Hiding The Waves

You Cannot Speak To who You Touch

You were lost and frightened
Words were choking you last night

Your body was a rag doll
Left in the nursery of a derelict house
Why were you searching?
You were hurt

You couldn’t say help to the strangers
You couldn’t clown for us

Your body was a track for desire
A lure and trap
Just to save feelings from hurt
But your mind couldn’t take it

You lost your wild horse in the dark wood
Your mouth was stuffed with chicken feathers

You were a sheep in a centaur’s meeting place
Whose heart was frightened by an evil thought
You couldn’t say help I’m not a commodity
I want and give

Now a noise runs circles in your head
You cannot fall in love now
For fear of a night in a house of horrors

You cannot be misplaced again
You cannot be deceived by his words
You cannot speak to who you touch

The cat was a perfect middleman

The cat was a perfect middleman
With now a word said it guessed
You whispered to it and it whispered to me

The cat was a perfect middle man
Not a lie was said in its presence
Not a feeling was out of place

The cat was a perfect middleman
It could see beneath the surface
With a few strokes it painted the unseen

The cat was a perfect middleman
It is difficult to know its thoughts
Its life is not it’s own

It’s difficult to know
What to say
Or to see where
The milk rays of moonlight fell
In the dark corridor
The walls of the party
Did not worry or involve it
It was a priest frightened only
By the frustrated ego of the moon
Trapped inside a light switch

We might meet on our own terms one day
Should we meet in a crowd again
I hope it’s there


Time etched wind in your eye
Time etched winter on your lips
Time does it worry you
That if you look through its pages
You would discover your secret

You don’t need to apologise
It’s the colour of my fingertips
All my lost ideas are hidden somewhere
All my inspiration is in a word
Seclusion is just a bird in a cage
Time is just a secret

Duplication is just a morning
People are just rocking chairs
My hair you can share
My table you can eat at
My cupboard you can hide in too
My secret is no secret

You can never recollect how the emotions
Blind you like the sun it makes your
Secrets small but just the moon
Makes your fear immense
But just life makes your love
Here now time exists
For ages
In my lifetime exists for secrets

Duplicate lives live just secrets
Duplicate lives need love
So when I am dead
You can burn all my poems

How I become detached

I retreat from my room
Having had a conversation
With a bookshelf

I go into another room
You fill it with abuse
Your hand grips iron

I return to my room
I return in silence
To watch the octopus of evening
Close its eyes

I cannot go into the other rooms
It is somebodies tomb
A dying rat broods in there
Out moving over miles of land
On a bus my feet in the open
I returned to pay you
A special visit
I’m clawed by intrigue
That is as soft as femininity
Nearly killed by a little girls hostility

So cold shines a triangle
When it moves links of rock
To be with a lover

I leave with promises
To carry out a plan
But I surrender as soon
As I leave into the open
As soon as I make my next visit

Carried upright by a bison
Wrapped in delicate pink-skinned snakes

From a room to a house
From a house to a room
Shakespeare wrote his diary
In our minds

Lonely like a minors son

Hear me, I don’t cry into the night
I don’t know who to go to for advice
So lonely like a minors son

See me, how I disappear before your eyes
I’m a magician you’ll never see me
So lonely like a minors son

Touch me, am I stone to you
I can never decide if I am
So lonely like a minors son

Talk to me, I may be distant
But I do melt inside
So lonely like a minors son

A peculiar taste in poems

You want me as a friend
To tell your confessions to
But I cannot listen and bear it all
Without a single comfort anymore
Except in the dark journey
When I am numb and attentive
If only you would visit me with them
But your confessions only appear
In my beer in my crisps
Between my conversation
Like fallen notes of music
When you confess to me in the rush hour
I find myself strangled on the path

I myself thought I had met a man with foresight
A comrade
You fear sarcasm
It is nothing but the serpent wind
Moaning in a night of hurt

Your taste in poems
You must take each day aside
To give it a place in a poem
As if it were the lover of a fat lady
As if it were a flower on a grave
You must know I look at the inconsequence’s
Of an affair
To say I want them exact and compact
For nothing else will do

You are keeping something from me she said
What, what is your new confession
Is it like the defeat that sows itself
In the fragmented fresco of a Roman battle
Is it the loneliness that oats your innards
To make them slippery
Where is the title you promised me
The lordship, the palace, the goblet
I still have to make them up
See how they topple from the tops of my poems
I am weak with coldness now
I am waiting for the confession

