Now a loose conglomoration of picture views at an exhibition.

Now a loose conglomeration of pictures views in an exhibition.

Words falling away give enough rope to do the dirty and Mussorgsky plays. Picture light shafts in past 2001 and watercolour spills. You know what to do if you spill red wine on a carpet, say I? Draw the shape of a body around it so you have a murder to talk about with friends.

Why do people murder relationships? Re done relationships. Re cooked and slitted ox fat roasted into arguments that are never clear streams and never successful cataracts. Cooking is done when the juice runs clear.

Dream of my children. Dream as they were not as they are. Dream a little dream of me. Confusion kicks right into the solar plexus and takes the wind out of everybody sailing. The music flashes blue on the new machine and I paint in the conservatory. Being told not to get anything messy. This is the whole of the law according to whom? According to both the incumbents who thought it less important than the curtain material or the new kitchen. Pretty messy, pretty portraits, painting pretty.

Leave the second to their own devices. Go away to be alone and cosy in the highlands and this time make a mess like Francis Bacon’s studio. He said he always does his women an injury with an axe.

A voice out of nowhere said once, read Odyssey. I presumed Homer not Joyce. I was wrong, Stephen Daedalus was the portrait and I was young.

I’ve noticed that we tend to forget what is unexplainable in our present paradigms. I took a girl down an old railway and a monster came out of the dark. It is only now that I realise that the monster was her projecting. A poltergeist of gestalt’s, out from the woods.

I listed all my intangibles. What a bore. What a stroke of sympathy. She hates art now in favour of the new technology fatted calf. She hates mine in particular. You are not earning enough sweat to waste painting writing time she says. And don’t write that down.

Married and hungry. Not a good combination competition. As I said give him enough rope and she will say the famous thing to regret. He will then use the rope to climb his own paranoia. Just because you are does not mean they are not out to get you. Sly isn’t it?

Wash the whatever on a weekend morning to make sure time is not wasted. Walk the dry DIY and find a guillotine. Use it fashionably. Cut the money and have none. Bring elements together of a periodic dinner table and use the relative values to purchase a new one. Then ignore the relative whoremonger who does not visit and you probably would not recognise anyway.

Be confounded and realise too late that art is the only way out. But there is no door to this picture.

So she turns to get undressed and a window opens.

© 2008 Ken Simm.

Now a loose conglomoration of picture views at an exhibition.


Joined January 2008

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The Next part of The Confounded Letters Series

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