Arts Centred

We studied the miniatures

Our immaturity was rife

We discarded security

And hung out for life

She looks at the painting

With pencil in hand

As though without continuity

We would pray with the damned

Let's dance, I don't think so

In these shoes, I don't think so

With those eyes, I don't think so

Are you joking, I don't think so

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Transparent

Have you seen Cinema Paradiso

I could see the projector

Did you ever go away, and then return

I could see the curtains open

Are you clear about good and bad

I could see who bought tickets

And who didn't

Will you ever fall in love again

I could see who she was kissing

Is it true that light always reflects

I could see them roll the credits

Was it just a story after all

I can see, I might watch

As they lock and bolt the doors

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Plateau

We ran as children run, we had been climbing all morning, so to have the freedom of a flat space to run on was invigorating; if we had brought a football we would have had a kick-about.

Instead we kicked stones into the stream whose crystal clear water cut across to the west side before tumbling down, over the edge and out of view.

I picked up some lichen and flowers, placed them in a small circle; if I had been a religious man I might have prayed, instead I closed my eyes and contemplated on the warmth that I felt in my body and soul.

Roger placed his hand softly on my shoulder. He was a good friend, and his idea, to bring me here, was inspired. I had that certainty that it seems only altitude and oxygen can offer.

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Buying A Camera

The salesman said it was a brand new model
The first actual 'almost' SLR
I was in escapist mode

And so I bought it, right there and then
Best thing I did on that holiday
Buying that camera

The landlady
Of the vegetarian B&B asked me did I want bacon
And at that I cannot argue, but

When she said those words I didn't stop to think;
The many years of full-on breakfasts
In working men's B&B's had made me lazy

It didn't happen again
I stayed with her all week
And it didn't happen again, no more 'bacon'

Not a soul on Sennen Cove beach
The waves can hardly lap
The water is blue, the sands are washed

Bare footsteps
Kneeling to take the picture
The first photograph of loss and nothingness

No conversation; three days alone to think
Three nights
Lonely nights alone to drink

Then northerners came into the pub; Lancastrians
Who tried their best to make me laugh
Outside, in the gardens, sculptures by a Yorkshire lass

No wonder I became forgetful as dusk fell
I did though wonder if I might have a heart attack
As I ran back for my wallet

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It Could Have Been From A Dream

I was in a swish Manhattan apartment.

The smooth wooden box, holding the projector, was on a flexible lead, which wasn't quite stiff enough to keep the projector suspended.

Then I noticed oil on the luxurious animal skin carpet, it seemed to have come from the projector box. Someone told me not to worry. I have no idea who as I didn't see them. Anyway they said it was ok, it was a lubricant to help my dancing exercise "just rub it into the carpet and start your dancing".

I thought I might buy one of those open backed trucks, we saw one at that old disused church on Sunday. I think of it is as a last grasp at youth. The projector box was neat, smooth, a sort of soft-orange colour of wood, unvarnished, with rounded corners.

I don't recollect any images being portrayed.

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