dancing down entropy street - the book

I've started a book, through Amazon.  So far all I've done is the cover.  I used one of their templates, but as an ex-graphic designer, and obsessive, I found it a bit restrictive.  I've been trying unsuccessfully to import a photo of myself from another file, but that seems to be above my pay grade.  I'll keep working on it.  This could take a while.  I was hoping to have it done for my birthday, at the end of August.  I had to read most of my poems to try to come up with a short list for the book, I was hoping to find 25 good ones, as an arbitrary number, and came up with 60...so I have some editing to do.  Not all of them have images to go with them, so that's a challenge.  I don't have time to do that many paintings in time, and I'm not sure I want to do a mixture of paintings and photographs.  I guess I'll start with the ones I do have paintings for and go from there.   This is the cover painting.  It's a close up from the poem 'anchor'.  

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She moves like the world leans hard to the left,

her bones tumble out of their grave,

they dance with the devil on seven-inch heels,

since this is how bad bones behave.

anchor #185 verse:7

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Well, I know this took far longer than I thought it would, but I can finally say, with much pleasure, that the book ‘dancing down entropy street’ is now available on Amazon. Today, November 26 2018 would have been my brother Howard’s 61st birthday. It wasn’t planned that way, it just happened. I’m very happy, and relieved that this part is over. Now I can reconfigure it for an e-book, and I want to sell some of the images as prints on Amazon. Two more projects to keep me busy. The iris painting is going to have to wait. I also made a piece of stained glass for the window in the stairwell, so there’s that too. I ordered an artist’s copy for myself today, so there’s my first book sold. Ha. It might be the only book sold…but that’s not the point. I just wanted something to exist in the world that as many people as possible could see.

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Added a short bio to my Author’s Page on Amazon.

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Got my author’s proof of the book in the mail today.

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The cover. It arrived two days earlier than the tracking email said it would, which is great. I’m going to go through it very carefully to make sure there aren’t any mistakes. There are a couple of layout issues I had when I uploaded this, that I’ve since figured out how to fix, but they’re minor problems. I’m still working on the ebook. It’s done, now I have to convert it to a file format that Amazon likes, and upload it. I’ve been trying to figure out how to sell ‘archival quality prints’ on Amazon from images from the book. I find most websites are like some kind of a Stygian maze. I keep ending up back at the same place I started from.

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This is the author’s proof I ordered for myself so I could proofread it, and make any corrections. I found it hard to learn how to use the Word program on my own. It’s like trying to catch eels in a bucket.

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This is the book, on top of the original painting. The painting is for a poem called ‘anchor’.

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The book, opened to page 6, with the image for the poem ‘dancing down entropy street’. The photograph on the right hand page at the bottom is of a see-through doll I got at the thrift shop. I don’t know who he’s supposed to be.

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I’ve been trying to do an ebook version of the paperback book. I managed to generate a table of contents that connects to the poem titles, but then it wouldn’t upload… Things are never easy. They sent me instructions, but they seem a bit above my pay grade, so I’ll have to seek technical assistance.

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Brenda’s copy of the book.

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My friend Carol with the pink poodle painting, and a copy of the book.

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Harris, with his copy of ‘dancing down entropy street’. Dec 25 2018.

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Brenda, with the book, in front of the original painting.

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Me, with ‘anchor’, the painting/collage with the image I used for the book, at the Lindsay Art Gallery.

Also, the painting/collage ‘the unspoken language’, behind me.

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I had to change service providers to get a faster uploading speed, so I could finally upload the e book version of the book. I can’t believe it took me this long to do, but it’s done now. I am greatly relieved. I’m sure there are some layout issues I’ll have to tweak, but it’s basically done. The next step is to order a copy for myself, so I can see what it looks like on a tablet. My next venture is to have individual prints for sale from the book. I have at least a dozen I’d like to have available. I have some photos in the book too, my favourite one is of a shell on a black sand beach in New Zealand. I have a framed photo in my bathroom and it looks great. I like the ‘ICE Y’ photo too, taken in Peterborough, Ont. I also have a large framed print of that, in my other bathroom. The room is painted grey, so it looks great hanging on the wall.

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Sending a copy to the library in Gibsons. It’s true home.

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This is the shell photo. Available on DeviantArt.

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This is the ‘Ice Y’ photograph. Cracked ice on the lake, Peterborough, Ont. Available on DeviantArt.

