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.


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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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.


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.