Lostness (3) 1974
The loss of art
Picking a flower kills it. Art has wilted on my fingers. Something missing inside me. No motivation. No flow. Took up my old sketch-pad, but could not get anywhere.
My mind lets me loose in dark waters. An artist can lose his light.
This head feels like a pillow of blood. Yet so much left to express.
Viewer: “What does it all mean?”
Message from psychobureaucracy
Good neighbours need no fences. However, in your case, steady soul-erosion spreads until only fearful and angry ghosts of you are permitted to wander, alone, through estates of north Bristol. Then, one day, it is over. A last gasp as helpless as the first.
Regretfully we inform you that the reason for this correspondence has been forgotten.
Please do not reply to: Department for attrition of the poor.
With age scorn will come. Under the smile: the teeth.
Though from women’s eyes I see myself extinguished by a blink
or skewered on vibrant thorns of laughter
still I hope love may visit me one day
after life spent arguing in its favour.