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sermons of redemption #486 verse:33

His eyes were calm with purpose

but his heart could not be found,

he's out there in a state of bliss,

just walking it around.

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Layer one.  Didn't have time to finish the face. 

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Layer 2 of the yellow.  Left some of the first layer showing through as a kind of reverse shadow.

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O.k.  This is more like it.

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Hand and torso almost done.  It looks like muscles without skin.

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Hand.  Needs a bit more work.  From a photo of my own hand, taken in a mirror.

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Close up of the new background colours. 

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Torso finished.

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Recalculating, recalculating....  Legs done, and the pink background behind the head.  Now I have to do the blue.  Ha.  I see I missed a spot.

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More turquoise background.  Slowly, slowly.

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Left side done.  You can only paint for so long.

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Almost finished.  Worked 'til 2 a.m. then called it quits.

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Finished the background.  Working on the text now.  I painted another layer of white on the lettering, and I'm going to remove the green space around it.  The word 'just' is already done.

Finished the lettering (not shown), and now I'm adding a darker border around the whole painting.  I think the pink circle needs a bit of work still too. 

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Slightly darker blue border.  A bit too much shine from the lights on this photo.  I'll have to take another one.

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Close up of border.

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Added some veins to the heart.

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the graveyard of the moon #499 verse: 14

Time adds pain to observation,

beauty does the math,

I saw you with your hair on fire,

floating in the bath.

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Acrylic on canvas, 30 x 40", unfinished.

Me in the bathtub, layer 1.  Bottecelli's Venus as inspiration for the hair.

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Layer 2.  You can see the ghost of the word 'floating' at the top left side of the canvas.

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Adding flames to the hair.  This is going to take a while.

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A bit more work done.  Still a long way from finished.

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Close up.  Getting there.

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Added some pink to the skin. 

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Darker pink. Some dark grey.  I still have to do the top half of the painting.  The text will be last.

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Did the text, another layer of lighter pink, and the inside top of the tub.  I'm happy with it now.

I'll probably do a bit more before I say it's finished.  I have two good ideas for the next two paintings.  I can't wait to start them.  One of them involves me, dressed as the Venus de Milo, with my arms painted black.  The other one is the devil, my favourite metaphor.

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Changed the colour of the text, added a few more details, the blue area behind my head isn't finished yet.  Added little flickers of flame.  Getting there.

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Decided the background needed more detail.  It's not finished yet.  Also, the text needs a little something.

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One more layer.  Added little white dots to the lettering, but I'm not sure that's enough.

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Outlined the lettering in black.  Did some more on the blue area.  I've attached the tag to the back of the painting with the text, and signed it, so it's either finished, or very close to it.

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Bottecelli's Venus.

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Original photograph.  Set the camera, get in the bathtub, pose, get out of the bathtub, set camera, get back into the bathtub...repeat 30 times.  Do it again the next day with water in the tub.  Discard all of those ones. 

the circus of the walking dead #240 verse:1

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The psychopaths are in control,

we follow them like sheep,

but we have vengeance in our hearts,

and promises to keep.

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The psychopaths are in control,
we follow them like sheep,
but we have vengeance in our hearts,
and promises to keep.

The circus clowns jump through the hoops,
(the tigers are extinct),
(though no one wearing tiger skins
admits the two are linked).

Women dressed as butterflies
ride horses painted blue,
chained to love’s continuum,
their dreams are coming true.

Underneath the glitter
is an underwire bra,
we all obey the gravity
of Newton’s second law.

They draw attention to themselves,
the better to be seen,
it’s hard to blend into the background
wearing neoprene.

We’re mesmerized by naked flesh,
we won’t pretend we’re not,
desire’s soft albino skin
replaces conscious thought.

The acrobats will not perform
without a safety net,
we complain, but for a dollar,
this is all you get.

The smell of popcorn fills the air,
we lick our fingers clean,
words slide sideways off your tongue,
but we know what you mean.

Virtue wears a human face,
it’s guilt that wears a mask,
whether we’re possessed or not
depends on who you ask.

The Circus of the Walking Dead
suspends our disbelief,
they violate their own commandments,
much to our relief.

Contortionists turn inside out,
their scarlet hearts revealed,
and though I know the secret codes,
my ruby lips are sealed.

The belly dancers raise the dead,
it’s what they’re born to do,
we’ll all be dancing with the devil
by the time they’re through.

