Eliasson exhibition is good enough to ea

SONGBIRD

I have this pulse that beats inside my bones
It bangs. It quivers
On and on it drones
But it isn't mine
I think it's a bird
Singing ferocious, crying to be heard
Alive you are, small bird
I hear your fierce notes demanding to be heard
"Hush-hush" I say
but it isn't a bird desperate to be heard
It is sound itself
And I am just its echo
This pen, this head- penhead can't understand
I am sound, not man.

DON'T CALL ME BABY

Beckett had it wrong

Lawyering up his words like medallions for a passing purgatory

They're not yours

They're not

They became someone else's the moment they ushered forth

Oh, sure

You can be that sticky parent who follows your kid down nightclub corridors

That'll go well

It was yours while it was in your head

Slipping through your thumb and fist and muttered by pudgy lips

But

Once it slid out- bang

The salmon skipped away

Writers won't

Painters won't

Prophets won't

Loving the me-ness of the makering

The holding, moulding, oodling over the finger gun

Trying to suckle the teenager

Never being done