Art/TEXT 2010 10 Artists response to writers

The Table

So many colours. Each with value. Scattered around the table. Six chairs, Six players, One winner. Beer for some,Water for others,Will you play serious? Or just for fun?

Jake

Quiet and unpredictable. No knowledge available to others. He waits patiently. Engages when necessary. The quiet achiever.

Jack

The smart one. Doesn’t play much. Doesn’t need to. Oh so relaxed. Everything is under control. Fear the brain but utilise the arrogance.

Jesse

Everyone knows he’s there. In everything, All or nothing.What will he do? When will he do it? Not the brightest but this is his advantage.

Justin

The textbook. Poised, planned, predictable. Plays to win. Always gets close. Read the example then complete the exercise. Practice makes perfect.

Brett

Has style and the image. Loves to be the image, Seductive play with productive results. Take the bait but don’t be the catch.

Michael

Laugh out loud! Is this a game or is it a joke? First comes the beer. Is that a bluff? What is he doing? I know I can beat that, But why does he always beat me?

Evan Winterburn

Art/TEXT 2010 10 Artists response to writers

The River Runs

Together we sit in the new cafe,
Same foundations, smaller building,
Everything changed after the flood.
Arifin and Sharon moved away
Colin and Felix are here somewhere,
Indra’s ghost still walks the river.

Arifin used to be the spirit of the town,
But after the flood moved out of town,
He turned to god,
Bred some fish
Chased tail in the city,
Before finding an island to spread his roots
There he met someone and married,
He still dreams of the river
But she could never live there.

Sharon tried to make it in the city nearby
But she grew bored and flew away
Like a bird
One day unwittingly found herself nesting
She said it could never stop her travelling,
We haven’t seen her since.

Colin and Felix are playing snooker,
Both still bachelors but older
Now they must think about their families and futures
Their hearts grow heavier
Their eyes don’t shine like they used to.
Work is scarce , less tourists, fewer oragutan.
They live under the spell of a struggling paradise,
Roll it up and smoke it,
Play another round of billiard.

Indra Indra
So kind and handsome
made many dreams come true
went missing in the flood.
Two weeks later they found him
hand in hand with this brother
hey only knew it was him because of the coconut necklace he wore.
His inn is rebuilt now run by family
There you’ll find a small boy
With his eyes and his name.

Mica Cochrane

Art/TEXT 2010 10 Artists response to writers

Red Wine and Gaffa Tape

Emily’s farewell night started out with dinner, just one glass of red, and a role of gaffa tape. Before long we were all topless, jiggling homemade boobie-tassles, gaffa taping skin and drawing fake moustaches on each other, shameless as the Virgin Mary.

Mica Cochrane

Art/TEXT 2020 10 Artists response to writers

Freedom

Whenever in life there is freedom from the world, the mind keeps looking for another excuse, another obligation, another captivation to tangle the soul into another chain of this world. Even the monks, who make a choice to leave this world and chose solitude, are they not making a choice of captivation?

Sarwat Maqbool

Art/TEXT 2010 10 Artists response to writers

Into white

Strange reflections, bound in weaponry
left to dissolve in an endless wallow of white.

Philip Mudin

Art/TEXT 2010 10 Artists response to writers

Gateway

This is both a gateway and a prison
by thoughts I inflect a structure by which to hang stars
A machine to churn galactic mist into
symbols that bleed signatures of angels.
Worship this manifestation of devastating truth
that there be no other devil of casket intrusion.

By upward defining transgressions
of duplicitous carcinogens …
behold I am a disease called life
slowly consuming its own essence
arriving back at the beginning
to find I have gone nowhere
but inside my mind’s eye to fall
into reality once again;

A sign incomplete
A sound stopped mid sentence
A wound scabbed over only to be reinfected.

Philip Mudin

Art/TEXT 2010 10 Artists response to writers

I want to kiss your hand

which writes poems

out of my loveletter

by letter crafting

my emotions

eternal

Sarwat Maqbool

Art/TEXT 2010 10 Artists response to writers

Our Own Creation

The darkness of night swallows the last of the day’s failing light, a blanket of anonymity for all to hide beneath. Cries of joy and sorrow, screams of pain and pleasure combine with the low rhythmic beats of the neon night life, a gaudy soundtrack for decadence, vanity, corruption and vice. The night’s cold hands embrace all this depraved hedonistic world has to offer, opening its maw wide to take its fill before the return of the “civilised” daylight hours.
This twisted pantomime of so called “evolved humanity” is where I play my part. I don’t believe myself to be better than those I observe, purer of soul or more honourable of intent. I count myself among the filth of our fair city. I’ve felt the chemical fire burn through my veins, I’ve taken delight in the pain and suffering of others and I’ve lost myself pressed against the warm flesh of a willing whore.
This city is a dark temptress of our own creation and I like countless others, have fallen prey to her many snares.


Will Yvanovich

Art/TEXT 2010 20 Artists response to writers

Birthday Boy

Three years old
Two feet tall
Spiky ginger hair and a grin from ear to ear
Clad in stripy blue pajamas.
Small soft hands clapping
bare feet jumping.
He is yelling, “It’s Thomas!” “It’s Thomas!”
His contagious exuberance envelopes us like a cloud
as we look on at the birthday boy and his now unwrapped toy.

Juliana Cieslar

Art/TEXT 2010 10 Artists responses to writers

Night

Darkness falls
out they come
Beady eyes and steaming breath
creeping slowly hunger waits
Until darkness fades
only to begin again.

Jodi Farquhar

Art/TEXT 2010 10 Artists responses to Writers

Fifty words

An orange light; the pedestrians were a little too ready in the mind of the cop bringing his car to a stop.
“My duty!” decided the cop slowly and he drove through the lights, stopped and proceeded to lecture the pedestrians about road safety. He’d driven through a red light.

Isaac Liehne

Art/TEXT 2010 10 Artists responses to Writers

Twisted

I watched as they walked by. High school was horrible. The kids didn't give a shit about anything but their own selfish problems. They would throw rubbish at me, spit at me, they burnt me more times then I can count but the one moment that bought fear to my heart was when I saw one of them walk towards me, he had a smile of derision and a knife in his hand, he carved his initials into my flesh, I still remember the cold steel piercing my flesh. It was then that I hated, I hated them all, I wanted them dead, to make them feel the pain and sadness I had felt, to punish them for what they had done to me. I looked out across the field to where the orchard stood, my life’s blood dripping from my wounds. There was an apple tree there; she stood there, beautiful, her blossoms glowing in the light of the spring sun. Why could I not be there, anywhere but here? I turned and looked at the school, the bell rang and the sheep flocked to their classes, never would I have my vengeance, such things are for those with hands and feet two things that I lack for in the end who really cares about the hundred year old oak.

Daniel Dunn

Art/TEXT 2010 01 Artists response to writers

In church

The priest spoke his sermon, practised and rehearsed, the secrets of godliness expressed easily, while his eyes were left to wander.
Third pew, red hair, long legs. Why wear a skirt that high to church he didn’t know. In all his learning there was some secrets which faith denied him.

Geoff Van Der Hor