Category Archives: Artwork

Every Always

So, to example: There was a tramp both in and out of time, an iconic tramp who is now and always, he is not old never old, not new never new, he is ever and now and always this tramp … Continue reading

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Time after Time

When and where time goes unrecognized there is a beautiful purposeless freeze, the swiftness of eternity so swift there is no race at all, no motion, just music, which is why shakespeare urged one and all to play on, why … Continue reading

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Prints

We slip through our own fingers in bluest forget-me-nots, and keep on slipping wondering where the falling leads. Artwork by Chua Ek Kay

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Time Enough At Last

Time, the sound of time racing through our ears, slipping past us, children’s bicycles the sound of brrrrrringgg brrrrrringggg, bells on bicycles brrrrrringgging, and the children become more or less old then more or less dead and we hold funerals … Continue reading

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In Our Solitude

Near to the bones of warming solitude. Within vagrancy’s timelocked spells we wander you could say we are wanderstruck. Modes of lyrical living allows us to bask in living alone in the company of words stories voices. For them we … Continue reading

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Company of Echoes

Near to the bones of warming solitude we wildly graze. We are out here in this place where our vagrancies are enabled by the mass grace of words stories voices that roots us home. At home with solitude we are … Continue reading

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Woven

In the beginning the dreaming not the word. The word came later. It came whenever and betrayed silence and this was the beginning of fiction. Now you’ve got what passes for a world of dreaming of fiction and parallels splintered … Continue reading

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Cameo

Our lot is a sorry one also blessed. None of us object. Out here we feast on slimming heaps of gratitude. No one is greedy. No one complains. We no longer expect answers from the answerless even though we keep … Continue reading

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Tramps

It has become hymnal. The lasting proof. The lusting after the lasting proof the music. This is not proust. Then again everything is proust because everyone in search of lost time cycling through guises manias assassins guesses all the rest. … Continue reading

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Found Lost

We recall fondly. We recollect. The good old days in which we titled windmills redolently and rode clanging dusty boxcars across the glaring horizontal spread of america. What a lay we said hitching up our pants sticking our peckers into … Continue reading

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