DiSmith

the ink and the paint move onto the floor of my room spilling out like dark rainbows where they flow some of the best effects I ever see are swirling in rivulets over the edge of the table later when the work is dry I scrub the table and mop the floor and all those shining patterns get washed into the bucket with the bubbles. and I restore my space to ordinary plainness the remains of the colours swill into pipes diluted they travel into darker places with the rest of the residues of my existence even in the sewer the molecules of the pigments I used are not gone just dissolved in the stink of ablution in far waters the colours will settle out and return to earth and in that mud has it stopped being art or is the fault in me that I no longer see it?

since I made a picture: the pens have dried up and the dust envelops i do not believe in the gifts of suffering: pain has no colour and shapeless time does not drip over branches does not hang in the dark. look again at the creatures that already consume and all that was wrapped or grasped or portayed or worshipped or valued is already gone.

In trying to choose a shade of grey Starting with a pebble, seeing the earth shelf beneath In looking for cosiness and airiness Finding the tints and shades of decay In the detail of a feather Seeing the miracle of flight In the dessication of an umbrella seed-head Sensing the motion of growth inside And in guessing the name of the shade of grey Of centuries old wood Feeling the sharp sting of spring switches Bent and released by new winds More like remembering than inhaling I am reminded at last that anything can be beautiful And am breathless, not daring to move Paralyzed by the impossible perfection of a birds egg.

That the rain comes and goes, That the sky is yellow as often as it is grey, And my body often does not feel like home. That I have grown old without really knowing I cant always hear what you are saying, The ghosts do not give warning of their coming. And even summer feels like snow, And only crow-chatter sounds like prayer, And all the wordless stars are dumb.

Make bad art. Write terrible poetry. Sing bad songs in a horrible voice. Dance so badly that no-one can look. Use your supplies, sharpen your pencils. Break all white pages with a broken nib. Scrawl as if now is the only chance you'll get Because it is. Scream all the ugliness in your soul To the unknown cosmic edge, because That is who you are, and that is infinitely Preferable to the medical, intellectual, Financial, political, psychological, hierarchical, Labels they will destroy you with otherwise.

Reaching up through heavy mud Each tree grazes the sky With a thousand unmade buds. A new year born from blue. A new sky torn with white. Wind from another continent - Rain all through this night. We who stay the land And turn each year the stones Grasp again the rope, and count Our prayers on fishes bones.

I dont recall when I first knew its name Only know that it was made out of despair When my childish attempts at love Were rejected with indifference. Can't say now when one turned into the other Or if there was a final day before it sunk Irrevocably into the gunk of my heart; Have worked hard to forget. I never knew you, even as our days coincided And you didn't know there was a me to know. Even as you worked for security, for peace You were untouchable in your Haze of smoke and memories: Yellowing stacks of paper and books Piled high in the airless rooms and offices Foolscap curled and browning - Where a child dared not move - This child - who willfully dared to hope to be loved - In rooms where only the dust could settle or cling Where all my efforts could be dismissed As just sentimental. And when it came time to show your love for me you took time to care for The crumbling folders and arranged with your own hands the precious stubs of pencils.