A bathroom window ledge cut-glass object, simple, light filled, grand.
Category: Poetry
Dream World
A dream is most often, or at least mine are, like a metamorphosing octopus, a non-stop serial segue of mutations in being, syncronous with the suspension of logic and time. And the dismissal of happily ever after is another function of most of my dreams.
Canzone 3
Version three has many of its own poetic charms.
Visual Poetry 2
This is a black and white variation of the same subject as yesterday’s post but the angle is different placing the geometry of the tiles as just about a perfect foil to the free flow of light and petals; and the b/w treatment removes the sensuality of the colour which in turn seems to formalize the content as being all about feelings & grey scale aesthetics.
Visual Poetry
Vase with a rose cutting sits on floor tile in a patch of sunlight; camera snaps from very close above it. Simple setup. Complex result.
Word Figures
Rocks, leaves, pottery shards, broken board overturned in search of luminous word that might ease a poem through tension of page …
Excess
The temptation of flamboyant self-lacerating words.
Excess or Word Bomb2
What’s with your endless
and obsessive word take-downs,
in / out the frozen half-pipe page
of big-aired snowboard frays;
the gory glory gallery gawking,
the razor-edged play/replay,
the icy drifts of slow-mo mocking snow
and self-slicing words.
The word flay pays dividends in readership / followship,
its pain / despondency / despair exploded sweet against a sour blue;
you caustically describe, inscribe, intaglioo
your algorithms crystalline;
you recut, resplice, rephrase,
refine, respline, pin pull, toss off
oft in brilliant triple double roll
with inverse somersault,
fate fault-spelled, a carved crash craved
again, again.
I soft-shoe and compliment your art’s excess
with mine: Nothing exceeds like excess.
Fillière © 11 20 2017
No Strut; No Stuff
Strut is never/neither
my settled social game
nor ruse.
Strut is in the bristle
of the eye, the ear, the fan
of the peacock’s
blown abuse.
No.
No …
I don’t know strut …
I don’t know strut
until I draw
and then …
it is no flaw
but ease of use,
the old confidence of flow,
that little bit of con with quill, with pen …
a feathered airborne con of thought
once pen-knife cut
and carved
at calamus.
Calamitous
my drawing now
if non-aero engineered;
it cannot find its lift,
won’t fly
without its strut.
No strut; no stuff.
Fillière © 11 12 2017
November Light
November night, November need, the bleed of light our planet’s blue and feckless flight from sun, and the meaning we ascribe for optimism’s sake.
fillière 