The fire-eaters don’t inhale,
the smoke is thick and sweet,
even Satan’s frozen heart
is melting in the heat.

The television’s black and white,
the rabbit ears are bent,
every night we watch the man without a tongue
repent.

He waits behind the velvet curtain,
smoking cigarettes,
I tell myself that this is as
chaotic as it gets.

The tent folds up into a box,
by morning we’ll be gone,
we’re naked and invisible
without our faces on.

We navigate the labyrinth,
they tell me love is blind,
the man behind the curtain breaks my heart,
but I don’t mind.

My head is full of cotton candy,
bubbles and champagne,
there’s nothing so impossible to live without
as pain.

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mt forest

2017

#240

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"the circus of the walking dead" was a response to the prevailing political climate of the times.  I wish we could choose our leaders with a bit more common sense.  The text was inspired by Frost's 1923 poem "Stopping by woods on a snowy evening".  "The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep".

please stand by...

"the paper mausoleum" #496 verse:3

A china doll with missing eyes

lay naked in a box,

who am I to argue with

the gravity of clocks?

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Step one.  This is a painting from a photograph I took of a doll in an antique store.  It didn't have any eyes, which I found interesting.  June 3 '17.

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I stayed up 'til 3 working on it.  This is the start.  It's 30 x 40", on a deep stretcher.  I stretched the canvas myself, and mixed some burned umber paint into the gesso to tint it.  The lines for the arm, and the nose are all that you can see of that now. 

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Layer 3.  So far, so good.  I'll lighten the cheeks a bit on the next layer.  The lips look better here than they do in real life.

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Up 'til 3 again.  I like the cheeks, even though they're more abstracted than the photo. 

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Second layer on the cheeks.  Looking better. 

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Added the text, and some blue to the eyes, and pink to the body.  Gettin' there.

Added another layer to the box.  I'm going to say this is finished.  I went to Michael's and bought a new canvas, so that's a good sign.  I've initialed the side of the canvas, but I normally sign the back, which I haven't done yet. 

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A few more small changes.  Maybe now it's finished.

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This is the original photo I took.  I wish here eyes were lying beside her in the box.  Hmmmmm.......

Welcome to the machine

Hi,  Here are a few of my paintings and poems.  I have been thinking about doing a website for a couple of years now, but kept putting it off because I thought it would be a bit too difficult to do.    I decided to go ahead and do my best anyway.  I will add more images as time goes on.  At the moment I'm doing a painting of a burned out grain silo, from a photograph I took of one, just down the road from me.  I take photos of the painting every day, so I can catalog the process.  This is step one:

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and step two:

It takes at least 3 or more layers of paint for it to look good.  Sometimes I do a lot more, because I change my mind part way through. 

The text reads: "but love will fade away, away, it that's all dreaming does".   I experimented with doing some of it in Lettraset, which is tricky to apply to the uneven surface of a painted canvas.  (Not shown in this photo).  The larger text I print from the computer and trace onto the surface, then hand paint it.  It's slow, but I like it.  The next photo will show the grey wall behind the text altered to go around the word "if" better.  Sometimes I can do a painting in 3 days, sometimes it takes 3 weeks.  I have one painting of a peach, which you would think would be a relatively simple painting, but I've done multiple layers, and I still don't like it. 

I'm interested in the process of making art as well as the finished project.  I watch every program on TV I can about the artistic process.  There's a good one on now, on PBS, called Craft in America.  I am always inspired by seeing work that's better than I can do.  I watched a show on an American photographer named Vivian Maier, which I liked.  Talk about obsession.  Last night there was one about a Toronto photographer named Barbara Cole.  She does fantastic photographs of people underwater.  Truly amazing. 

Right, I'm off to make another chair cushion for the dining room.  I have to change the fabric since I painted the room blue.  I did one yesterday, and that was enough sewing for me for one day.  5 more to go.  Stay tuned for more images of the burned silo.  Thanks for listening.

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Layer 3.  There's going to be a bit of thrashing around here, I can tell.  Some parts I like, some parts I don't.  I just keep repainting areas until I like them, then move on to the next area.  I find it hard to paint the same way from one day to the next sometimes. 

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Layer 4.  I simplified the middle bit and added a second layer to the dark side.  The top still needs more work.  Sometimes I only work for half an hour or so, so not much gets done. 

