STUDIO POETRY

It was late, and I was tired, but I could’ve sworn I saw a mother and child walking towards me that night. Why is it that our memories change so much in the after-thought of a major event? Why can’t I quite picture the look on her face, or the words on her t shirt? Perhaps they will read this message and contact me.

‘But the floor is so smooth, we simply can’t dig here’ ‘You must, that’s where the gold lies’ ‘Can’t we dig over there, and come in through the side?’ ‘Absolutely not’

A long time ago an old man began to gather his things and rest them on top of each other. It was hard work and they fell over a lot. One time they didn’t fall over though, and the man was happy. This particular combination stood tall and strong for years, until the old man died and eventually the stack had to be dismantled.

I can’t work out how big you are. Or how you are standing up. Or how it feels when I touch you. Or if I’m allowed to touch you.

It took ages to get the shiny ball in place. As we moved one tentacle into position, the other would move, and once that one was in position, the smooth ball would glide across the polished desk and perilously close to the grate. Eventually, Thom had the idea of using a clamp.

‘No, it’s fine, the painting can have my seat’ Sally murmured as she leant against the seafoam-green wall. Her legs were killing, she’d been standing up all day and been for a run this morning. Still, paintings were more important than people to her mother.

‘Another notice?’, Josh said as he reluctantly taped the crisp sheet to the wall. ‘Just put it up there’

My fingernails were full of dirt and I was told to go and wash them. I quite liked them looking like that though; a clear crisp dark arch underlining my nail - a furrowed brow for my finger in one direction and a smart smile in the other.

Not there. No not there either. Look. Just. No, to the left. Too far. Come on. Just. Almost. No.

How it buzzed, and how it hurt she thought as she lay back quietly. It should look good though, and elegant (on the whole). He is quite mysterious.

You can cup your face in your hand, your chin in your palm, until it begins to sweat. There are 16 of us now, and we haven’t even begun

Soon after, when the room empties, Ian opens his hand and shows Alexa the broken enamel shards that have gathered in his sweaty creases. She takes one and places it in the pocket of her fleece

Everything in scale felt so polite. But in matter so repulsive. ‘Mixed Media’, that pink piece that you defiled with your naïve handwriting

Those horribly over-familiar scribbles on your favourite piece. You said that they’re not yours as if it would hide your anxiety, but it doesn’t

There were four of us that day. All waiting and watching, waiting and watching. Whilst we all looked similar we couldn't relate to one another. Sometimes our spasmodic actions came at the same time, like an on-land synchronised swim.