WORK IN PROGRESS
Let’s see how this turns out
Latest version Friday 18th May
WORK IN PROGRESS
Let’s see how this turns out
Latest version Friday 18th May
4 fresh oils on canvas 60cm x 50cm -Framed
£250 each Contact me for availability
So now you’ve got to the point where you’ve had enough, done enough, know enough. You don’t need to learn any more about any thing. Well, maybe that’s pushing it a bit, that’s a bit too arrogant. You still learn at least one small lesson every day, you will always learn. But all the rest of it, well, you don’t need any of that any more – you don’t need anyone else telling you what you need either, or telling you what to do and how to behave, how to think. No! Fuck them.
You are who you are. You know everything. You know it all. You know as much as you need to know anyway. Note – how much ‘you’ need to know, not what ‘they’ think is how much you need to know. That’s what it’s all about really – you know everything.
Up to this point what has been written was written ‘before’. From now on what will be written will be written ‘after’. You don’t believe you know everything anymore. In fact you believe you know nothing, Take water for example, you know nothing about water, truth is no one does, not even the most scientific scientists. Electricity – that’s another one.
We live in a world which should not exist, it’s so improbable it’s impossible. You are impossible. Yet you are, you know that at least, you are, you do exist – whatever existence is.
Can it all be true? Can you know everything and know nothing at the same time?
Me and some of my mates
What’s it all about then?
No one’s got a clue really, but we try to do our best.
This website exists to display a bit of one person’s attempts to do their best. When I say ‘best’ I’m not sure if that’s true in the sense that everything here is perfectly crafted, because it’s not. Some of it is roughly hewn or not hewn at all, simply pointed at, but then again, maybe that’s the best I can do.
I reckon that less than 1 in 100 visitors to this website are actual human beings so if you’re one of them and not a bot, and have managed to read this far down the page, I hope you can find something of interest here.
blah blah – you know the score – here’s a poem from 1999 about knowing the score
ninetyfivefive you know the score in a movie or a tv show the flaws small flaws idiosyncratic flaws twelve flaws or just one we’re allowed to be flawed it’s ok as long as in the end we’re fucking good at our job in my real life i’m an artex ceiling of cracks and fissures with some small redemption it’s kind of arse-backwards ain’t it?
They say that art is sweat and tears
You have to work at it for years
You have to burn the midnight oil
You have to suffer pain and toil
You get distracted by the world
By every precious boy and girl
They just don’t realise it’s hard
to keep it up when times are bad
When you’re tired, feeling low
and all you want’s for it to flow
You have to force yourself to work
You have to try until it hurts
The fleeting second of the scene
on the page or on the screen
Is all that others ever see
It’s a fucking joke, believe you me
Christmas coming fast
Should have been here Tuesday
Wednesday, Thursday night perhaps
The world has got a problem
Only one? I hear you ask
Well one that’s really pissed me off
That awful shopping task
We all come down together
to fill our metal guts
With putrefying blood and bones
and other awful stuff
The charity collectors
jangle at the doors
Piss off you pious bastards
I won’t give you any more
The dreaded day comes round again
We gorge until we’re numb
Forgive the sodding year that’s gone
and curse the one to come
acrylic on board 520mm x 670mm (20″ x 26″), 2001
Collected poems 2017
You are a creature
Smudge nose askew
You are a flower (an open flower)
A head on a stalk (A face on a stick)
Seeds like eyes
You absorb the earth
Soak up the sun
Flow with the wind
Grow with the rain
You are raw life
The time when I went after a cow there were sounds carping on in that friend’s boat.
A pound of small oranges entails mucking under those twelve toadstools.
Smart moon then, Idris sparked on them after hell fried upside.
Leave young mellow fluffy badgers mind there one bantam weight.
Why don’t youth mix yesterday’s balloons.
In the end of the day I went to the shopping centre and found a yellow juggling ball.
in CAR PARKS
where they shouldn’t be
eat cheap tarts
and drop crumbs
I wouldn’t like to be a jackdaw
Being a bit of a fussy eater
I wouldn’t eat a slowworm
even if I was starving
eat almost everything
They have no lines in their minds
except that possibly
(and I don’t know this for sure)
They won’t eat their own eggs
I suppose if they did
they wouldn’t exist
Imagine that you’re the last jackdaw
in the world
and the only thing left to eat
is your one remaining egg
which is about to hatch
do you gobble it up
even though you know
that however long you live
There’ll never be another jackdaw
or maybe you could
MATE with a sparrow
and have babies
Jackrow or Spardaw
What if you lay on top of your egg
and quietly died
feeding your young
Then it’d grow up
and have a different dilemma
but at least it’d have
What comes last?
The jackdaw – or
If we were rich, would we still have a table like this?
A table covered in the most recently used bits of shit?
Like scissors and glasses and ashtrays and tips.
Like candles and radios and needles and sticks.
There’s last Tuesday’s mailshots and yesterday’s news.
There’s this week’s TV guide and half a pair of shoes.
A table that’s creaking and sagging with clues.
Yes, we’d still have a table like this – it’s the truth.
I can’t do anything better than anecdotal and observational so I might be wrong and I can’t be bothered to do any real research because if I’m right it would be a waste of time since no one would read this anyway.
I mean even if I don’t bother to do any research and this does get read I’m still quids in aren’t I?
I am aware that the chance that anyone who is actually another person and not some automatic bot-type thing that visits random websites in the hope of finding something of value – like a list of email addresses that they can sell to their fellow bots who send emails offering riches galore, is minscule.
So, the point is: no matter how obvious I make it, no matter how honest I am, it won’t matter because no one is going to read it anyway,
Why do I bother to continue writing then?
Because part of me wants to read what another part of me wants to write. Maybe it’s just one part behaving in two different ways? I don’t know, but here it is, my voice in the void.
Is anybody out there?
(Doesn’t really matter so don’t bother responding, even if you are one of the anybodies out there)
(p.s. This is not as self-indulgent as it seems)
A few short poems
from my last poetry collection
Pecking up the scraps of summer
He comes hopping –
and perching –
in cute poses;
Makes you wish you had a camera, ready.
Pictures of Robins
do well at Christmas.
Where I live
There are families
of Black Birds
They live on our roofs
and ramble on our lawns
They never stop nodding
and they make you feel
These are birds too,
until they bleed for us,
A varied people
or sharp white darts
tipped with black.
They argue a lot,
eat anything you throw at them,
and try to tell us
about the weather.
They are mostly seen
on man-made ponds,
and amuse us,
with their courting.
feel obliged to them
and wish you’d brought
This from the thoughts of Brian Llewelyn, formerly The Greatest Living Artist in Wales
Fucking tiny-minded people. If I hadn’t realised this and adjusted the way I engage with the bastards decades ago I would not be the success (that’s debatable I know) I am as an artist now.
The thing is most arbiters of culture are shallow and fake. They use what little knowledge they have to mask the gaping hole of nothingness that is their existence. I know better – I always have. Problem is I’ve allowed the bastards to subjugate me, to judge my work. Other problem is that most of the rest of the population need these hedgehog-brained existentialist angst dodgers to tell them what to think, what to buy, what to sacrifice their pathetic lives to.
Well fuck them – I’m back.
Deceit and Delusion is the follow up novel to Cheats and Liars
There are also several other novels in progress, most notably: Beats, the second in the trilogy of Bums, Beats and Bones and The Flying Boy, kind of meta fiction, told in the second-person present tense – sounds a bit affected but it’s not.
Better get on with it.