Simple things that are needed, and some that aren't.

Art produced during a period in the years leading up to mid 2017. 




Journeys and Jaunts

On the most-sacred... page.... Forty-Two!

Once again... wind it up and watch it go

Between my shelves, part of my... freak show?

Paper aeroplane, misses. From that shower

Who were given a shortcut, to their control tower.

Another aeroplane, this one for a runway

Another is shot down... absent flight survey.

My gyroscope rests, and a monkey shrieks somewhere.

Another assailed jaunt, to the right shelf docks.

The brats glare on, cross faces out of a cereal box

Then hysterical jolliness, out of the same.

A 'wide-stripe' whips air, wondering who to blame

- For a blast of air. "It doesn't cut both ways..."

A cartoon character hails a senseless catchphrase

Misdirecting, cueing anyone. There's nonsense in the air

Back to it, eagerly past the last gulp of coffee

Not far to go, starting to feel like Bruce Lee

With clearer thoughts, I seize control

Task after task is brought in from parole

The beasts, clowns and the rest seem distant

On my own tightrope... they are non-existent

But a tight skirt walks past , from brat stare to brat stare.

Two diners... engineered odour engulfs the room

Favourite sayings teeter me above my doom

Eating noises, from a packet, now I'm seething...

A brat drools, popping eyes and heavily breathing

Muttering, the brat disappears in an acid haze.

I calm - watching the crows, and magpies' ballets

And count down to the silence, from the smacking pair.

Others stop to regain strength and face

Darts are thrown, shrieks resonate in thought-space

The birds look elsewhere - no food from me

And I look away. Back toward my journey.

Switching my phone to catch nothing, I edge on

Finding pieces their place... then their strings are gone

I want to stay. Am I a tycoon? Am I a slave... I don't care

Time passes, less and less ground to gain

Overturning stones, looking for what may remain

I look back, sensing a path I should have trod

Carefully I backtrack... to avoid a firing squad.

When on again and sure, I stop to rest

A tight skirt nears, I grab her with jest

But fail, again. Back at her perch, all that she sees is bare

The day ends, I feel good and sometimes bad...

Cut at times, through solace armour-clad.

I feed the birds, then let my cold car suffice...

- Not the traffic, there struggling in a vice.

My evening... optimism races out of sight

Thriving, I set my touch-paper alight...

I summon my strength and aim so I can soar like a flare.