More notes of a teen dropout

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?”
Artist:  “Exactly.”

 


 

Message from psychobureaucracy

Dear Sir

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.

 

 

 

 

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