Here she is 91 92 next month how did it ever get to this-if she lost her mind at least she wouldn’t know what was going on-being treated like a lump of meat. That’s all she is. Serving out her time to keep Continue reading “Boxed in this filament of excrement by insouciant eyes and caring guise of Americanism”
Shortest Day of the Year Sunday Dec 22.2019
There it is stretched farthest
Snapped back to longest
Gradually and slowly
By minute by hour
Time eats up
When the Time is Fine Art America time
Fine Art America who’d have thought. Everything you’d want to make with your art under one all-encompassing metaphorical roof. Keep your art or sell the original. Have images printed on any shape or form.
You don’t have to leave the house Fine Art America will do the work and more. They will even set up a website for you- set up a blog- do your marketing- emailing-pdf’s- Facebook page- stats-the lot.
I don’t know if it’s too good to be true -we all know that adage-maybe that was then this is now. Share the world.
Gone is art that is unobtainable, where art is on some higher echelon.
Viewed by the few encouraging pomp and ceremony as a marketing tool with elaborate words and descriptions and plenty of cash and over the top bios.
Art is for all and it appears the Fine Art America crew are making it happen for everyone- artist-galleriest-purchaser
The only thing left is for the creative to get going and create in any form they like.
Then upload the work.
This part I will admit is the hard-laborious bit.
It takes time and patience. Application and dedication.
Focus and organisation.
Its endurance ending in pleasure.
I only recognised how brilliant Fine Art America was this week.
I’m a suspect type and don’t believe anyone or anybody will do anything for me without a price to pay or some agenda or someone wanting something -some kick back.
Not the case here.
Thank You To John who pushed this.
Mirror in February
The day dawns with scent of must and rain,
Of opened soil, dark trees, dry bedroom air.
Under the fading lamp, half dressed – my brain
Idling on some compulsive fantasy-
I towel my shaven jaw and stop, and stare,
Riveted by a dark exhausted eye,
A dry downturning mouth.
It seems again that it is time to learn,
To which, for the time being, I return.
In this untiring, crumbling place of growth
Now plainly in the mirror of my soul
I read that I have looked my last on youth
And little more; for they are not made whole
That reach the age of Christ.
Below my window the awakening trees,
Hacked clean for better bearing, stand defaced
Suffering their brute necessities,
And how should the flesh not quail that span for span
Is mutilated more? In slow distaste
I fold my towel with what grace I can,
Not young and not renewable, but man.
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