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May 9th.  I started out late last night to just paint one small section, and finished at 2 a.m.  The problem with painting is it's addictive.  If I like the way things are working out, then I just keep going. 

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I added more grey paint to the rock walls.

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This is a close up of the added grey...no, still not right.  The black structure is actually an old burned bed frame, and some metal piled up together.  The yellow and blue are just for fun.

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This is more like it.  Up 'til 2 a.m. working on it, but now I'm happy.

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Layer 2, turning up the volume a little.

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The left side, not finished, but it's a start.  Up 'til 3 a.m.  Wrote 'til 4, finally went to bed.

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Added a small flame and some smoke to the top of the silo. 

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The walls, and the added flame.  Still not finished, but it's slowly morphing into something I like.

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Up 'til 3 working on the bottom left side, and the sky.  The bottom left is still too busy, so I'll have to simplify it some more.  I like the sky. 

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Did some more work on the sky, not finished yet.  I don't like the white wave thing at the bottom left.  It's getting there though. 

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Close up.  The spiral is a tornado, seen from above, or below.  I've always been afraid of them, since The Wizard of Oz movie.

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I think this is probably finished.  I have signed the back, so that means I'm pretty sure I'm done.

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On second thought, the left side still needed some work.  Still not sure if it's finished or not.

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O.k.  Maybe this is it.  I bridged the two rock walls at the bottom and added a few small details.  I'll have to sit and look at it for a while to spot any areas that don't look right.

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This is the original photo I was working from.

Artist's statement #1

Art is the emotional, made physical

by this,

time, and objects made of bone,

and death's immortal kiss.

the sentimental object #242 verse:12

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The original photograph of the deer skull for the painting "bones don't lie".

Artist's statement #2

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Mixed media collage.  Small oval recycled frame from the thrift shop, glass glob, photograph of my eye, old map from a calendar, paint.

This is the victory of time over memory,

Leonard Cohen's right, poems should be sung,

they should be celluloid ghosts trapped in amber,

Call Tim Burton and k.d. lang,

tell them I'm coming.

Listen,

even when you speak,

you sing.

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mt forest.

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Artist's statement #3

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Mixed media collage in the lid of a corned beef tin.  Found objects, glass glob with photograph of my eye, tag, beads, paint.

Memory is a celluloid ghost trapped in amber,

time wears a crown of dinosaur bones,

victory burns the book of the dead,

words are satan's voodoo dolls,

death counts backwards from ten,

love is a satellite in a decaying orbit.

I sing like a machine,

heavy...

metal.

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mt forest.

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Artist's statement #4

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They're weapons, if they don't draw blood, they're useless.

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Forgetting is impossible,

but memory is not,

we ravel up the tangle,

but the devil ties the knot.

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It doesn't matter how we die,

it's how we live that counts,

time is measured out to us

in very small amounts.

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Our skeletons will disappear,

their shadows will remain,

architects of symbolism

in the house of pain.

(the house of pain #224 verse:16) 

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mt forest.

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Mixed-media collages

Altered dolls.

Altered doll.  Cheesecloth, gold thread, beads, curtain tie-back, shell, bone, pearls.

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Altered doll. Air-dry clay, gold paint, beads, wire, found plastic wings, gold foil.

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Mixed-media collage.  Wooden box, anatomical model, paint, texture medium, wooden blocks, text, beads.

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"Has outrageous buttocks".  Mixed-media collage on found wood.  Watch parts, beads, text, acrylic paint, copper, plastic skull.

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My husband is making wooden plugs to cover the screw heads on the new front porch. He was going to throw the bit of wood with the holes in it out, imagine that. Wood, stones, shells, plastic clothes peg from the beach in New Zealand, glass marbles, odd bits of metal, bones, text, chandelier parts, fairy pin.

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This is a small assemblage made from discarded bits of drilled wood, wooden letters, a twig, a plastic eye, and a bottle top I found on the road.

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I call these bottles, memento vitae. This one is from Long Point, Ont. I got the wine carafe from the Keg. The top is a lens I got from a store in Wincey Mills, in Paris. I printed the tag.

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Sand, glitter, shells, bone, butterfly wings, beads.

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'the book of the dead, volume 2'

 'the book of the dead, volume 2'.  Mixed media collage, acrylic paint on photo album. Moose vertebrae, plastic dollar store skulls, found objects, shelf, board.

Honorable Mention, Lindsay Gallery, Annual Juried Show, July 2013.