A phone call where neither of us knew what to say

The occasion of a dismal day
In a remarkably frank interview
Michael Aitken revealed
That he was a naked person
He then telephoned a sweetheart
From whom he was completely detached
To ask her if she wasn’t
She replied yes
Which completely fooled him yet again
He caught the bus back home
Happily ever after
Though he did pause awhile
Upon the unexplainable feelings
That slept in his head
That still hadn’t
Left him completely alone

Words uttered from a dream

Words uttered from a dream
This morning in the street
Not the sun but the heat
Of crowds dispelled my sleep
Spiralling away into the day
Caught my breath and opened my eyes
But it was too early and people slept
As if upon sorrows grave I’d crept
No-one could tell me what I’d said
Stilled around those magical words
In the autumn cold my heart burned
And did not their unpinned flames
Become like daybreak without name.

The wind undressed the trees as I left
This morning autumn leaves
Lisped farewell then seem
To enquire as in the street
I listened to tingling for the rain
The kindred of seas and of these tears.
Then I wrapped the wind up in my coat
Such a lost cold wind then as I wrote
The twisted orphan tugged my sleeve
I sucked the poison from its wound
It moved the sundials in my mind
Froze my question to rest in rails
Barbed with ice like vexed gaols.

The argument for and against paradise
Awoke me from nowhere softly
Trapped the sparrows song in light
Divided everything left and right
In the empty streets, in hollowed autumns sigh.
Now horse-shaped clouds go drifting by
Hauling the stars into the sky
Horned bridges over winding canals
Sleeping weeping willow trees
Snoring by the stars.
Words escaped from the sub-conscious night
To stone the heart like spells of blight
Awoke me this morning

I’ve opened all the doors

I’ve opened all the doors and windows of the house
The birds are singing
Their notes swirl into my head
I’ve been thinking of seafronts
On quiet mornings

I’ve been wishing for salty winds
For white beds
The noise of waking people
I’ve been thinking of happiness
On sudden mornings

Soon I will have a certain freedom
It will be possible for the seasons
To be stirred into my mind
To act out their complete drama

I’ve been wishing for freedom
I know find it someday
Not in life or death
But my freedom within a freedom

Someday I will have this freedom
To open what doors and windows I like
To capture what thoughts
Or scents of nature I need

Last night everything was lost

Last night everything was lost
I took a lonely bus ride
Phoned some hollow calls
I dug my grave quietly
I wept as I realised you

For I know I am a cubist
I’ve put each tree in a cube
Each cube in the palm of your hand
You examine the clockwork with a brush
Put it into a tree in a cube

Is that where you keep me
to Lesley

Am I at the back of your mind?
As if it were a wardrobe
Along with a handful of poems
Is that where I’m always found

Along with my poems
Is that where I’m locked away
At the back of your mind
Is that where you keep me

In explanation of the black star within
to John Briscoe

His soul leaves him at night
When listening he thinks to confess
That the void has held him too long
That his feelings belong only here

His bridges disappear in moments
The stream is dark and deep
Where diamonds fall like glass stars
Amongst the tricks and signs of dreams

He seeks to explain to his soul
That his surface world lives real
That his passion flowers hold girders
Between the perfumed hollows of his life

He wants to tell his soul to stay
In the flourishing flowers of his manhood
Where his soul’s reservoir would groom
His ever-growing tree of life

That no matter who robs him now
There is no need to flee to afterlife
That while life walks his garden
He is part of something, except. . .

But no matter what he loses now
The sun will give him her milk
The earth will bury him in her womb
The sky will remember him as one
My thoughts upon the war

Disciple on a hill
His head is screaming
What have I done?
Don’t fade from me

I sing like a songbird
Hoping I will fly
But it’s my heart on your plate
That gets the flutters

To hell with painting portraits
The chemist has mixed me
Some tablets
The colour of milk

Ex-suicidal people
Want to talk about triviality
Want to talk about reality
Want to live dangerously

You are back
Now start again
Does one end
Meet the other this time

One sits up all night
Doesn’t one
Hiding the waves
Beneath one’s feet

The day was spent ahead
Tomorrow has fallen
Like a wall

The sky has grown a beard

The packaging was peeling from the bone
The sky has grown a beard I cried
They closed me away in the greenhouse to draw
One of my friends said to me straight
You should get your questions answered
Boy – get your questions answered
Then they opened the window and he ran away
There was a silhouette of a crucifix against the sky
The sun blazed like a sun through the dark clouds
I went to look for the dolls kept in the workshop
But they were held in gold string by the art school thief

I heard of a basement at the bottom of the steps
I went looking for the thief amongst the cellared crowds
I went looking for the dolls held by the night
I found them stolen by thieves and painted in red paint
The sky will grow its beard again I cried
When the Blue Mountains are wet with the sky
And I will pick up my guitar then and sing
As a sailor would who stood on the deck at the wheel
Now I rock my skull into place
And bury my headache in the ground
And watch the demon on the floorboard of your eyes
Burn its sorrows in the cold to keep warm

The sky will grow a beard I cried
The piano will grow legs I observed
We will collect a family and go to live in a suitcase
And become the children that our children will become
Keeping the crickets in a matchbox of tears
Mistaking the drain for a toaster of moons
Sing for our suppers before napoleons navy
Burn our witches in a faggot of steam engines
Sing our poetry from the pages of our eyes
Until there is no life left to be left
Until there is no life we will live without

You’re only young once the town cried from the snow
The Toby man latched the bolts on tight
The train came sick into the station
Its corridors lousy with diamonds
Its mirrors twisted in pain and asked for a lover
The red flag went down and we drove through a communication gap in the wall
Waving goodbye to the girls on the station
With our folders tucked under our arms into the tunnel
I could not make up my mind
Until I saw death leap from an egg
And run scared across a field
Followed by the teacher’s ghost ringing its bell
You’re only young once it cried after it
You’re only young once if they let you

The intermission came
I found that no one had been listening to my dream
I was alone with all that I felt
The sky will grow a beard I said to the usherette
You will find your freedom tied to a railway track
She will be saved from your love by a Valentino
Whose image you will hate when you see it laughing
The town became full of laughing images
My youth had only a short time to live
Now the only truth I can give of freedom
Is to say that the sky has grown a beard


(Who lies snoring in the chair)
My harlequin is lost in the slanting storm
I have wasted a truckload of oil paint
Will I die?

My chessboard is occupied
By spiky monsters and thalidomide women
Will I die?

I have leant to write too fast
I have lost my patience with colour
Will I die?

The costume that I wear is mysterious
The werewolf’s uniform I wear is a wall
Will I die?

(Who sits in the empty house)
I am tired of the silence in my mouth
I love the inner life of women
Will I die?

You are a stranger when you awake
I tried to tell you I love you
Will I die?

My eyes are sick with the oils of my thoughts
My lungs are empty and hollow
Will I die?

Father my mind is killing me
I do not want to be alone as you sleep

I am alone with the morning

I am alone with the morning; it is as it should be
Last nights horror has passed
When I spent the evening with a strong but lonely man
I am in control
When I need inspiration I walk about in circles
I do not sit and think
The morning is quiet
There are low clouds at the window
The garden shakes in the wind

Only a vague memory of last night’s ordeal
When I sat with the loneliest man in the world
The only god the town will ever have
In his dark room like a church
And his talk so full of those lonesome whistles
That people give him as praise
He was my shadow and it was as always

But I was alone with loneliness in his dark house
Wonder now about the truth when you are with him
When only you and he share the secret of the world
He hangs your hide of feelings above his fire grate
As he sprouts needles from his body
And curls in a corner with bacchanal mockery

Know also that he gives away no secrets about his real desires
You are lost like a mindless amphibian in pre-historic ambiguity
His is more than a normal need
He knows you through many contacts
You were away though and it was as it should be

I often would get the bus to Cannock to visit John and we would go to a local pub to drink

The witches visit

I see a window –
Outside it is a rainy night
The struggling poet looks for beauty
Takes off his shirt, goes to sleep
“Should I leave the light on?”
So named by many whispers from dark alleyways
It’s not the people who name a poet
Though they like to take the credit
But the many rhythms of the dying world
His day to day life was right
His night to night life was wrong
The witches visit came on a Thursday night like this one
Just before her birthday
He could hardly see what he was dreaming when suddenly
She chanted a song to Christians
And appeared from the window as a bee
Awoke him with a sting
Taking away a nerve or two
As though they were bites of an apple

Next day he brought a crucifix
And began studying the bible, looked up exorcism
Thus reassured
He bravely went to celebrate her birthday
Since then he has worried
And wonders if he suffers from illusions
And ponders awhile upon why a war of good and evil
Had taken place in his head
Like an evil jealous lover

When I couldn’t see the wood for the trees

In Lindy Lou’s bedroom
On Ann Heywood’s stage
With crimson-rose wallpaper
Where a fire blazes warmly in the distance
Her child’s nursery was empty so was her bed
Her cupboards were bleeding
And so was my head
As you strode about
In an organizing manner
Like a wardrobe assistant
To the national ballet
Or a secret policeman
Who had raided her in the night
Looking at your audience
A room full of cats
That smelt of horse meat
And purred incessantly
And the wild horses
Stood about in the bitter cold outside
As parts of the night froze into icicles
But not because of your matchmaking
Or your own warped desire
But because of your presumptions
That engineers your ambitions
And being but a stranger
To your acrobatics
I knew I was no at home
In the middle of the night
And that people are willing
To let you do the thinking
And not having heard from you since I suppose
You are both too immortal
And will not touch your toes
Or honour the poet
With a rare visit
It’s such a drag
Having to write my report
But I know it’s expected
From your hired detective
But my report though it hurts
Is that my intercom broke down
And I’ve been cut off
I feel I must pass the time
Between battle and strategy
As you insist on startling me
With your pandemonium
I wish to report also
On the little boy
Who was seen in the vicinity
Swatting the flies
From off the honey pots
And the cash register toys
And of the cold conversation you had that night
In which I lost concentration
For the hundredth time
And got dragged off
Into a spending spree divine
Oh darlings
You must have had a good time
Living like kings
The money being mine
Oh what a night
If only she had been willing
But this being a subtle affair
You both might have made a killing
Oh, and where did you sleep?
Did I have a nice walk?
From the dreams in the night
From all your sweet talk
Oh and what did you say
In your confession box
That you were teesy and weesy
And he wore foul-smelling socks
Oh and then came the morning
Did you see the sunrise?
In the blue, blue eyes of the regimental boys
But now before I burst into song
I’ll finish my report
Before it gets too long

Mask of motherhood

She wanted to know what you knew
But you gave her no sweet music
So across the seas in search she went
Looking for a sanctum maybe
The robber on the highway
In a mask of motherhood

For in your belly were the fish to be caught
In your belly the bread to be broken
But she could not reach the unborn there
Or know for sure or remember
Her own journey her own conception
She looks you in the eyes alone still
From across some wall in some eternal sleep
Then takes a scalpel then fears to enter
Any mortal door

But then through your wall she comes
She takes your information
As if it were a piece of skin
Removed from your anaemic bone
And you do not care at all
Worthless though it was to any man
She adds it to her picture
Jots it in her notebooks
Then like some pennant in the wind
She goes looking for scraps of wing behind your house
A lecherous child she leaves you
After she’s brought you a twig or two from the yard
Then off she chases some eternal tail end
Her maternal ego must never give up

She wanted to know what you knew
In any ditch she’ll forage
In any rubbish heap by any wall
Her instinct is sharp to deceit
No bed of flowers or dream is safe
She searches for your knowledge
Your shadow causes her no worry
When you have your back to the sun
When it’s cast upon her reflection she chases even that
Were you there she’ll ask herself
Were you there to know the truth?
Then dances in her cocoon-like a moth
And sings a sailor’s drunken song and sleeps
For the mystery id friendship and solitude both
And she has no strength for this

Once again we spent the night

Once again we spent the night
Talking about her as down the road
We wandered like detached limpets
Not in chair or bed but down the road
At two o’clock in the morning

More foolishness was said
Than ever was said, as you played
Pranks upon me even tried
To steal a car or two when
From the backs of our minds
Came unasked questions
Strange how people keep things back

The night led us on like dogs
Strapped leather collars on us
And dragged us home. What truth there was
Was empty air hidden again behind a stare
In our sly glances, questions
Orbiting out eyes like dartboards
That she’d throw darts at misdemeanantly
We wondered just how much
We hid but I didn’t dare ask, I wouldn’t dare

When I touch the crowds
It will all be forgotten. When I am
Lost in the crowds I am lost
Do I care what you think
More than what you feel; do I care
What she feels. He acted
I am sure and I admitted nothing
He played his worst part and became
His own worst enemy and I
Wanted to destroy him in his ruin

There are so many things

There are so many things I know how to do
Inventive mind screams create
Create my heart cries with its blood
I could make a living

Sick. Don’t call it a dream
Disillusionment is now only beautiful
Everything is now only beautiful
Except people
Create for them something screams
Create for them make them see

I have won the battle with myself
Create it nags create
My conscious demands freedom, art
Your flesh demands mirrors
I have a role to play

Crack the image truth escape run
Before the egg yolk grows its madness
Before the mind finds its suitcase
The heart web its own loneliness
The psychic its own doors and windows

Create my spirit tells me
Don’t be buried by documents
Be careful of analysts
Dictators into amateur mental health
Create, create; face the truth
You are only here to create a life worth living

The failure to get a folder of work together or to impress the art teachers condemned me to factory work.

My Mind Was in a Twist

I remembered my reaction
O your seriousness
“It’s not very intelligent”.
Faces hung around
The table’s impersonal garden
Like blue-eyed flowers waiting
For the lambent ice to break.

We had spent the day
Visiting an art show;
Making paper areophane
On the train journey
I was again made aware again
That my foolishness was in vain
That this was my last chance
To find and face the truth;
Until it came to be that
I was living pressed thinly
Into the orange glow
Of a lantern world
With a confusion of acquaintances
Skating over the face
Of love and eternity.

Until I found out that
I could not risk hurt
When fate brought opportunities
Into my confusion;
In my heart I wanted you to know
Nothing mattered more to me
Than the human depths that I kept
Stumbling into quite by accident.

Reluctant about my philandering
I kept on the move
Onto a consciousness
A half-built house
Above a secluded, dark and sinister road
As you walked away down the hill
Unaware of my enslavement
Leaving me with this obsession about people
That could not find
Its reality within
The seriousness of every situation.

How Lesley Becomes Detached

Everytime I look at you
I have to study some detached pose
You have me mystified
I’ll search your drawers for secret letters
Plunder your cupboards for your medical record
I’ll tear up your floorboards to find
The school report that you hid from your parents

Everytime I talk to you
I have to study some detached image
I don’t understand
I’ll find the stolen statue erected to you
Sacrifice lambs at the altar
I’ll join the secret sect
On a pilgrimage to your art gallery

Everytime I listen to you
I am bewildered by a detached conversation
You have me crying
I want to tear down tour walls
I want to bug your phone
I’ll play the tapes of your conversation
From a soapbox in Speakers Corner

Everytime you speak to me
I listen like a child
You have me worried
I finger my buttons and straighten y collar
I take my hands out of my pockets
And pull up my socks
I check my black lies for bedtime prayers

Everytime I become involved with you
I secretly study the art of torture
You suppress my mind
I’ll torture flower shop assistants
Pollute your martinis with leather earwigs
I’ll confiscate the books
That you’ve borrowed and won’t return

Everytime you look at me
I mutter a prayer to myself
The development of my health is in your hands
I wander around for days in the market place
Trying to figure out my problem
I fall into depths of despair and gaze for hours
At the stars trying to foretell your next move

Lesley was the cause of much pandemonium

The Pursuers

Friendship had become a question
Of friendship, a vendetta
Ready to steal what dreams we could
We met for arguments
I was made to rescue my involvements
From their obscurities
Pursue them with webs and traps.

Wanting a suitable finale to the meeting
We went penniless
To where prostitutes drank and danced
For a good time
Sitting there with cigarettes hanging
From our mouths
We merged genuinely into the iniquity

Intoxicated by now I sensed fleetingly
That the truth or so
Had been left behind like a milestone
Our rescued vendettas
Just about took us into the morning
Our heads like
Flat empty twilit seashores.

Fairly quietly
Each with our own hidden loneliness’s
We parted company
Each with our questions about friendship
We started to remember
On the bus journey home the next day
I saw violet clouds

The palm of the wind on a cornfield
The only butterfly
That I’ve seen this summer also was there
Trapped inside the bus
The butterfly becomes many things in friendship
But never a butterfly
In the name of everything it does become
It soon will die.


I guess there is no reality after all
I could well be in your dream
A pickpocket with a handful of clouds
You said I looked alone so you came and sat by me
You stumbled through a conversation
Talking of college politics and grand halls
I wanted to stay until late
Until there were no decisions to be made.

I guess there is no reality
Except in marks
Signatures at the bottom of letters
Poems that had to be stolen
From a friends waste bin
Graffiti, tattooed ladies.

It’s no good I cannot go through the streets again
At 12 o’clock at night looking for a party
I need faithful companions
Gibraltan monkeys, Islamic peacocks, mules, geese
Girls from the poor-boy club
Following me with collection tins.

I need us to pop into gypsy caravans
For our fortunes to be read
I need pretending marriages
Where you carve a heart on an oak
Or write your names on the backseat of a bus
I need the gypsy social worker
To show me pictures of Gandhi and the Queen
Who sees in everybody a lonely dancing drinker.

After you have led me up steps into dark houses
To find you have the wrong address
After you have argued with me about metaphysics
And left me urinating over trees
Do not worry about the poems I brought
They were only for Pauline.

When you see me walking out of the party
At 3 o’clock in the morning
Looking for a taxi, do not worry
The taxi driver and I, We cruise around
Looking for the house where
My Gibraltan monkey, Islamic peacock,
Mule and geese are staying
Looking for all of these people
Tattooed ladies, lonely dancing drinkers.

This was written on Monday morning
I am sifting through John’s invitation
I am wondering about the risk
Of going on lonely bus journeys
To see people I never hear from
The wind is playing a flue outside
Pauline, your poems are standing on a gate top
Somewhere in Wolverhampton.

The School Myth
(Augustus John would turn in his Grave)

Birdsong cyclones into the air
I suppose I was awake because
I had no one to talk to
Or to link minds to
In the unrealities of friendship
The sleep of friendship that grows
And overgrows

I heard about you Anna Pavlova
And you August Rodin
With your creeping ivies
And your dying swans

Here comes your family
Nickle eyed and laughing
With a journey behind their eyesight
With a mirage of Lake Geneva in their depressed minds
Here comes your family
Already they are living in their portraits
No wonder the dog feels uncomfortable
Maggots are eating into the pencil lines
Leprosy takes the skin of off their noses
Un-curtained like this the monsters may move
Into cinematic fame
May turn their heads away
We don’t know you they’ll say
As their masks peel away

What about the ballet company
Touring the continent on a train
A penetrating dance
Taking culture to the peasants
In the sleeping as like a venereal disease
Their minds full f toadstools

Your lives are a scream

John had become the art school legend and a bonafide rebel

While Eros Deserts You

Many longing memories run buoyant pictures
Of meeting with illusion beneath a fluidal sky where
Overgrown sinuous tracks led down to distant plunging seas.
You passed by the still silent rocks to understand
Concordant shadowed hands which helped you from the womb
That now is stranger in mysterious darkened room.
Within the dark estuarine deep the Logos lies
Spun in the gradual unsilvering water.
Hidden near the seas he waits with allegories
To tell and then be gone into the scented layers
Of the blue-green orbit of earths endless golden years
Where the power of life has transient being.

To the seas gyration for a confrontation
Onto an offshore island on wooded shoreline undulating
Through hooded salt sea woodland along winding ancient pathways
Of monasteries and fallen trees where tangled roots
Overhang the seas womb the skies empty valley
To find the formless mystery in life’s disguising.
Then through the twilight over unfocused distance
You are abducted by deaths horses stampeding
Across tomorrows fine sweet hurrying plain where
Eternity’s silver waved river of light bends out
From the darkness of Eros’s thin boned wings travelled
Close the horizons bed and near your journeys end.

Now you follow a night raven river
Looking for a door of opportunity
What doors can open upon this riverside
Where the water falling mouths of rivers darkly bleed
He has not thought that does not know
Each door of opportunity he does not open
Leaves him alone where fate will lead him
To the very end of the earth where
The atomic growth of clouds twist in the sky.

While you watch the flying fish and wonder
Where they swim beneath the blind dungeon sea
How to follow and continue your own journey
When glittering silver body and fin is all you see.

This was about hitchhiking to the isle of white with John and Pete to visit John’s friend Fiona

The setting for these poems is the British art college 1970-72. I will leave this collection in the posts for a while then transfer them to page oblivion.

2 thoughts on “Hiding The Waves

  1. “Father” stuck in my head, its such a good story.
    There are so many things… really? thats so sad.
    What about a “Lesley” drawing?
    I like to fight page oblivion with neverending work.
    Sometimes I fantasize about art school, though I know Im “too difficult” to actually enjoy it. And its way too late and I dont want it. Anyway, its fun to read about it.


    • Thank you for your comments. Art school in 1969-72 was unforgettable, it was the end of the sixties and I suppose the end of an older way of life. It all became more controlled by the government after that which is another story. Are you in Hong Kong, try an evening class and talk to people in your nearest school of art, see what they say. 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

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