Monday, August 13, 2012

Democritus (?)

He would have loved to be remembered on canvas
To stamp his imprint on a nation
we believe.
No one laughs like a philosopher.
Perversity is the root of humour
so they laugh and laugh
at death, taxes
long words and short phrases
long socks and short skirts
long lives and short loves.

My standup routine goes:
Democritus walks into a bar
and the barman says )?(
and Democritus says
_ | _

Friday, August 10, 2012


A room full of saints, in the Spanish style,
Violent drama
From quiet to whisper loud.

They never meet your eyes.
Caught on canvas doing things.
Things they never did
All marked in heart's-blood
Sympathetic magic
From their heart to mine
A long line of carmine
Passing the eye, the mind, the word
Clawing at the under-soul
The heaving breathy bellows
With ten thousand flensing knives.

An image, a snapshot
In salvation history
Tarted up with royal Photoshop
Here a tear, there an attribute
Every artifact tilted
Every illumination falsified.

Ah, my love, let us be true to one another,
Said the forger to his brush.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

To A Metre

Gallery-noise is a seasonal beast
Now sharp, now young; now soft-treading away.
Touching the eye with the touch of the fray
Gallery-love is immovable feast.
A certain mad haste is checked by the door
None becalmed, the still mind snared fast
Today's daily colours now torn from the mast
To heal, one lances the festering sore.

The orphaned eye, once fed, hungers for more,
Surfeit and surcease draw further apart,
The mind dwells, weaves spells, runs after fancy,
So go write upon the danger of art!

Monday, August 6, 2012


A man is playing Spanish guitar
In the lounge of the gallery.
An old man is sketching, with power,
With hands years younger
His eye dances back
From his object to image
He rubs his nose, irritated
That he is still made of flesh.

A couple: older, monkish
Watch the historical display scroll by
From beauty.

Voices echo from the foyer
A flock of school children, leaving
Having passed through once
Pausing at each point
And leaving
Some corner of their eye
Trailing behind.

The guitarist pauses
Begins with a fresh guitar
To make it new again.

On the floor above, the paintings hang.
One hundred melodies
From one instrument
Carved by one hundred songs.
On the floor above, the paintings wait
For a stray heart, a careless eye
Ready to be devoured
By the heart and eye
Of Spain.


Will be posting some poetry written while at the Prado exhibition currently at the Queensland Art Gallery.