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a heart that beats for love alone

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It's not a star, it's not a fish,

it's not the missing link,

it's just the heart of love's salvation,

vitrified in pink.

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A heart that beats for love alone
is easily deceived,
the lonely bear the burden,
if the dead can be believed.

Every object ever made
will crumble into dust,
we consecrate the darkness,
but our hearts will not combust.

Silence was our first defense,
we never said a word,
we slipped into a lucid dream,
our sad confessions slurred.

You held us in the clear and present danger
of your gaze,
we’re tired of the beauty of infinity
these days.

At night we shun the crescent moon
and all her doubtful scars,
above us, there are cold machines
adrift among the stars.

The constellations crowd the sky,
the moon reflects the light,
the eye that sheds a million tears
see shadows in the night.

The ghost of something mythical
escaped into the sea,
it bred its local population
exponentially.

It’s not a star, it’s not a fish,
it’s not a missing link,
it’s just the heart of love’s salvation,
vitrified in pink.

Coral grows on everything,
it blunts our perfect teeth,
squint, and you will recognize
the scaffolding beneath.

I wrote a letter to the king,
I licked the stamp and ran,
I want to be the shadow of
an ordinary man.

We curl inside our spiral shells,
our bodies soft and pink,
wither me with random words,
I’m smaller than you think.

Death comes in and flips a coin,
it glitters in the sun,
he winnows every fairy tale of darkness
down to one.

Sleep with me beneath the moon,
enveloped and afraid,
we’ll slide our fingers slowly down
the moon’s unblemished blade.

Resurrect the sleeping dead
and hold them in your arms,
immune you are, and ravished by
their incandescent charms.

Fill the empty spaces in your heart
with neon light,
go to bed and burn for ruin,
every single night.

The heart that beats for solid gold
maintains a cool reserve,
the sentimental valentine
is more than we deserve.

Fables are the heart’s reward,
we lived to tell the tale,
how cautious is the demon
in the belly of the whale.

There’s love and death and entropy,
there’s nothing in between,
if you’re the king of all that burns,
then I’m the gasoline.

Find me when the sun goes down,
we’ll dig your muddy grave,
the heart that burns for pleasure
is impossible to save.

Wear a wreath of stolen bones,
remember who you are,
know that you were molten
in the belly of a star.

Stare at death with glowing eyes,
he’s come to lift the veil,
his horse stands lonely by his side,
in moonlit pastures pale.

Curse the dark and fall asleep,
your dreams will fossilize,
you’ll have to learn to live without their wisdom,
otherwise.

Dreams rebuild the tower from a past
that never was,
but love will fade away,
away,
if that’s all dreaming does.

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mt forest
January 14 2017
#473

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This painting was done from a photograph I took of a giant starfish in Punta Cana.

the eighth circle of hell

My studio, aka 'the 8th circle of hell'.

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I moved the wire shelf that was in the dining room down into my studio. I need a good clean up down there. I did throw 2 bags of garbage out, so that’s a start.

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Just a bit of a mess.

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the tomb of anubis verse:

the tomb of Anubis

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I lived in a world where your choices were simple,
either you grew or you shrank,
your cried or you laughed at the first sign of trouble,
depending on how much you drank.

I’m holding a bowl from the tomb of Anubis,
it’s one of a kind, after all,
it fits in my hand like a piece of a puzzle,
winged, and unbearably small.

Love is a letter that never gets written,
it’s sealed with a bang and a kiss,
I leaned to receive your affection of fire,
bubbling hot in the hiss.

Death is a permanent blot on the landscape,
his edges are sharp for the cut,
I circled his bones with a wary expression,
the door to oblivion, shut.

The beach is deserted for miles and miles,
the brides of desire are gone,
they’re swimming in pairs to the city of angels,
looking for somewhere to spawn.

After the culling, I cried for an hour,
death rowed his boat to the shore,
I gave him my heart in a bowl from the tomb of the dead,
but he always wants more.

We sift through the sand for the relics of magic,
my pockets are heavy enough,
I chew, but the flesh from the last lonely whale in the ocean,
is bloody and tough.

Death says the world is a pearl in an oyster,
he’s wrong, but he’s planted a seed,
the little black boat with it’s cold-hearted ghost from the past,
is the last thing I need.

I chew on the bones ‘til there’s nothing but marrow,
the impulse to swallow is rare,
death plays a game with the stones from the edge of the world,
but he doesn’t play fair.

