Invisible Man

Standing here alone,
On the precipice of something
But Nothing happens

Vague sounds of the city
And outside life
Crawl around

But in here
On this stage
On this table
The Walls close in

Strangers stand and gawp
Through the window they all look through you
Wandering, meandering ghosts
Up Past the penitentiary
And this wilderness
So deliberately
Alone

The whispered abstract
Stutters of the street
Cloak the pavements
In the laughter of rain

As strangers pass
Pointing their stares into empty shop windows
Veils are drawn as shutters
Old pieces of papers with broken, smudged phone numbers
Cling on to frail strips of cellotape

They un-caged an animal when they liberated you

But I wish they wouldn’t stare


Breaking Through

It is time

To usher in a new beginning

As the dusty clock

Ticks

Beneath the blue sky of

Vigorous recognition


Things do not stand still

And is not too late


Standing stark

Naked

In front of that

Rough

Untouched canvas

In a strange space of stasis


A zone where time and thought

Temporarily stand still

Where there is nothing there will
soon be something

But like our path in life I will
be in control to only a certain degree



The process of starting a new
painting is a truly existential, philosophical, empowering, egotistical,
nonsensical thing. 

A concept of creation
can be abstract, joyous, inspiring and bewildering.

Normally, if not always, I have no
true idea of what I am going to paint. 
The entire process is reliant upon my past experiences, my memories, my wealth
of deep-seated regrets and my blind optimism for future events.  All of those events cascade and bombard in
efficacy together, gradually imagining themselves into a story on the
canvas. 

I have been writing, sketching,
singing and observing for many, many years now. 
Gazing out of the window half way up the stairs as a boy, walking the
streets of Paris drinking wine and eating salad niçoise and looking out of the
window of bars and bistros in my 20s; sitting in parks and in hotel rooms
wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life.  What do I want? How can/dare I write? How can
I paint?  I can’t even draw! I have
always being compelled to do so. To keep creating, to keep trying, keep
working, keep thinking. 

To endure through oil on canvas despite all the other
many rudimentary episodes that rise and fall around us.

Somehow, in some way after so many
failures, trials; errors; small victories and steady glories all begin to fuse
and assemble into a voice that is uniquely yours.  The streets I’ve walked, the strangers who’s
lives I’ve passed, the bars and scrapes that I’ve been in, the women I’ve
loved, the friends I’ve loved all over the world; the joys that have laughed
vigorously from the cavern of my belly, the tears that have rolled thickly down
my cheeks. They all come together subliminally onto blank pages and coarse,
empty canvasses. 


A New Beginning

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Madman. 


This ferocious memory 

Bled cleanly

Falls Into the face of the mirror 

Along with razors and wiry, unexpected hairs. 


Hell. 


Sure
If we’re lucky 

We age and anger 

Even if the bulbs crack, pop and shatter 

And there’s nothing left but a 

Wasteland on the floor. 


But. 


All of a sudden 

You appear so wrinkled 

Yet familiar 

I speak (as all of us do of course) 

About myself 

So young and wild and once serene 

But softer now 

With harder skin. 

This mirror talks. 


With thrashing thoughts and
Wild dog eyes 

Thinning hair and rusty ears

I peer into the future 

And scream 

Howl, hell-bound 

Like an animal. 


So I can live some more.


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