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Friday, September 1, 2017

The Rump of Notoriety (departs with its false cloak of pigment).

Saturday, July 30, 2016

Stag : series I (White Hart).

 

ODE TO A SONNET.



As sad as thou hast whispered to my time,
and focused thy sweet care abreast of mine;
As thou hast let my wandering shadow slip and climb
along the very street thou in thy soul design.

So sad the figure wandering on the hill,

that it has wandered out of shape, and wanders still...


The variance of thy love, no substance makes,
For there be little of the seed in dark and dew.

The more thy pliance gives, the more it takes,
until the black o'erspreads the field from which it grew.


Alas the hillside, shivering and bare
That with her fading love, did leave me there.





Stag : series I (wall hanging).






Friday, July 15, 2016

Stag : I



Monday, May 16, 2016

Escorting Beauty to the Underworld.




ESCORTING BEAUTY TO THE UNDERWORLD

Beauty fell on Midnight dreary
Leg of lamb had stood her up,
Walked with her into the darkness
(held her hair when she threw up).

Guiding her, as one deserved, foot by foot, on tiptoes curled.
Leaning, sliding, moving forward, onward...
to the execution.
None as loving, none,
as trusted,
escort to the Underworld.



Monday, September 21, 2015

 

POEMS FROM THE TRAIN

Death and birth in the fly and louse.

                                                                                                                                                                                by Gockeye

Somewhere, a female
insect knows.
Euphoric defecation on a seam of garment.
Ash to ashes,
dust to dust.

Leave your children there, as she does.

Death is laughter, hunger, slaughter,
writhing, swirling, laying eggs.

Scratching at the great hereafter,
Death inherits birth and laughter.

Fiddling with a small disaster,
laughing at their hairy legs.


Sunday, July 7, 2013

Poem.


I DO NOT HAVE



I do not have a tub with legs
to soothe your brittle bones.
I have a house in Camelot
with bricks of lucky stones.
A stallion grazes near its walls
with mane as white as silk.
He feeds on sordid tumbleweed,
and churns it into milk.
He drinks from out a silver trough
which daily doth he fill
all with this creamy liquid
from beneath our window sill.
I fain would ladle you a glass
but dare a drop I take,
the slow, kind horse grows nervous
and my lucky house may break.

1970s

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Friday, November 11, 2011

- - - - -

Chicken little

Chicken little wept alone
To mourn his troubling fate.

He fed his worm a catfish,
and put a nickel on his plate.

Waitress washed their counter
and unsewed them with her eye.

Coin slid down her bosom,
while her heels, as if to stop it,
stitched a shuffle, terse reminder of her presence,
'cause she didn't want to wait to see him cry.

Arm upon the shoulder
of the precious worm, his friend.
Consoles his wiggly cousin
That they will not squirm in dust beneath park swings in summer's heat.
Nor fear be trod on at a moment's glance
by deaf, confounded, dumb, enormous drums of human feet.

And in good fellowship they sat,
and sat a fortnight there and more
Perched on wound up stools
at their table.

'til they intruded from their public sockets,
out the door.

= = = = =

Friday, June 17, 2011

Sketch of John Davenport (1970)

father

Monday, July 27, 2009

Exhibition entrance.

Friday, July 17, 2009