I buried his bones in an ivory coffin,
I wrapped them in shadows and gold,
despite your objections to living forever,
you’re never too young to grow old.

We measure your heart with a very small ruler,
we measure your life by your books,
we hang what remains of the body’s most valuable organs
from very sharp hooks.

My face is distorted by silver reflections,
I hate what my heart has become,
it’s swollen from some unforgettable curse,
and its skin is as tight as a drum.

Death is in love with the world’s oldest child,
he waits for the moon to return,
the sun is a ball on the crimson horizon,
smoke rises up as we burn.

We row on an ocean the colour of copper,
I hum, but I don’t know the song,
I point to the stars as a way to decipher the message,
but maybe I’m wrong.

Maps have their purpose, though death doesn’t need them,
he draws what he needs on your skin,
the door to the tomb of anubis revolves,
but there’s no coming out, once you’re in.

We generate heat with the push of a button,
it melts our indelible hearts,
inside us are moth-eaten relics of darkness,
and other reversible parts.

We burn, but that’s just our attention to detail
boring a hole in our heads,
the ceiling is cluttered with dark premonitions,
hung from invisible threads.

Death is an angel as black as a shadow,
gold is your only defense,
you wrap your invisible heart in a beautiful skin,
but it doesn’t make sense.

It glows when I kiss it, rebuilding the future,
it shrinks when I call it by name,
death has a billion and one pickled hearts in a jar,
but they all look the same.

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mt forest
October 16 2015
#397

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This is the second life guard house painting I did, from a photograph I took in New Zealand. 

I dream of angels

I dream of angels,

their wings broken,

their halos gone,

tears

dried on faces

too beautiful

to look upon.

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mt forest

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This painting was done from a photograph I took of a sculpture in the Royal Ontario Museum.  The wings are from the Winged Victory in the Louvre.  I wrote the poem one night when I lay down to go to sleep.  I was lying there thinking and came up with this.  I sat up, turned the light on, and wrote it down.  It's only the second poem I ever wrote, but I think it's the best one. 

los lobos rococo verse:18

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There in the dark is los lobos rococo,
taking your virtue by force,
breaking your heart with his ruby red lips,
is a teary-eyed man on a horse.

The birthday girl smiles for two or three seconds,
her heart knows the lay of the land,
she’s there at the place where the roads come together,
holding your bones in her hand.

She’s via con dios, this heartless valkyrie,
she cries for the heart of the moon,
she’s wrapped in a layer of blue cotton candy,
a sweetly delicious cocoon.

She blew out her candles, her lips blurred by speaking
the language of earthly delight,
‘I think I’ll go down to the city of neon,
and stare at the monsters tonight’.

Masquerade, party, confetti, fluorescent,
we capture the essence of fear,
he’s there at the well of la coeur sympathetic,
cupping his hand to his ear.

Death nods his head as he rides into ‘Vegas,
rhinestone, byzantium, dove,
‘there’, you said, pointing to some kind of symbol of hope,
in the sky up above.

Raindancing girls bring us broken umbrellas,
inventing the cream-clotted clouds,
I’d dance to the rhythm of birdsong euphoric and strange,
but I can’t stand the crowds.

Clamped to the table are two twisted objects,
one for the happy event,
the other, as average as any combustible icon
the heart could invent.

Hiss, serpent, apple tree, garden, inferno,
the Lightbringer tempting the girls,
oh what ridiculous lies they compel us to tell,
for the beauty of pearls.

Gold interstellar, machine sentimental,
the galaxy starting to burn,
half-way to paradise, pose for the camera,
your cheekbones like roses, and turn...

Calcified bones float forgotten inside you,
sonar umbilical ping,
languid monotonous whalesonged familiar,
a bird born to soar on the wing.

You shine with a metronome tungsten albedo,
painting your prey on the walls,
skull for the voodoo, we suffer the pincushion magic
of powerless dolls.

Valentine limbo, go out through the window,
we’ll gravy the stargazer pie,
if you won’t romanticize love’s little sinister gestures,
then neither will I.

You open your mouth for the pink efflorescence,
a baby bird singing for cake,
moonstone, sarcophagus, pink hippopotamus,
eyes turning soft and opaque.

Crucible, fire, the devil’s elixir,
you drink ‘til your limits are known,
swoon from the heavy industrial presence
of Lucifer’s musty cologne.

