I find this oddly comforting in a waste-of-paper kind of way.
The Empire
is alive
in front of my
blurry eyes.
Wine
a glaze of red
a mouth stained
ideas of lead -
nothing marks me more
than the burnt concrete
of monolithic towers.
My hands
swing
by my sides
with no other hands
to grasp or hold.
My feet
shuffle
by and by
with no other footsteps
to walk in.
My eyes
dart
around the city
with no one new
to adore.
Might I be
inclined to create
my own luck,
my own weave of unknown madness?
I am inspired so often by works made from paper, which I know ‘stems’ from my obsession with words and books. As a writer, I often try to discover new ways for the presentation of my work and I tend to borrow a lot from the visual arts.
The floral constructions of Ann Ten Donkelaar aren’t quite specimen’s or archived scientific objects, but exist as free-floating limbs, hovering over white paper in their framed worlds. The more colourful presentations hark to Japanese Manga comics, whilst the more subdued creatures could be straight from a child’s fairytale story. I imagine tiny woodland creatures hiding in the root system of Donkelaar’s miniature trees, or two-dimensional bees landing on incandescent flowers supported by the most slender of braches.
Delicacy and patience, time and an eye for design - Donkelaar gives the child within us all an opportunity to pause and play.
My brain is sitting towards the base of my skull, drained of fluids and beating incessantly on my skull.
I should never drink white wine on an empty stomach.
This is Thursday, February 23rd, 2012.
A map home / of a sky on fire/ in a city I really don’t like / for a new life I never really wanted.
It’s not a thought
a gamble
a laugh or tears
that fall
for you.
Leaves do
Water does
Hearts can
minds won’t.
This is Tuesday, February 21st, 2012.
Flying over frozen fields;
between lives
between lands.
A chord
learned on guitar
is a path earned
in expression,
calmness
and forward motion.
Drowning in work
yet comfortable
here;
longing for you
for your raised eyebrow,
crooked smile
and crazy thoughts.
A nod,
a grumble,
a piece of mango
sliced
and placed
atop a mound
of vanilla yoghurt.
I yearn for a simple,
sweet
uncomplicated love -
a love above borders
a love swirled in colour
and a sigh
exhaled so softly
that I barely notice
my lungs compressing.
