pick me up! i am an
Night Swimming We swam in the black velvet water, Black green still significance. Lies and secrets exposed by the contours of the human form. The black velvet water has no origin , no destination The black velvet people have nowhere else to go.
Street Sign The street sign has become enveloped by tree. Eaten if you will. It’s black and white letters now blighted by the riddle of roots, bulging to bust. Full of life. Encapsulating the activity of the avenue, the vitality of the view, the growth of the gardens. The tree has joined with the street. The plants are growing feet. Years of living side by side and now bound by unbreakable ties.
The Artist Her dark curls are tightened to ringlets by numbers and statistics, Only loosening at the sight of a paint brush or perhaps the reflection of a worn out house in a broken mirror. Her imagination is held back by paperwork and policies, pinned to a cork-board by five-pound notes and men in suits. She becomes a plan or a timetable.
She is unhinged only by canvases and the solitary piece of unmatching crockery. Everyday she walks past the gallery, holstering recycled ideas, They think they are so new and fresh, but she knew their secret years ago. A pioneer. Her feet dance onwards, towards the office. She is pirouetting in the elevator, but no one can see her. Only the cameras. The keys on the computer beat out to the rhythm of the jazz blaring silently in her ears. She is sewing stitches in the lunch time and office hours of the day, come evening the electricity previously powering the computer is retranslated into the language of dresses and seamless tapestries, shouting colour and country. Her designs once typed in Times New Roman and transferred onto spreadsheets, are slowly becoming fabric. Closer to the exit of this financial maze, her vision is being carefully cultivated in the conservatory of her life. The glass panes let eager eyes see that she is finally bankrupt. Now free. An artist.