Jigsaw Cousin (it rained that night)

[cut-up postcard poetry] [paper scissors glue] [fictional piccolo creative] I bought a stack of National Geographic at Southwell market from a man who sold old mirrors, and reworked frames, among other things - including, an accordion of pale spines: Nabokov, Orwell and Greene (clasped at each end in a heavy bronze palm); old slates of … Continue reading Jigsaw Cousin (it rained that night)

Jam jar diorama.

I inherited a bag of little people the height of postage stamps. I kept them in a drawer for a half life. I figured one day I might need an army. January 2020 I started saving empty glass jars. I wasn't sure what for. But one day I decided to populate these jars. Isolating little … Continue reading Jam jar diorama.

Barroom beams.

  "Bow low to the cello, French horn & bellows." Her songs barrel in the barroom beams.   Her Samba unravels. She learned in the mirror the poems of Brazilian queens.   The elegant prose, she hones all through winter, is wreathed in magic & music & dreams.         collage & acrylic … Continue reading Barroom beams.

everything unpainted

  unfolded sheets and cornered pages, cobalt, rising from the blanket, found a world within the drawer -   everything unpainted.   the velour shadow of the curtain, quiet and thin and barely moving, bows before the wounded evening -   everything unpainted.      

Her Picasso Gift.

I see her, Little Annie, in a shaded space on the far side of the street, vixen, stood against her trestle, beneath a tarpaulin that shivers. It is draped and slung with floating dresses, throws and scarves; tie-dye collage against a background of movement, of brickwork, of shapes and faces. She is weightless, appears so, almost … Continue reading Her Picasso Gift.