Tag: Art

Pendant que le monde brûle


The world burns in stages.
First and most succinct,
The partial flame, a pyre to the dead,
An ode to those who suffer.
Burning silently among the detritus,
Memories of the past lay broken and strewn.
Naught but ephemeral bodies in a graveyard of dreams.
The tallow burns, it burns dispassionately
Creeping inexorably towards ruin
It is a lustful flame, it consumes
Even the ashes of its own passing.
Nothing is left to mourn.
C’est la dernière flamme.
The world burns in stages,
It burns completely.



Often, I think adding context to what I try to expressing will – somehow – extract appreciation from at least one person who reads or experiences it.
Why should I shape your experiences? Where is the joy in having a fruit eaten for you?
its juices extracted and regurgitated. Tainted and tinted with the perception of another.
What I intend and what is received by the reading may not be the same.
There is some fun   – perhaps – in wading through this small stream in the presence of one’s own company.
Thus, I shall remain tranquil and be satisfied with the reading.


In moments of silence
I converse with the multitude.
We revel in the sensory,
No why’s or wherefore.
First, tastes blossoms
My tongue , heavy with
The nectar of summer’s flower.
As it blooms my vision alights
O’er awed in its fullness
Colours flits across a rippling surface
Suppleness flowing into taut awakenings
Brilliant green melding into cerulean blues
A synaesthetic orchestra.

Freed Spirits

Freed Spirits stare hopelessly

A gormless grin adorned in a new guise.


Lights and signs lapping at the shores,

Diluvial reflections pervade

A vision of beauty shrouded in mists.

wading into these depths

Lust, Fear.  Desire

Cascading endlessly.

2:09 Am Outside The Box


What is creativity?  How is it tempered and harnessed into a concrete element that can be labelled: skill?

I have thought about writing more, Perhaps  – it is safe to say – I have thought more about writing than I have actually written.

It seems pondering is the sole skill to which I have some degree of competency. Yet, my pondering lacks the essential catalyst needed to coalesce thoughts into ideas and ideas into actions.

I have a real respect for those who create something through personal ingenuity. My creative process is rife with periods of frustration. I am often stymied into inaction.

As I write this, I have no particular aim. Where others would speak their thoughts aloud.

For me… I write them.

Classical Motion

I’ve been intrigued by writing. Perhaps, it is better to say I’ve been intrigued by great writers who inspire me to want to create something memorable.

To that end, I am currently reading  Finding Your  Writer’s Voice. A Guide to Creative Fiction. by Thaisa Frank & Dorothy Wall.

They suggest free writing: writing whatever comes to mind. Writing for a past or current experience.

To clear my head, I was – and still am at this very moment – Listening to

this is the result of my efforts – I thought I would share.

taking steps to waltz to Rachmaninoff, tentative motion flowed into explosive elegance.

Like a path in a garden littered with detritus of musical instruments. Flowers in bloom of multiple colours: Burnt Orange, Dusky Purple so intense it’s almost black – or black so deep it is almost purple, Electric Blues  and Yellows but no green in sight.

It’s a garden where one gets lost.

In getting lost, the crescendo builds. Each step a punctuation of piano keys, each breath a note that signals symmetry, of creation of motion. As the fingers running across they keys  slows. So does the garden Runner.  Chest heaving, palms sweating, heart beating.

The dance has ended.There is no partner.

It is a dance by oneself. Alone. There is no sun. The garden is sheltered from all, sheltered from reality.  It is  a garden of the mind.

The Little Heaven

Take me to church: An Ode to  consensual coital coalescence.

Conceptually, it evokes a Donnian approach, if only in the juxtaposition of the carnal  and the religious.

The comparison betwixt the muliebrious form and the Church  is redolent of  a Donnian conceit.

The conceit: The Church and the bedroom are synonymous.

Priapic expression is the chosen form of worship.   Consequently, this  makes the pudenda Heaven , or the gateway to Heaven.

The  “Church”  – a synecdoche for Religion –  enhances the dichotomy between  the carnal and  the spiritual.

Every Sunday’s getting more bleak

A fresh poison each week  …

My church offers no absolutes

She tells me ‘worship in the bedroom’

The only heaven I’ll be sent to

Take me to Church …

Offer me that deathless death.

The presentation is interestingly irreverent, it speaks of worship without the ubiquitous  religious austerity.   This speaks much to the artist’s disenchantment with religious doctrines.

 The church:  the bedroom. Heaven: the body or the pleasures he derives therein.  Spiritual release: The brief  satiation of desire.  La Petite Mort.

 The sensual revelry  is in itself, worship. The cardinal metaphysical conceit: the body’s apotheosis.

 This song is brilliantly done and is quite the pleasure to experience.