Two and a half more hours complete. CURRENT SEWING TIME=9 1/2 hours.

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James Byron Dean, Ritzy Cinema

Here is my entry in progress for Ritzy Cinema's 100 Poster Competition. I'm sewing the 'Rebel without a Cause' film poster (see below) and I started James Dean yesterday. Sewing with my hands makes even the darkest days seem a little more worthwhile and I can only assume that being remembered with a needle and thread was exactly what James Dean always hoped for.

CURRENT SEWING HOURS = SEVEN.

If I was brave you would love me

This is the latest poem for CreatureMag. To check out the illustrated version click here.
Everybody at one stage or another has wished they had the guts to say something to somebody they care for and this is my experience of that. Sometimes it is easier to imagine grand gestures as opposed to tiny moments when truth is all there is between two people and that is where this poem stems from. I wanted to write something utterly personal that had universal appeal and would perhaps encourage people to step up and be brave.


I consider painting my eyes onto your face
so you could see what I see.
I spend time wishing I could fill your head with my thoughts
hoping you would breathe them into words
and make them into something real.

I walk with you along beaches and
write things I'm too afraid to say into sand
knowing that ocean will erase any proof
before you have the chance to see.
I pick up rocks and collect them in my pockets
because I feel heavy and it's all I know how to do.

Given the chance I would cover your floor with matches,
knowing that even the greatest fires start from tiny sparks,
and hope that even one step
would light even one match
and things between us would be new.

If I was brave you would love me.

Bryan Adams and the Ritual of the Curtains

My brother must still have been in a wheelchair
because we pushed past high rises
and people who were respected at five
and drunk by seven.
I threw pennies at the Carnival Queen.
"Don't aim for her face" someone shouted.
Now it seems I was smaller than I was but
I'm sure I saw more than knees
and hightops
and plastic cups filled with Carnival nectar.

Later, my hands greasy with vinegar and the memory of chips,
we walked up the hill that unfolded into the sky
Unending
and unforgiving
At home, Bryan Adams played on the radio.
I realised then that my family would die.
Thats when it started.
Vinegar hung heavy like dustsheets over everything.
It's what I remember most.
That smell of vinegar and the overwhelming realisation
that I controlled my families future
with the ritual of the curtains.

A Poem for Katy

Here is my latest entry for creaturemag. My friend Katy and I had a very compelling late night visit to the West Hill recently. It was during the Super Moon and as we stood, cold and still, staring as the sea glimmered under extra big moonlight, we spoke about the sky and the moon and how we’re all connected and how we’re all made of stardust and how we’re all falling, constantly falling.
This poem is for her and it is for that night. Its all I could do to ensure that I didn’t forget.


I fall deeper into billowing sheets of grey and blue
anchored only by lights that shone once before
and just for a minute.
I scribble words onto sky and watch them glitter and drop onto ocean
and into your hands
finding it difficult to seperate you and it
so intertwined you have become that it seems unnecessary even to try.
As we stand before magic that exists not only in our eyes
I consider piling sticks
one
on top of one
on top of one
so you could climb above and see what tonight looks like from another place.

As evening breathes into night
and blue and grey part company for black
we pause and anticipate involuntary change.
Buoyed by our own design.
If music had been playing I would have danced with my eyes wide open.
Cosmic rhythms.

It isn't always easy to be brave.