the colour blue is never angry, never urgent. it intends no harm; in fact it intends nothing at all.

the colour blue is an origin unto itself an independent pillar of colour, the source of it’s own becoming without beginning or ending.

the colour blue is not artistic on its own, but defenseless against purpose and artistic intention, easily interpreted as an emotional descriptor or reference to a physical struggle.

the colour blue is none of these, alone, it remains silently compliant.

the blue pen is never angry, never urgent. it intends no harm; in fact it intends nothing at all.

the blue pen is a vessel in which words are carried without complaint.

the blue pen is pregnant with words gestating inside, kicking with potential as shopping lists suicide notes, essays, contracts, calculations, ballads, eulogies.

the blue pen is none of these, alone, it cries thick blue tears.

the blue ocean is never angry, never urgent. it intends no harm, in fact it intends nothing at all.

the blue ocean is vast beyond human comprehension, it defies description or ownership.

the blue ocean is loud and violent, it is quiet and tranquil, it is shallow and light, it is deep and dark.

hollow skulls and eyelashes, electrical sockets, stairs and concrete mud maps to ancient burial grounds with each pulsation a ray of sunlight, illuminates the dark urban jungle, for breakfast graffiti 

practiced in east hampton packing sheds dripping blood onto the sheets, roofs of copper elephant’s ears a mask for new apocalyptic fear in exhibitions of darkness, sacred frustrations

kick the bucket go-go boots dagger tipped poisonous frogs re-spawned discursive anarchy tips for making soap, fleeting power trips banana peels floating made up father christmases slicing telephone lines portraits of kings, spartan warriors heads dressed, mailboxes free-fall toward earth birds soaring await aeroplane’s engines, for all eternity practicing signatures in exercise books scrawling away exploding stars, burning overhead, dancing elves in the garden kissing fairies

let me paint a picture for you:

your emotions must be contained somehow, bursting at their seams, eight blue stitches, a colourful violent psyche remains silent underneath.

reserved for truthful whispers, such as these, between sips of water on brown leather chaise lounges, yellow pads, fountain pens and mmmhmms,

how does it make you feel?

the frames on the wall are un- inspiring,

you’ve never liked landscapes anyway, the window is closed,

you’ve never liked portraits either so you avoid eye contact,

if you liked still life, then you wouldn’t be here would you?

that’s the source of your problems.

you stare at the wallpaper so long that it starts to look like the carpet and as the afternoon melts away outside, you stop listening, you feel yourself being lifted up out of your chair,

mid air you catch a glimpse of yourself in a little mirror on his desk, the convex lens confuses, you barely recognise yourself,

you didn’t come here expecting simple answers did you?

as the sorcerer’s apprentice conjures the water from your cup, the storm rages on inside, now you watch it engulf the room, the water rises and falls at the white gloved command,

what do you think is happening to you?

orchestrated in your dreams, overheard as if from another room, the water is sucked back into your glass, you blink and blink again.

you see the walls are as they were when you arrived, but there are patterns on them, watermarks, that look like something you have seen before but found it hard to articulate.

you are handed an inkblot test: