You have no one to blame but yourself in your own demise,
As you chased and sought after the frivolous prize,
Ignorant of what matters is not what glitters, that is but a disguise,
Nay, tis frivolous to seek largesse, like walking thin ice.

Knowledge is meant to bring your ego to it’s knees,
Art is meant to push the world past superficiality to see,
Music, to tame the wild soul that wants to be wild and free,
Poetry, the culmination of all, teaching you how to be.


Her voice

daring voice

I adore her voice.
It rolls like a wave,
daring the shore,
to come to it instead.

A look over her shoulder,
selecting the grains it wants to follow it,

Air of patchouli, jasmine and iris,
Can’t overcome the salt in her throat,
Pied piper of love, salty love,
The air feels so sanitised where she breathes.

Droplets of dance,
Call of romance,
Poised in a gypsies stance,
Lost in the dervishes trance.

Who knew aching,
could sound so inviting,
So enticing, her writing,
Turned honey melting, sapling,
Her voice, mesmerising,
Lip biting,
You can taste it in your stomach lining.

The aches have familiarity when she sings them to you,
That’s not an easy thing to do,
To wake memories buried beneath,
To sing of ache so true.


Inspired by another artist I follow on instagram.
But she has a voice that reminds me of Sarah Vaughan

Question for artists…..


Comfort begets laziness, 
begets stagnation, 
begets impurity, 
begets pungency, 
begets death.

What do you feel allows your art to manifest? Is it comfort, is it knowing your bills are paid, debts taken care of, money in the bank, ease of lifestyle and sound body and mind? Or is it striving and struggling, pain and or illness, discomfort, trials, tribulations etc? Or is it a balance between the two? Is it something else completely? How does your art, be it writing, painting, music, drawing, crafts, spoken word or any form of art, manifest. What are the conditions you need present to have it come out of you?
Please share your personal view based on yourself, not others.

Romantically aspiring hipsters

artist fragility

The artist’s fragility is their naivety

Are we that romantically inclined that we don’t see the folly in our ways sometimes? Do we think that we really posses that much power to effectuate change?

Ink on paper, paint on canvas, melody to ears, engineering marvels, social change, humanity’s enrichment, artists of all the sciences in the background, working to effectuate change.

I personally believe we don’t posses enough power and we are naive.

In and of itself the art barely penetrates a few insightful souls, but I also believe that it’s from our sheer will and resistance that we can and do cause changes. It’s our stubbornness to relentlessly continue that does cause people to finally pay attention, granted, if there is art to present in the first place.

The current dichotomy here is the muffled cry of current crop of supposed artists. They cry, ‘the arts, the arts, save the arts’. Their complaint is that all the arts are dying and being paid less attention to.

I disagree. The arts are alive and well, it’s just that we have a myriad of mummy and daddy princes and princesses who were told or learned that they can be whatever they wanted to be. So with no talent in their pockets, they wish to barter their ‘individuality’ on to the world by force.

The world has no need for shit on a canvas, or plagiarised ‘ebb and flow’ prose.
It has need for art that is contemporary that the current generations can identify with or even classical art of any type that rises up and meets the standard of the masters left before, for us to marvel at.

Don’t expect that getting tattoos of treble clefts and painting your arm in a sleeve of Salvador Dali’s surrealism, a piercing or two, or hating the world with your recycled op shop clothes and scowl on your face walking and living in a hipster town makes you an artist. That doesn’t make you an individual. That makes you a conformist. That makes you a copycat of all the rest of your peers trying to do the same thing.

Ayn Rand said, “There is a level of cowardice lower than that of the conformist: the fashionable non conformist.”
In a nutshell, she summarised the current crop of complainers and wannabes. One sentence is all it took. She didn’t need the libel I have just spewed above.
Why? Because SHE is an artist.

Garb and appearances never made the artist.
Work, borderline genius if not extreme genius work is what makes artists.
Rise up out of your slums and contribute to the arts if you can’t by your pure artistry, then acknowledging your ineptitude and being a poets muse, a painters assistant, a musicians roady or a body at a protest for change. Do something in the background until your art takes form and you can be an artist but remain humble, remain doubtful. Don’t pompously think that because you can put a sentence together or slap paint on canvas that you’re automatically Byron or Pollock. Don’t think because you can strum a guitar or rock a mic you’re Clapton or NWA.
Don’t think you’re anything and if you really are something, the world will think you’re everything


Her sacred melody


He could play any six string guitar to the tingling of senses.

But strumming her six ribs was his masterpiece he reserved only for her

Some things have to remain sacred.

Love is being able to compose a masterpiece but leaving it only for the pleasure of one soul, despite knowing you could have any soul in the world by playing the haunting entrapment of its melody.


The love that can destroy you


If you cannot suffer the pain,

You have no business falling in love with an artist.

Through song, writing, paint or any medium,

The pain inflicted is of two types:

If they love you,

It is agonising not to be able to love them back equally

If they hate you,

You will be the subject of ridicule in a masterpiece that destroys you.




I’m an extreme mist of the worst kind,
I’ll pose at one end of the spectrum,
In full sight,
Or a midnight blind.
I’ll fog your thoughts,
Stir the soil to be sewn,
Have you scurrying back and forth,
Rope ends of your mind.
So push me to that end,
Or to the other,
Through the thickness of it all,
Who knows what you’ll find.

Time to hijack the term back from the lazy throws and empty prattling of media musers.

Too long it has been deployed by the mass hysteria-mongering media, abused to stigmatise people.

Words are not theirs to use when they cannot appropriately contextualise them. They are ours.

The word extremist is not evil, not in the correct context or deployment.

Shakespeare is an extremist.
Beethoven is most definitely an extremist.
Einstein an extremist.
Ghandi an extremist.

Any person of worth or merit devotes themselves to an extreme beyond the norm to spring forth greatness and beauty the conformity of society cannot produce collectively in their mediocrity.


Artists are not drunk enough

intoxicated art

For me, the ability to write only comes in the stillness of the night.
Thoughts, ideas, musings and pondering pass through me during the day.

A word from him, a look from her, a thought from that person expressed through mere presence, my guard is up and I’m on alert and I take notes but I only find the reaping at night when silence prevails, my belly is empty, life forms are otherwise dead and the stillness allows it all to manifest.

Like a bashful girl summoned from behind a veil, some things deserve their own stage.

You must find that place and realise the worlds most noble sages, scholars, writers, artists, musicians and poets all revelled in solitude.

Some may need alcohol to remove these filters and inhibitions, but it will always be a mask, a psychotropic drug that keeps the demons at bay long enough for you to function. But the best of your work will only come when the body is pure, detoxified of material and of ego and ripe with a fertile soil.