Horsefly bites galore.
Covered in weals with red spots,
All under my skin.
Scratching the itch was no cure,
Nor was head-butting the door.
9 / 6 / 2021.
Rename of form reform
Return of weals reel
Rhythm too ray of hope
Rave of wave... Shark
Just ice wise dom
along the toll path, worn by footfall,
I walk as a water colourist
tracing the canal's hidden track,
hewn blocks are daubed,
washed by mildew green
silver weals etched like faded liver spots
on its pock marked granite face.
The shore's serrated edges
leach into reed beds
when a heron on stilts
swivels in still-life freezes
stranded
where he brushes
elbowing bullrushes
bleeding corn-yellow rustlings
with stone grey-blue ripples
straw stiff legs
poke through marshiness
bubbling micro bubbles
splattering in varnished water
poses in profile taking a selfie
on the lake's mirrored lens
piercing light with inked beak
I dismember my easel's gauky frame
flinging over stiff shoulder straps
bending sharp wooden joints
as the heron cranks its kite like wings
pummelling the air with its tints of blue
cutting the sky like a palette knife
along the toll path, worn by footfall,
I walk as a water colourist
tracing the canal's hidden track,
hewn blocks are daubed,
washed by mildew green
silver weals etched like faded liver spots
on its pock marked granite face.
The shore's serrated edges
leach into reed beds
when a heron on stilts
swivels in still-life freezes
stranded
where he brushes
elbowing bullrushes
bleeding corn-yellow rustlings
with stone grey-blue ripples
straw stiff legs
poke through marshiness
bubbling micro bubbles
splattering in varnished water
poses in profile taking a selfie
on the lake's mirrored lens
piercing light with inked beak
I dismember my easel's gauky frame
flinging over stiff shoulder straps
bending sharp wooden joints
as the heron cranks its kite like wings
pummeling the air with its tints of blue
cutting the sky like a pallete knife
The man who loved unicorns
The man who loved unicorns,
Drew pictures in my mind,
Venn circles of spiritual precision,
Wheeling within, weals
A body encompassing physicality,
Balloon expanded with an Id of spirituality,
And there, bulls eye circle, a gift,
For whilst my soul encompasses my whole,
It's the Spirit that takes that central role,
A voluntary Thomas of a fat controller,
Whose direction, track changing role,
Creates a new way of seeing my whole,
The utter supplication beyond explanation,
Finding a gift within me, The One Truth, sets me free!
@Andrew Carnegie, opening windows, 14th Jan 2017
the chimney stacks
of the old power station
claws at the belly of the clouds
and with its sulfurous billowing
it bellows its stench
tinting the clouds, yellowing nicotine stains
as its cadaverous fingers clench
and releases, as it pleases
the painted nails
sport red flashing lights
as the bellowing smoke
for airspace fights
the dawn is cracked open
under the grey steam-pot lid
like a rotten egg
and the horizon is broken
into blocks
between the pedestal legs
of the spindly chimney stacks
progress clangs and clacks
on blood-rusted
unused train-tracks
the scars of progress on an old landscape
- weals healed over in ageless veldts
whilst weeds pimple between the stays
a last gasp of green displays
the gangrene death
of nature
oozing from the suture
as we break the past
to build the future
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