Eliasson exhibition is good enough to ea

SONGBIRD

I have this pulse that beats inside my bones 
It bangs. It quivers 
On and on it drones
But it isn't mine
I think it's a bird 
Singing ferocious, crying to be heard
Alive you are, small bird
I hear your fierce notes demanding to be heard 
"Hush-hush" I say
but it isn't a bird desperate to be heard 
It is sound itself
And I am just its echo
This pen, this head- penhead can't understand 
I am sound, not man.

 

DON'T CALL ME BABY


Beckett had it wrong

Lawyering up his words like medallions for a passing purgatory 


They're not yours 

They're not

They became someone else's the moment they ushered forth


Oh, sure

You can be that sticky parent who follows your kid down nightclub corridors 

That'll go well 


It was yours while it was in your head

Slipping through your thumb and fist and muttered by pudgy lips 

But

Once it slid out- bang

The salmon skipped away


Writers won't 

Painters won't 

Prophets won't 

Loving the me-ness of the makering

The holding, moulding, oodling over the finger gun

Trying to suckle the teenager 

Never being done