Clear of wheel spray,
mice, confined to keystone,
as an arched cyclist
splits gaudy reflections
of a theatre on opening night.
sheltering under an ornate canopy,
dressed in a suit pierced
with hooks and screws,
sings songs of enmity and furniture
to the short lived bustle
of someone else’s audience.
forcibly removed from behind jimmied doors,
shards the source of wands,
painted in swarms across pianos and chairs.
Inside the full volume of a busy city,
alone in an architectural drawing
of a pristine street corner,
I am sketched in to give a sense of scale.
Drawn taller than I am used to,
consumed by the significance of my own height,
and the company of a slender bus stop,
a wind swims, kissing vigilant skin
while waiting for the hospital bus.
Trapped inside a light dusting of graphite,
extreme loneliness descends like snow
as I trace a trail of worn-grey handholds and chalk routes
that suggest I am not on my own.
Above me an architect's giant hand,
cleared of personal prophecy,
dressed with ornaments freed from emotions,
swiftly erases invaders
momentarily basking on Ashlar brick.
Left with an uncertain stain,
released into the margins,
I pass boulder climbers
waiting for the right moment,
as if to join in a skipping game
about tulip bulbs and nutmeg.
for Asha Eade-Green
Glue has not been invented
that will stick an artist to a football player.
In an attempt to remember a vital medical term
I have joined two people together
who never met in their life times,
when shorts and cinema queues were a certain length.
A palette of all conceivable materials
set against one colour loyalty,
the inanimate versus the glorious distraction.
A radio mumbles along to itself,
sterilising an empty room.
From behind curtains of inaccurately drawn honesty
a student of birdsong
transcribes the morning call of pairs of crutches,
a collection of ten second chants.
Kurt Schwitters (1887-1948) coined the chance-created term Merz to describe his collage technique.