is what I’ve been.
He says one day he will hang himself from his
burgundy work tie –
burgundy to match he blood.
But he won’t.
He works forty hours a week in an office,
counting XXXXXXXXX for the armed forces,
drinking coffee from polystrene cups.
Every night he tells himself:
“Tomorrow is the day.”
“Tomorrow is the day.”
“Tomorrow is the day.”
But it isn’t.
He reads a leaflet that said he should start a hobby.
The leaflet suggests rock climbing, or kayaking,
or a book club.
He goes to the library but there is nothing
there he wants to read. And he doesn’t like heights,
One day he hangs a burgundy noose up in his house.
He stares at it for a while.
And then he takes it down.
And gets on a train.
And doesn’t know where he’s going.
He just says, ‘Ticket to anywhere,’
and it costs him twelve pounds.
I was interested in this tree in Southern Iceland
I started to search for the oldest tree known
I collected honeycomb, wax, and scores of dead bees
I work with the topics of memory and perception
I am mostly concerned with bringing into being
I superimpose details taken from photographs
I have combined the techniques of drawing with sculpture
I engage the viewer with sensual aspects
I approach each project through critical thinking
I want to reveal practices of social control
I start by painting layers of acrylic paint
I practise scenography on an urban scale
I ask question about future perspectives
We are drawn to the idea of being different
(everything taken from artist bios)
‘The rain, it raineth every day.’
She wears a jester’s hat on her head, shit –
and this is meant to be a man’s part, shit –
bet Shakespeare is turning in his grave!
Her words are bursts of spittle in the light,
bare feet on stage, arms waving, actor-ing.
We laugh when we should, clap when told to clap,
I itch and move and breathe and sniff and cough,
I want to check the time –
‘Oh god this timeless place!’
-I want to shout.
How Shakespearean would that be, I think.
How very thespian.
Now it rains. ‘Fucking rain,’ you say. I look
up into the face of the yellow night –
and yellow puddles like spilled chemicals.
I say this: ‘Puddles like spilled chemicals.’
‘You and your fucking metaphors,’ you say to me.
And yet it’s true, the river is aglow:
reflecting headlamps/streetlights, like there is
a galaxy down there,
beneath the ebb,
or else a stage,
some kind of theatre,
a city built to match:
‘Reversed,’ I say.
‘This city is the fucking theatre,’ you say.
‘Look at that kid over there, with the fucking hat,
or the kid with the hair like a fucking hippie,
fucking clowns – performers.’ I say, ‘What about us?
Just look at our reflection in the glass.’
But this is not a ‘what have we become’
sort of conversation.
It rains and we are wet.
That and the play was piss poor. And it rains.
It pisses it down. It buckets it down.
I think about my daughter.
Her words, her-
‘The rain it raineth all the (fucking) time.’
She’ll be an actress one day. I’ve no doubt.
Only she’ll have to be good. She’s no good.
I say this to you. But you don’t listen.
The yellow puddles like spilled chemicals,
glowing. We’re in an underground car park,
no rain, no sky, but the streets have flooded,
sewers spilled out, cars submerged in water,
flowing down the ramps, the stairs, through the grates.
We stand, a crowd, and watch the scene unfold.
The yellow water, then the lights go out,
and everything is black.
Rain, rain, midnight rain, I think.
‘We’ll probably fucking drown here,’ you say.
God. What a massive exaggeration.
But I hold your hand in the dark,
and everything is mostly fine, maybe.
‘I am not familiar with the exact constitution of the Tarot pack of cards’
-Notes on “The Waste Land”, T S Eliot
T S Eliot walks into a bar, and the barman says ‘Alright mate, what’ll it be?’
Eliot looks at the barman and sits down on a stool.
‘I’ve had an awful day,’ he says.
The barman says, ‘Aw cheer up, it can’t be that bad.’
‘I’ll just get a Carling.’
T S Eliot thinks about the nature of a pub over his beer.
He thinks whenever he walks into a pub there are more meaningful words coming out of the mouths of the people at the tables nearby, talking about their day or the latest football score, than could ever come out of his pen.
He takes out a gun and kills himself.
The barman, shocked, calls for an ambulance, and…
Wait, I’ve forgotten the punchline…
I think I’m telling this wrong…
I bought Sky Plus.
I set it up in the living room.
I turned it on.
I was still the same
The world was still awful.
The food still bad.
The sky still grey.
I returned it but they would not
let me get a refund.
I said listen,
I bought this thing thinking
it would make me happier,
but it didn’t.
They said of course not –
you didn’t get the upgraded package!
I bought the upgraded package.
I went home
and plugged it in
and turned it on.
And they were right:
I was much happier.
they had a hot gammon
– ‘The Waste Land’ by T S Elliott
They had a hot gamon, and then they had
cold pork pie and fish and chips and beer,
until they were so full of meat, she said –
but someone stopped her before she could speak.
It would only be crude, something stupid.
‘Waste, waste, what a load of waste,’ he said, soft,
purveying the table still full of food,
sausage rolls and chicken legs and cheesecake,
victoria sponge and onion bhajis…
‘What a waste,’ he said to himself. The bin
sat open and hungry. He scowled at it.
The bride and groom cut the cake, ate one slice,
and left the rest, the guests ate a slice each,
leaving three tiers. Would it get eaten?
Course not. We consume without thought – you could
feed a country with a wedding buffet.
And you can always see a wedding from
the mountain of shit it leaves behind.
I dont suppose we were ever be
totally shoeless, pennyless, head
less as in we are now, as in a chicken
is, or we all ways have been, every
way, I dont suppose. we have ways to go,
well have fish + chips, + also, she said,
well have what to fallback on, nets
governments parents friends these things
exist, you could cant just die in this
society, youre apprehended, no cliffs
to jump off of, no long falls, were are
not high up enough. I said, pshh,
we could dead no worries no problems
We stare at each other for a while, me and the poster of the man eating a Nutri-Grain bar.
We don’t say much. Traffic goes past. The streetlights come on.
Someone stops to ask me if I’m alright. I say, ‘Yeah.’
They look at the poster and say, ‘Isn’t that you?’
I say, ‘Yeah.’
They nod and go away. I stare at the man with the Nutri-Grain bar.
He’s anxious about something, I think, but I don’t know how to help.
The slogan says take care of you.
I think this is good advice to give yourself, I think.
I think the words I think.
I want to take care of myself but I don’t know how.
A man walks past with his hands in his pockets saying, ‘Well that’s exactly what I told him.’
I don’t see the relevance.