In a recent and overdue clear out I came across my old art folders and sketch book. Whilst flicking through the mass of artist studies (a worryingly obsessive mass) I stopped on my study of Jean-Michel Basquiat, I stopped because my inspired piece gave me a sudden urge to write. I didn’t know what was going to come out, a story idea, a poem, or just a few dead end sentences but I had to write! (evidently) I ended up producing the slightly surrealist poem ‘A Brush of Hot’ (with a coincidently appropriate name for the heat of the moment nature in which it was written).
A Brush of Hot
Acrylic based, I love the
hungry egg white glare, look
right there, waving his arms at me
a red sky morning in his three finger warning
oh, there it goes
fire fire glow
oil based veins must hurt, tears surely leak
let that pain stain into the background
give in, be weak
Wave, wave, wave
but no one wants to hear you
ever so clear, why the smirking halo?
you know you should be fuming
at such a contradiction, fuming
because disproportion was just decided
that’s it, no consent
oh dripping mess,
look at you, waving around pretending
you’re hell bent!