What if art
was not viewed
as a painting
in a gallery
nodded and accepted
critiqued and sold
but my every
action
painted on
the canvas of life
would that
not be art
rich aND dark
full of cinnamon
and nutmeg,
saffron and turmeric
ginger and cloves
fresh red fruit
fed bit by morsel
into the waiting
mouths
of all the
   beloved people around me

India summer...

Mindlessly she listened
over and over again
to simple pounding
bass chords
as her brush splashed
first cinnamon
then nutmeg
and more...
turmeric, lots,
and smokey paparika
tears splashing downdown
on the  cardboard canvas
watermarking
the wet hot
colours at her
scantily clad feet
the woman she loved
gonegone
  with some stupid
    alibi

Preview: Speaking In Tongues

My novel is almost completed; that is the writing of it. Still to come are the soundtrack and illustrations. I enjoy a good old written book, but with the advances in technology why not a multimedia format? The trick, I think, is to still let the reader's imagination fill in all of the blanks, as they do with a novel, but also add pictures and sound that furthers the reader's ability to be drawn into a special space.

The book is a story of revenge and redemption, set in the not so distant future, actually a future that is roaring down on us very quickly. Further down the blog , there is an excerpt. I really don't want to say any more about the story except that it is very explicit... but it's all symbolic.

New garten

She sat clifflike

at the far edge of;

single monk flute

caressed tenderly her

neck and cheeks

turning tears into

fragrant oils and

rich frankincense;

long black hair

floated on waves

of pure sensuality

feet in the garden

shoots of succulents

snaked upward

around her ankles

and behind herknees

higher yet up

trembling innermost

                                                                       eyes

longblackhair

Kazulike she
stryped her way
down the
black keys
directiondirection
ghosting her feeling
of need and desire
into subtleshaped
words of soloney
locked in
     needle and spoon
of quietloud desperation
reachingreaching out
begging to be held
      and loved
even if for
one pretend instant
of use

longblackhair

Amel Mathlouthi - Kelmti Horra ( Ma parole est libre)

Poetry and music,
i think
help me
to talk my unconscious mind
better than my
busy
polluted
overwhelmed
conscious fool
that tries
to take over
all the time