Tuesday, 30 November 2010

an old poem that kinda rhymes

The light that is

the light that lets us live
every fickle cobbled street
is glorious

crowds or flakes of imagination
in my mind start a conflagration
of all the things only i do know
and if i chose a picture so

it would be tryptich of desire
as the flames of passion soon take fire

burn memory and truth in fact
and do most strongly hold my pact
that i will live eternities
to visit pleasures
such as these

Sunday, 28 November 2010

work in progress...

I always wanted the life of an artist and through default, I seem to have got one. The life of an artist... That’s what I wanted. Colour and line and texture combining in anarchic form… A collision of charcoal, paint, glue, newspaper, tinfoil. An artefact dragged up or out of the huge sea of consciousness. If enough random elements are allowed to emerge then the artist becomes creator of private multi-verses. I put the laptop down, a long time since I’ve tried to write and the words fuzz up and become disjointed and convoluted. Oh for clarity, purity of vision. I enter stoned trance and allow my movements loose, balletic. Slashing at the canvas with a black wax crayon. Gaze at the easel for hours, invoking ancient impulses and ideas.
I tear meaningless articles from The Independent and scribble white paint over photographs. Two phases: 1. random selection of elements 2. Conscious design and modification.
My collages are diaries where the pages become traces of events merging and leaking forward and backwards in time.

I once imagined myself a wolf, teeth bare, fur clad, ice inches thick in all directions. I read the lives of Van Gogh, Modigliani, Brian Jones and Rimbaud. Loved Cubism, Modernism, Shelley, Burroughs. Fell outta school drunk. Saw the shimmering intelligence of trees, stars and roses in the Duthie Park. Got thrown outta art school. Sacked from every crappy job. All the time there were St Vincent’s night paintings and Picasso’s 1907 self portrait. I drifted and tumbled, soared and staggered like the tarot fool with dogs snapping at my heels. Dreaming back now, memories that never happened and forgetting so much that did. The books of magick and war and art are absorbed and spill out in curious ways…

Misquote, apply half learned theories recklessly, become The Hanged Man, be not afraid of pretension or mediocrity. Failure is a trusty guide, as is pride and dissolution. Only after passing through the dark night of the soul can one fully step into the light. Epiphany after epiphany, a life most ordinary, but the ordinary is anything but. Have you ever sat on the black painted bench at Union Terrace and felt the stillness and beauty of a cold autumn afternoon? Church spires and luminous mother of pearl skies, and suddenly you are looking at you, or realise that you’re remembering you being there.

We talked as we smoked. “y’know that girl from Brazil?” you say looking straight ahead.
“Eh, you’ve mentioned her.”
“I can’t understand a word she says”.
We leave it at that and just sit there, there’s really no need to do anything else.

Tuesday, 23 November 2010


this is my place
the damps leaves
gold red bright yellow
the light is diffused

the brittle air
so pure
after heavy noxious summer
i spell the name of god with my breath
wolves and bears and buried treasure.

the empty chattering seems ridiculous here
the solemnity of a silent earth...

i walk along an avenue of trees
and see myself in a painting
every atom vibrating
i'm walking deep into the future
every step a hundred years...

Tuesday, 16 November 2010


walking through St Nicholas churchyard
i read the moss covered stones
names worn away by sleet and snow and wind

back out on the street

a gypsy accordianist
reels and laughs
and plays insane arpeggios
notes fly out like crows and gulls
but only i can hear him.

Monday, 15 November 2010

the sea and the city

a savage beauty exists just below the surface
the centre must not hold

(the sea)

slate-flat sea as far as the horizon

i lie on deck exhaling smoke
icy spikes of light
by which we navigate

i blow on the sails
and we speed on
hovering just above
transparent bosch-fish
and gieger spaceships
electrical, organic

(the city)

mystical parks and gardens
sacred streets and slick alleyways
it is you that made us
bars and cinemas spit us out

the ethereal city
of fog and neon
steeples and chimmney stacks

Read more: http://www.myspace.com/orgoned/blog?page=4#ixzz15Mqs3zIe

Sunday, 14 November 2010

the poetician

the trees shivered
and night came down
and the city sparkled
in the cold clean air

and in the morning
i walked upon the fossils of leaves
and the blood sang in my ears

and i floated along a cobbled lane
where the roots of an ancient oak
dislodged the stone of puny time

and colours red and gold
red and gold
stuck to my heels

i like to imagine us as wolves

i like to imagine us as wolves
naked and salivating
fierce-teeth, matted fur

under the black envelope of sky
guiding us home on strings of scent and foam

our friends bare their fangs
and breath in the mutual smell of morning
blankets of ice
visceral, hungry

travelling incognito over the vast inhuman landscape
a train rattling on a track made of bone