Here is (the latest draft of) one of the poems I've written over the past week. Events are moving so quickly that any commentary on the current situation feels out of date, and organising any art into a structured whole is impossible while doing it 'live', however I think sharing the odd footstep of this is useful, a reflection of changing moods and feelings. I wonder if war-art was shown during the appropriate war? I expect not. These times are different due to the internet, the sheer quantity of war artists.
Danse Macabre
Teeth clack like typists.
Cockroaches scatter at his match strike
Blood is in the air.
Knives of rust-fingers claw at the plaster
to lance the crack of bone.
There is child-meat behind the wall,
engorged with a frightened fluid.
Eyes of birthdays
are shot with star's arbor.
The clock coughs a dust of black moths.
It requests a drink for its sad minutes,
flakes of history, tracks
for the dust of churches
in decay,
for its sour prayers,
to a father.
Danse macabre.
