clown blanc

My bedroom when a child, was filled with imagery of melancholic clowns. How odd perhaps it was for a child to keep company with such things. The image I remember most vividly was the one hanging on the wall opposite my bed. When I awoke each morning I would run over to the curious little picture of four solemn clown faces painted on a mirror with gold trim. My reflected face would appear next to their painted ones and I would try to teach them all how to smile. I told them it was easy. I would smile and smile, every day for years, but they just stayed so sad. I didn't understand then, but I do now.

My smiles were all lost on them,

the fool I was to try disfigure something so beautiful.


Circling in my existence 

I have died some thousand deaths and exist only in the air I breathe out of my corpse. I know my  journey by heart now, it is always alone, with soft steps that run out when I arrive at the empty house in which the people of the light once believed in, then there I lay myself on the earth floor and weep until my eyes bleed and the carrion eaters circle.


The lost child 1886

It is quiet in my studio, and so from my mind, begins the procession of ancient sound and pictures. The sound of children's laughter begins to drown out all else, growing more lucid as I draw. The little girl is coming, she is so quiet, she is sneaking up on me and screams BOO. My 5 year old self has frightened me. She stays for a while and watches me draw, but then says she has to go back, the others are waiting for her to make a wish and cut the cake. She whispers in my ear her wish... that she will never be lost and that she will never be forgotten.

I told her promisingly, "I would never forget you", she smiled and was gone.

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foreign tongue in a familiar room

In an empty room she spoke your name out loud to see how it still felt on her lips. It had been quite some time. It was foreign now. Your name, the language she was born to speak was now just another forgotten language that she shall never learn again.


Have you ever seen painted smoke?

2:11 in the morning, jumping around dancing to my favourite tune in the universe, intoxicated on bittersweet red wine in the company of ghosts, phantoms and souls without mates. Paintbrush in hand, painting the most beautiful shit I have ever painted, throwing them in the fire and watching them go BOOM. I have paint on my face and fingertips and am as happy as can be. As they char and turn to painted smoke I realise I am free, never bound to anything that will not be bound to me.


The Last Leaf

The last leaf fell long ago, so she found a new place to stay, inside a cardboard box. Sometimes she steps out for a while. She puts a fragile sticker on her forehead and pins some bubble wrap over her quiet heart. She doesn't stay out long, the trees are all dead there and it's getting harder to breathe so she returns inside her box. The cardboard box is easy to kick around, and those that used to love her all take their turn. The box is easier still, to carry away, and those that love her yet, all have their excuses why they cannot.


Awaiting the return that never comes

And sometimes when I have so much hope left in me that it almost becomes the madness, I will go and sit at the train station and wait for the train that only ever arrives when I leave.

The unreturned, the hysteria of another day of it, comes, and then fades, does the day.


stay me no more; the flowers have ceased to blow, the frost begun:

Perhaps you were only ever just the shawl I wrapped around me a little tighter when the cold was coming, never realising it was full of holes. Or maybe you were just the breath I would exhale, then go to grasp because I didn't want to lose you, but it was just nothingness I would cling to.

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...and with each sip, I hold it in my mouth, as I hold each remembering in my heart.

I swallow, and my heart fades away.


The dreams are as a vapour... until I reach eternal sleep.

She listened to the song, her iTunes was counting, it just counted 3011 plays. Soon it will cease to play and her iTunes will cease to count, but the echo of that song cannot cease. For when you press softly your head to her corpse, you shall hear the echo of this song playing on, in her unbeating heart, and in the dream that she is finally free to stay in, forever.


I stayed

I stayed...I am is all I can ever be...just here.

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I'm sorry I lost my way

I've been travelling in the wrong direction for quite some time now, I'm sorry I lost my way. I got lost searching for true north.


The space between

I was on the outside peering in, and felt I had seen this space before, yet I had not. If only to be inside peering out... I didn't know the very thought of it, would ache so much.


Paradise lost

And at every eventide she comes to bathe in the river lethe for she knows the night is long for those with the memory. Oh how she longs to drown in it.