The roads soon became familiar, agitating the silted depths of memory. It all seemed shrunken now, as I fixed my eyes on the passing scrub and its punctuating brick buildings, barns, compounds, grading sheds. Do I remember that? Is this where it happened? I questioned the bush, which sat stoically beyond the glass, a silent … Continue reading The Middle of Nowhere is somewhere
Who are you hiding from Expectations!
I have discovered (Much the modern explorer) A land of Free Time Mile upon mile of minutes, hours even, rolling like dales as far as the mind's eye can see Where thoughts run free as kiwi sheep, not a care in their hearts as they wander banter and mingle, not a predator in sight. Thoughts … Continue reading Time to time
SOME LIAR once told me Ants is a-political, but let me tell you they go in deep for that us-against-them we've-had-enough-of-experts shtick. Whether they know they are politicised remains to be seen. You just can't have it out with them, mouth to ear, though actions speak loudly enough. It was Jean de Florette up there, … Continue reading Marlon Brando bit my calf and I smushed him
Congo Tina (ridearound), 2020; J. Breadsticks, A. Nagram, S.P. Sartre. Digital photo-Zoomcollage. "I suppose we'd been trying to merge our forms for the best part of nine years," John said, reclining on a faux Ikea chaise longue, his hair toussled and feral cat's nest. "You could argue that our relationship was an artistic experiment in … Continue reading Congo Tina (ridearound)
#Hands silently beat each other #Butterfly wings #Probably causing hurricanes in far-flung lands #My spoon entered the pan #And joined in stirring such cacophony #Briefly warm, then to congeal more #Gratitude! They die in they beds, oh #Gratitude! Iron lungs and rusted resolve, oh #Gratitude! My, what lively sweat forms upon your brow #Gratitude! Gloveless … Continue reading #I am Spartacus on Thursdays
Untitled (newspaper punch wolf suffragette penguin) mixed media collage, E. Easter & J. Breadsticks. "Easter would strike repeatedly strike the paper, or magazine, whatever was to hand. We'd invariably be laughing. He'd strike it until it split, and often it would part in the most miraculous lines. Borders suddenly drawn, as in colonial times. And … Continue reading Untitled (newspaper punch 1/)