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INTERVENTIONS

ARTIST'S BAND AID

DO NOT ENTER

REMAKE THE NARRATIVE

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Work: Work

POETRY

PIGEON WITH WARBURTONS

dead still


no nervous skull-shakes

or scuttle-pecks


still


hiding in doorway shadows

as sun slides

like a drunkard

down dull bricks


head still


a single slice of bread

hollowed out by hunger


a noose of brown wholemeal

round its stretched neck


still


waiting for the rain

to disintegrate this frame

                                                            or

step out

                                                            be spotted

by twelve

               dirt yellow

                              hungry beaks

FIERCE

Today you were called a ‘Paki!’

By a six-year-old boy

He had four years on your two

You didn’t understand his language

But you knew it was not good

You were fierce


You told him to go out

Into the garden

Where he had always been

Alone, dragging himself up

Through these young years

You were fierce


Intergenerational ignorance

Tainting fresh landscapes

We are all refugees

In this mad world

And you are Zimbabweegie

You are fierce


You are all our futures

Streamlined steel, Clyde-built

There will be no hooliganism

Fearless within close shadows

Like Mary Barbour’s Army

You are fierce

THE WEIGHT OF A PAINT FLECK OR PAINT FLECK WAITING

stairwells tacked with

EXIT signs pointing

the wrong direction


picture framer’s woodchips

turn to sawdust

scattered through the air


gloss grey emulsion reveals itself

between footprints

suicidal paint spats

floorboard grooves


white walls drip

ideas

this place sweats concepts

like Gallowgate men

spout sexist comments


fucking beautiful


turpentine entwined with pencil lead: 5B




                                                                         the idea waits

                                                                         in clear liquid

                                                                         intoxicating space: DO NOT INHALE




                                                                          a single fleck of white paint

                                                                          on an endless white wall


                                                                          a solitary fleck curling

                                                                          like a tongue to the rain

                                                                          attempting to                break free

  

                                                                          but it hangs there threatening


                                                                         the artist

                                                                         who is compelled

                                                                         to taste it

Work: Work

1993

1. REFLEX

The human condition     ensures

we need to believe

that death is a comma,

and not a period.


Since pregnant

I’ve been expecting

you

searching            for signs

from that unknown place.


I can’t stop thinking


looking at the door expectantly;

it’s been 24 years

almost a quarter of a century

since you held my hand


comatose.

Apparently it was a reflex

before they flipped the switch;

you raised both our hands into the air

expectantly 

before lights out,

no more fire in your belly.


I miss you.

I want you to meet your granddaughter.

I cannot hear your voice.

2. COMA, COMMA

I am here

Can you see me?

Strip light buzzes overhead

Sickly off-white

The voice of your Paper Roses

Elevates me to the highest point

From where I am trying to come back                                   

It reverberates around my being

Rattling the very shell of me

Faces come         go

Your voice constant

Breaks beneath surface:

This stony-faced exterior

The person who looks like me

But is not me

Can you see me?

I am here


You sing,

I realise

The way your eyes

Deceive me

Inside, I’m crying

Brain can’t connect

To tear ducts

I realise

The way my eyes

Deceive you

Inside, I’m dying

3. DISCOVERY

i have discovered

that i have lost

the sound of your voice

inside the silence

of a deep envelope


i see you mouthing vowels

consonants

but the permanence

of your departure

leaves memories mute


i’d give anything

to hear those words


i can only hope

when blackness comes

that you’ll be there

to eradicate        the silence

of living

with the shape of you

cut out of my heart

Work: Work
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