Instead of a collection of objects d’art,
I have a pile of pills on my desk.
In the morning I line them up,
popping them from their shiny,
aluminium crinkly case,
soldiers guarding the edge
of my craziness.
No bronze busts or ebony bookmarks,
just these pills, my marbles of relief.
One is a full moon, pale and perfect,
another a golden capsule,
one smooth as a pebble,
another a fragment of the night.
I call it a study in silence,
the mind slows to a gentle hum,
the jagged edges of the day,
rubbed smooth, colouring the inside,
until shadows cease their pacing.
This chemical art keeps the ceiling from crashing.
I’ve traded vibrant chaos,
the elusive “masterpiece”,
for the monochrome peace,
of this pile of pills,
standing guard upon my desk.
I do not follow those who’ve thrown themselves into the Seine.
I swallow the light they offered,
and offer my raw pain instead.
So, I may not be polished,
let the purists keep their museums,
in silent halls of the dead and gone.
I find my aliveness,
in the work of the living,
in one, by one, by one.
What is art, but the will to remain,
a line drawn against the dark end?
A curated heap of salt and ash,
the flint that strikes the spark.
I am porcelain, I am oak,
I am carved from plastic and glass.
This is no surrender,
but scaffolding that holds the spirit,
that makes the moment last.
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