Saturday, 16 January 2016


Thoughts, pictures and words all generated by chance, a 'Wunderkammer' of objet trouvé

I have to ask where do my thoughts come from? They pop in and out of my head with such frequency and seemingly so little connection or pattern that it seems that everything in my head is random. Maybe it’s just electrical impulses, generated by who knows what discharging themselves like tiny lightening bolts deep inside my brain? Perhaps it’s just my rubbish spewing forth. Maybe it’s an illness.

Today I’m playing a game, an experiment if you like. I’m not the first – the Dadaists, Burroughs, Dali, Bowie and Warhol - to name but a few - have all played the random game. The image of bottles and heads has no purposeful thought behind it, just an internet cruise picking up small island images at random, at the drop of my hat, internet doodling as the finger of chance points to this and that and moves on and on again.

So, no reason for bird, baby, giraffe or Mr Punch; the wine bottles simply a useful foil to display a glittering array of heads. The words are even more randomly chanced. Generated automatically by the internet in an electrical online poem generator and then polished a little by my own electrical outbursts simply to make them agree and fold with the image.

It seems to work, at least as much as most of my outpourings do. It looks like creative thought, it sounds like considered creativity, but it’s basically random chance with not much consideration at all. Perhaps that’s really what creativity is; something outside ourselves that forces us to follow, to make some sort of sense of the randomness. We are polishing the turd ourselves and perhaps the consciousness of logical thought would kill that creativity, who knows?

Anyway, enjoy; it has little and everything to do with me.

Quite glittering on the sea

Very brilliant above the water
I chew with rabid vapours beneath the wind.
Wait. That feeling will come.
Strange and humming in the air,
Head in the sand above the towers,
Awakening, lusting, vanishing,
Quite glittering below the waves.
Divine electric snares in blue
I tighten my wig,
A punch is coming.
Penniless, hopeful, fading slowly.
A baby’s sour breath, 
With nothing to lose. 
To what ending? 
Such a sad, bad, madman 
To fly from his bottle home 
And never catch up again.
Very brilliant beneath the water,
The life of a lunatic;
A vagrant squatter,
And therein lies the trick.
The meaningless of words
Would turn pure thought to drifting turds.

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