An unchosen path

The artist cannot be direct. The artist must not be direct. He would then be no artist. The artist is no preacher. The artist is no pleader. He does not preach, nor plead, nor please for any purpose but to please. The artist must not be corrupted by some agenda of the self, for then does his art become corrupted, contrived, untrue. His only recourse is to resort to the available elements, and obscure their correct combination. A relativity of concepts. And the artist cannot speak for himself. And thus must he give of himself. His is a secondary voice. The artist cannot be direct.

The artist must die for his art. And what that means is, he must die for his artistry.

Hope

How bad will it get?
Will it get better?
When will it get better?
How will it get better?
Can it get better?
For whom will it get better?

Will it get worse?
For whom will it get worse?
Should we prepare?
For what should we prepare?
Can we prepare?
Has humanity had it?

Will many die?
How many will die?
How much is just lies?
Will society survive?
Will suffering preside?
Will hope bring salvation?

The Hopping Heart

It all started 14 years ago when a young woman named Susan Crimps found a frog on the back seat of her car. She named the frog Fred. And off she drove.

Ms Crimps had only intended to visit the bakery for some bloomers. It was nearly nine and she needed bloomers. But having found the frog she was off, gone, long to drive aimlessly about.

Fred was pleased with this arrangement, as well a frog should be. Until, that is, he became thirsty. And hot. And tired. And dry. And dead. Ms Crimps was awfully upset - a dead frog on the back seat of her car!

No longer inspired by the call of the open road, Ms Crimps nevertheless made best use of her random surroundings and found a suitable spot to bury Fred. For Fred was dead, and the least Ms Crimps could do was see him to his final resting place.

And that she duly did. And then she shot herself.

Blood splattered the bonnet of Ms Crimps' car, Ms Crimps' blood. And her brain, sloppy chunks of Ms Crimps' brain. And the left front wheel, blood and brains and a portion of face, recognisable as a face, if not that of Susan Crimps, lay seperately beside. And the car, all of it still, save the dripping of the drops. And the bits of Susan Crimps, all of them goo, gristle and residue, save the skin, some of it still pale, but all of it still, if glistening, unlike the body of the corpse which still lay pulsating. And dull.

It was as though the life-force of this redundant relic had exploded out into vapour, its breached parts having parted and torn apart its purpose, spat spitting away. Indeed, this is precisely what had happened. And still hooked between loose fingers was the still warm gun, some blood and prints probably upon it.

And what resembled a human heart heaved upon the pavement, Ms Crimps' blood its scantily clad camouflage. And the frog hopped away.

I Am Not Nice

I am not nice
I am sorry
Encouraged by conscience
To say so

I am not nice
If nice enough
To say so
Nice enough
To say sorry

I don't know who I am
I am as I am
Which varies
Varies too much
For understanding

You know I am nice
You tell yourself that
I've not been nice
You tell yourself that
But you know I am nice

You know who I am
I am as I am
For you
Until I change
Which is not nice

Change is not nice
I am sorry
I am what I am
Which varies

For the Time Being

The way it should be - for the time being at least. But try telling that to the huddled masses, walking corpses all. If there were but a single point of light would their their ranks be reduced by one, but bully the conscientious they will, and pummel their misfit prey. And thus does that light brighten, condense, inward-shining burner of brazen senses. And should a partner of agreeable pigmentation be found, the absorbable light might now shine outward. But while these myriad points of scarcely scattered light might flicker and flourish in flame they must, with time, fade. And while the dull din of the dim can be equally excitable, if similarly muted. Theirs are processes too, and time belongs to even the least of beings - the way it should be.

The Flincher

For ten months or more did she give to the same recipient of charity. And not once did he flinch. And if after twelve months or more she were to continue to give - would he flinch? It surely would have to be asked. But who then might him? Her? And how, when for ten months or more there had been nothing of asking? And so what was it one day which did prompt him to say honestly, he could take no more? She gave much as she had on any other given day for ten months or more, and so what was it if not that he flinched? She noticed too, though not before time, and was startled when confronted by this: "What do you think this is - a charity?" And with this she deemed him to have flinched. And after ten months or more, no more would she give, and moreover no more could he take. "Do you take me for a fool?" "No, not at all. See you tomorrow."

Last Words

They say it can't be done. They say the last man who tried, died. They say that his was a particularly gruesome end, and but the latest in a long line of failed attempts. They describe in gory detail his very last moments of life: the gasping, the grasping, a rasping from twixt his buttocks. They say he went further than his predecessors had, that before being driven mad he had come to know the futility of his task. And that in a final instance of clarity before calamity came about - blood and all its odours and of his organs too, as though already rotted yet still wearing one left shoe - he said something for once, for all, true. That he said, they say, and the day was done for him, he took them to a lasting place and left them on the way.