the past

I was diving at last

into my birth-water.

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