Thursday, 7 January 2010


A collage made from family photographs found rustling through wicker baskets whilst perusing a flea market in Brighton.

Friendships - Lovers - Solitude
It is only when the latter begins to ask introverted questions that we query not any one in particular, but only ourselves. With this in mind, evidence for a purpose in 'doing' anything at all proves to become quarrelsome.

Perhaps at this conjuncture we begin searching for the lost ones we chose to forget in the process of constructing a monumental 'self'. With our hands dipped in the words of Others, pick up the paints and dress our face in masks, rub traditions into skin, moisturize our filaments in a radioactive sunburn and compound our sparks into a bulb of one, never to be lost in the pond of a swan mourning over their lost love, shot in the early hours of the morning by a drunkard out to prove the power of man, for the love of his Other.


A sum dividable by its own parts,
the answer?
gripped tight in the shut palm of truth.
I'm a horse galopping, body made of glu.
My answer is the same before,
we all lay in before.
The answer is there,
at the moment when the hand found something
worth holding on to.


The most useless fork becomes an expert coathanger


chair patterns. like in a dream when you see a place,
an unknown, vast landscape, built from passive observations
in the street.
Yet sense informs us it IS a place we should recognise in an instant.
In similar vein, what you see below are patterns found on the chairs of the District Line, or so says the caption.
What you see below is imaginary.
And you'll never see it anyway.