Peacock, albino, the ghost in the rainbow,
the opposite side of the moon,
sitting alone in a room you’ve forgotten,
sipping your soup from a spoon.

Two-headed horses bear beauty to heaven,
they’re hula-hoop, hip swivel, chrome,
clicking your heels on the yellow brick road,
you’ll FedEx your body parts home.

Grey apparitions, contorted magicians,
a mumble of words cast a spell,
you brick yourself in to a windowless tower,
in your own lurid version of hell.

---

mt forest
September 3 2016
#455

---

This painting was done from a photograph I took of a life guard house on a beach in New Zealand in 2011.  I did two paintings of two different houses.  New Zealand was fantastic.  The landscape is breath-takingly beautiful.

one number, added to another verse:9

---

one number, added to another

---

‘Yes’, you said, as though the word
was foreign to your tongue,
we learned to ask for more than broken toys,
when we were young.

Our houses were affordable,
our fathers paid the bills,
our mothers had the most abysmal
culinary skills.

I rode my bike to school and back
in patent leather shoes,
I had to wait for everything,
since I could not refuse.

I was never beautiful,
I’m all I ever was,
they say they’ll come to take me home,
but no one ever does.

We’re blonde, because we have to be,
we’re dire to behold,
I was all I’d ever be
when I was six years old.

We learned to measure everything
against the perfect kiss,
only love denied is as methodical
as this.

You hit me with a stone when I was
swimming in the sea,
the pain is not forgotten,
it’s the voice of memory.

Right between the eyes, it was,
a perfect arc through space,
there is no scar that gravity and time
cannot erase.

You cut your foot on broken glass,
we smoked a cigarette,
our lives would not be so entwined
if we had never met.

Our Barbie dolls were dressed in pink,
our clothes were second hand,
we were lost in beauty in a
heartless wonderland.

You remember things about the past
that I do not,
who are we, if we are not
the crucibles of thought?

The scent of incense in the air
reminds me of the dream
where you and I were sewing up
the night’s unraveled seam.

The needles were a little blunt,
the thread, a bit opaque,
thinking this was all there was to art,
was our mistake.

The wound was anatomical,
the skin, beyond repair,
the fog will tatter everything
and leave the body bare.

We’re normal, superficially,
though twisted underneath,
we smiled at the camera
with our sharp uneven teeth.

We were photogenic
in our polyester suits,
seriously wild in our leather
go-go boots.

Time has not abandoned us
to gravity’s regard,
the bones that lie beneath the flesh
are old, but very hard.

I used to lie awake at night,
undreamt of by the past,
now, I think the afterglow of gamma rays
will last.

Belief is mathematical,
we all know how to add,
the dream of counting backwards
was the best I ever had.

---

mt forest
December 12 2014
and May 24 2016
#300

---

This painting was done from a photograph I took of my friend Brenda, when we were about 11, I think.  It was taken in front of our house in Gibsons.  That's her house in the background.  I gave it to her when she came to visit last year.  She did indeed hit me with a stone, right between the eyes once, when we were swimming at the beach.  She threw a stone into the sea, and I surfaced right up into it.  Smack, right between the eyes.  You couldn't have planned it if you'd wanted to.  She also cut her foot on broken glass at the same beach.  I wasn't there for that, but I heard the story.  We've known each other since we were 8 years old. 

bones don't lie verse:15

---

---

Stop
looking through the mirror
into the past.

remorse
is beyond incantation’s power
to mend,
no matter how many goats
you sacrifice
to the god of
vanity.

no surgeon
can exorcise the baited
barbed hooks.

those voices
are sticky,
beyond the reach
of any physicians
steel blade.

you need another kind of
necromancer
for that.

you cover yourself in scars
for the benefit
of strangers,
but I
see
you.

we grew out of adolescence
like swans,
origamied
from plain
white
paper.
but you,
shrunken and hollow,
did not.

no fingers
caressed your
alien
geometry.

you can’t heal
an emotional problem
with a physical solution.

that’s rule number four.

none of us are blind
to euphoria’s
contagion,
except you and your
sequined barbie doll army,
your faces rearranged
into a blank
smiling
anonymity.

blood alone
is not enough
to pay the devil.

I can smell your spitted
and roasting heart
from here,
sweating a clear
oceanic plasma
over white
powdered
embers.

split your tongue
right down the middle,
it won’t stop
the reverberating
echoes.

babe,
we all have
x-ray vision,
and
bones...
don’t
lie.

