Torn shadow

Glass enamel is the jeweller's tool, paper more the paupers fool

The gang of four or the curate's egg

Layered, with an icing gun

Erratic the Delineate artist from kingdom come

I beg to know more

What tore pray tell me; flowers, hearts

Carrion in wheelbarrows, that dart across the cobbled narrows

Pray tell me, I'm easily led

A continuous scrawl, never to be set free, unconditional rage

Art becoming to be

Did you kiss the shopping list? I do it myself when writing

The stubble gum drags me back on dull days fighting

A final part to your jigsaw

Drips me back, zips the wings that try

The torn shadow overlaps the dust jacket's fly

No one to know before the show

Be ready by eight they said 

Champagne instead with cocktails strewn

For tonight Delineate renews the looms

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Line drawing

Dark and satanic - Yorkshire art in Yorkshire space

The derelict carpet canvas rung out

Fettled back into a new loom of life

Not a time to make sense

I too missed my five minutes of fame

It needs more room

Clutter amongst clutter becomes cluttered

Art gallery

Insurance company headquarters

Utilitarian hotel

The exhibition, it will soon be about

Settled back

Art

In place of life

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Mirror image

Catch 22 at Delineate

Your art in lines

Layered

On lost and found and printed paper

Tea party words saved for a canvas

Backdrops collected from the streets

For your de-linear exhibition space

Is this a breach of copyright?

Or did you gain your permissions from the original graphic artists

Or typesetters

Or menu makers

Or authors, or writers 

Or tramps, or vagrants

Or ladies of the night

Or your otherwise

Catch-22 mad hatters

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Dislocated

A table set, with cutlery almost perfect - just the one plastic fork. A football field all stripped out in stripes and checks and a referee in glorious pink. Necklaces of bauble diamanté, polished pearls with just the one skeleton eye socket. Rolled over waves of skin wrapped outside the crimpolene and translucent lyrex; most people try to disguise their differences.

But the artist shouts out loud

Look at me I don't give a damn

I'm me

I am supposed to be.

A pretty dress, a Zimmer frame, a swimsuit

All seen through fantastical eyes

Feminist: Black or brown, gay or straight

But no mention of disabled

A collection of paintings

An exhibition

A self of self portraits

Hey you it's me!

So just what did you expect?

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Resonance of the unknown

Grasp the hot poker, stop the shaking, peel away the burnt skin

Steady the nerve, hold still the brush, pick up the mirror

I know nothing of you

But you disturb me

Good that the youngsters shout

That the attendant admonishes

That I am not left alone, simply to be

Nearby are ruins and cathedrals

Torturous pasts, crawled over whispers

I know nothing of you

But still you disturb me

In an easy armchair, on a quiet morning

The storms, they seem to have passed

Grey skies, now with silver sunlight

Soft music falls over the airwaves

Still I know nothing of you

But you disturb me

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Disaffected

Troubled, bent double, creased up without laughter

Bubble, creosote and stubble, the strong sense of ones lost temper

If I sit a thousand hours will it mean anymore

If I touched your crumpled skin or smelt old piss

Why would I

Better to turn away, steer clear

Make for certain not to be affected

Fall back into my shallow ways

Turn down the lights

Turn away from the musing

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Awkward but useful

Untouched by human hand

Kept at bay, always at a distance

Abused by aficionados

Held up on high, for paraplegic parasites

Pillars of establishment

With crooked views on impaired expectations

Sour water

I have drunk from the black bottomless well

Unmoved by human voice, held off

Always some for instance

Down I sink, deeper into the dungeon

Abducted for an exhibition with a catalogue

I am bound with words and pictures

Opened at random

Go away why don't you

Or else move in

Move in much closer

Don't stand, unmoved, at a distance

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Trapped

A double gin injected with tomato juice and liquorice syrup

The consistency of Havoline engine oil, but less fluid

Tumbled over rocks, sharp spikes, granite cliffs

Hung, as if suspended from the Old Man of Hoy

Hung-over, above the crashing sea

Twisted, contorted, bare feet find a footing - the drugs kick in

Sod the lot of them; but that won't do relax, reflect

Climb with uneasy wild steps, burn those broken step bridges

Beyond the smoke of roast skin, keep the fires, the braziers, the beacons

Always the shout - bastards, why me, why anyone?

Twitch, shudder, slaver on the pavement - bugger it

If only for a day I could wear more human, less humanoids shoes

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And so it is

And so it is

As Wild God plays

The Song of the Lake

Oh never mind, never mind

And so it is

Without nature’s light

I have to take a shower

Thus to energise myself

And so it is

That I could have worked

These past seven years

Except for those few days

And so it is

Not to see

Or here from you again

Is a waste of love

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Up and down the country lanes

Up and down the country lanes

Round and round in aeroplanes

As if in the flotation tank

As if swaying by the flames

Over and over the words he turned

Back and forth past and future churned

As if the photographs from the bank

As if all of love’s knowledge learned

Here and there he tried to recall

Now and then with hopes to stop the fall

As if the monasteries felt the shank

As if the father championed you with the scroll

I’ll say again to wait until the day is through

I’ll say again you are top of my top two

As if the registrar was your rank

As if you waited to feel the new man new

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