White

White sugar in a white room on white bread
White lies against white skies from white lips
White noise trips you up and turns into white daffodils on a white screen
I mean, look at the white folk play beneath their white teeth in a white winter wonderland
I turned white up the mountain like Death when black night soaked into the sky.
Look at what we have as crystalline
the icicles of Earth drip gold refined

I`m told that I`m blessed and I believe I am under the dark grain grit
Once I`ve digested in fully
This isn`t for the purpose of snow dots
It`s a tempered process of lands forgotten where snakes smile as polished apples go rotten
This is powdered pearls inside clattering clouds of flustered dust
It is space to glean fire in the sweetest dreams where we can tiptoe along the shark`s white teeth
We can breathe white, see white, be white and shine as daylight might in a cavern of moonbeams
White is surrendering violins of time in a twinkling lantern behind cloaks of eternity
We burn for this underneath a caramel kiss to transform the nothing into
White.

White socks underneath a warm hearth on white legs
White bone inside white-washed walls from white heat
Meet and greet the White Maker and flour the sides in white sponge as you fall gently into the kiln
White hot leads to whatnot in a whiter shade of pale
You roll down the white hills inside polar fur on a white yacht
And yet, you cannot be what you`re not

White flag flies next to white knuckles on white sand
You land on the Moon and discover it is pitch black when not attacked by the rays of the Sun
Its brilliance deafens your whitewaters underneath the menace of icebergs
And your prism shines white again.

Knock Back

We're like peaceful cavemen in the night
You and I
Silken lumps the lie like stone beside
Each other
Pebbles of anticipation,
thoughts heavy like over-wet dough
with dormant ambitions to rise
As if the sun is yeast in our veins.
You took over the world in every warm place
Every glance desperate and impatient
Unlike how I imagined a sunbeam.

We kneaded to be kneaded then
Before I rested with you silently every night
And pretended that dawn was a mth that the lonely had invented
But we soon found ourselves knotted perfectly like brioche tops
The night now a memory that fell off our fingers like freshly ground flour
Except for the messages charred on our eyes like bitter almonds
And willingly scratched into our skin
Poppyseed love that bleeds poppy petal red
Declaring war.

When we've proved ourselves
We're ready and we'll plait
We'll interweave and roll up to this private circus
Wearing the scars of the knock back
that the Heavens wait to deliver
Like the eager Autumn clock that snatches romance and spits out silver mechanisms
Into the fuzzy salt water of sky
Two giant soldiers next to mucousy poaching clouds
Crash savagely into that egg yolk sun.

Spinning The Myth

Dear Written World,

I`ve just returned from a trip to London and I`m full of inspiration from the exhibitions that I`ve visited... V&A`s Hollywood Costume This is 3 rooms of mind-blowing presentation of film characters through the ages from the classic stars of Hollywood like Mae West, Judy Garland and Marilyn Monroe through to modern pop culture hits like Daniel Craig as 007 and Keira Knightley as Anna Karenina as well as CGI characters; the 10 ft Avatar character is stunning! Admission is £15 and may leave you wanting to throw much more in the buckets as you leave the museum. Bravo, V&A! How do they have those quasi-dialogues projected on the screens between the film characters?! How are outfits from yesteryear kept so beautifully? Although the red shoes from The Wizard of Oz had taken a battering and had been recommissioned to the original pattern.

Film continues to fascinate me and our need for it, or at least the role it has in our lives. The queue for the exhibition spiralled around the entrance hall and the silence in the roms, the fascination with what this transformation truly brings to our lives is beautiful. What is this need for dressing up, for characterisation, for dramatisation? Even indigenous people have their own version often linked to their spiritual culture and shamanism. What do we learn by watcing others imitate others? What can we learn about ourselves and the person we want to become? Or are we always the person we are, dipping into a character for the fun of it? It`s magnificent how a chracter can capture society`s imagination like a virus, inspiring conversations and change all over the world. Another few stand-out shows are at Somerset House. Paul Benney`s Spotlight Tours drips with class and the kind of significance that JMW Turner lends in his paintings. And what a setting...in the alleys and catacombs of Somerset House. In contrast to Benney`s fascination with the dark and all the myths contained within it, Tim Walker`s exhbition, `Storyteller` was a sweet delight, full of whimsical beauty and good humour. Rhea Thierstein `s astonishing designs were there... a 9 ft bumble bee playing a ouble bass with his companeros, a cricket and a rhino beetle. In the other rooms alongside more dazzling imagery, a giant skeleton and doll. I had a perma-smile during the show and laughed at a couple of pieces like the old lady in her flying saucer next to her cup and saucer! And the jet plane made of baguettes is just too cute.

`Snow`

Wet snow melts on spoons
snow snow quick quick snow
like fuzz on a screen
snow flakes are different
Sparkling in sunlight
White radiant drop
Sticky toffee puds
Egg & spoon race fun
Melt upon my lips
Huh, circular swirls
Summer has gone now
Drink it when liquid
Snow men have cold balls
Sledging is such fun
Down the hill we sleigh
Radiator melts
Snow builds up on dogs
Snow causes hold-ups
Snow gets so dirty
Snow turns into slush.

Grey Hound

`The world is a stage`..and what a stage it is...the audience don`t know when you`re down and out. I`m out there, performing; eyes on, smile on, custard pie at the ready and a squirty flower for an unlucky but willing audience member. Or, maybe not tonight. Maybe this time I`ll play it differently. `2 minutes, Geoff` came a voice rom the hindquarters of the greyhound. `Cigars and cigarettes, the sugar tops, the trumpets.` Geoff moves towards centre stage, the greyhound sits on top of the very tall top hat and he juggles little plastic kittens. A lion with a large permed mane encircles hi,m and there are whoops of delighted terror from the audience. They know it`s not real. And now, for me and I`m Alakazam, be Alakazam...appear and behave as if by magic. My cue is the marionettes falling from stage top and here they are... they tumble and somehow their strings, look! They never tangle. The greyhound is wheeled away still juggling and I see the crowd reflected in his glass eyes, his tail is a bit chipped and the kittens mieuw. The lion has fallen over, this always happens because the damned head is too big. Why won`t wardrobe listen? `Well?` I ask the crowd as I lift my shoulders towards my ears and look about me. Stage left, stage right. I don`t see a thing except for that blinding spotlight. *cue circus music*