---

mt forest
January 24 2015
#322

---

This image came from a photograph of a deer skull that my friend Ian gave me.  I like skeletons, and bones.  I find them sculptural and beautiful.  I have a small collection of bones of different kinds. 

the never-ending prophecy verse:14

---

---

The devil says he’s sorry,
but it doesn’t mean a thing,
you offered him an apple
for a feather from his wing.

A fire burns inside his heart,
a flame that grows and grows,
burning for euphoria
is all he really knows.

You wore the feather in your hat,
your fingers black with soot,
you danced because he asked you to,
a shoe on every foot.

Diamonds glitter in your hair,
you wear your virtue well,
you’re every inch a zipper girl,
as far as I can tell.

Buttons fumble under thumbs,
they just won’t come undone,
the stillness of another day in limbo
has begun.

Love is not the fearless thing
my mother said it was,
it resurrects the constant moon,
as love so often does.

It’s six a.m. in New Orleans,
we stagger home to bed,
our lives are stitched together with
a tangling of thread.

The bed lay at the bottom of
a dark abandoned well,
I rolled your name across my tongue,
preemptively, and fell.

The pillow’s stuffed with ancient dreams,
how easily they die,
if you’re the dreamer’s memory,
then who the hell am I?

Dreams take time to decompose,
there’s more to life than sleep,
the well of all eternity
is lonely, dark and deep.

I love your black cosmology,
the starlight in your eye,
rainbows hang like angels in
a pyrotechnic sky.

Anyone can disconnect,
I did it every day,
I pulled the plug and watched the fractal image
fade away.

Anything can be undone
but dreams you can’t defend,
find the crooked ladder to the bottom,
and descend.

I dropped a pin and waited for
the echo of the sound,
your milky bones abandoned
on the unforgiving ground.

We sheltered from the fire
in the shadow of his wing,
completely covered, head to toe,
though vanity is king.

The shroud that wrapped around us was
a clammy uniform,
the pleasant conversation was
the calm before the storm.

We shed our skins and went to Paris,
waiting to receive,
there are no upper limits to
the things we won’t believe.

The man who stole the microphone
complained incessantly,
he seems completely innocent of sanity
to me.

Power is contagious,
it’s the pain we can’t endure,
the man who brought us fire
thinks the devil’s heart is pure.

Death removed his velvet gloves,
a specter at the feast,
panic is contagious
in the belly of the beast.

He says the word ‘forgettable’,
he wipes the future clean,
love is just the shadow of
the silence in between.

The firewalker talks about
the beauty and the light,
his body glows like neon
in the bowels of the night.

I followed in the footsteps of his ghost,
on high alert,
he looks a bit like Elvis in a pink
Hawaiian shirt.

I paid for my vacation with
a pocketful of change,
it’s helpful to remember that
the human heart is strange.

There is no end to gravity,
your heart’s a little worn,
the child of eternity
remembers being born.

The world spins in the black abyss,
it’s what we bargained for,
I don’t know how the memory of dust
could haunt me more.

Our dreams are psychedelic,
so we never dream alone,
the darkness is the only thing
the world has ever known.

I watched as something burning fell
across the crimson sky,
there’s more to satan’s version of events,
than meets the eye.

It left a kind of mushroom cloud of
interstellar dust,
the remnants of its prophecy
embedded in the crust.

We chart its cold trajectory,
as passion often does,
as ever, it will be the frozen moon
it always was.

As for me, I’m not a fool,
I’ve seen the way you dance,
you waltz right past me every time,
without a second glance.

You dream about eternity
inside your padded cell,
serpent, with your shrouded heart in pain,
I know you well.

The floors have doors that lead to hell,
I’m bruised from falling in,
speak, and our entanglement of sorrow
will begin.

Kiss the child innocent,
and leave her in her bed,
hover over every steeple,
luminous and red.

The sky is grey with tattered clouds,
I’m starting the descent,
is this the way the demon with his wings of fire
went?

Angels plant their random seeds
on bare unfurrowed ground,
I dreamt I was your heart’s desire,
gloriously crowned.

The light was made to guide the world
from darkness into flame,
strike the match and set the world on fire
in my name.

I have no other weapon than
the one that dulls the blade,
I bleed because you tell me to,
but I am not afraid.

---

mt forest
January 31 and March 19 ‘17
#477