Tuesday, 24 March 2009


Check out this book I came across called 'The secret museum of mankind'

Click on the A-Z button for a list of pics, then scroll around.
There are literally hundereds of photo's on here!!!
The captions are well worth reading, I could spend all day over here...


Friday, 20 March 2009

Front of my sketchbook. TG

(only putting this up cos elliott told me to so he doesn't look like he's hogging the blog. bloghogger)

Monday, 16 March 2009

Friday, 13 March 2009

hello from Kate and Tim

Thursday, 12 March 2009


Two poems

This is our home

this is our home.
gentle whiteness and pouring violets
enfolding, gently
into streams of yellow pear
wardrobes and cushions,
made from the ears of old birthday cards.
this is our home.
crescent folding arms,
caress the ears of the tea stained elderly,
who sit and revel on bathroom mats
of dark moisture and cigarettes.
this is our home.
lemon eyed bannisters and kitchen eyes,
whistle strange outdoor sounds,
as apples grow from each branch of the trees in the garden
and fall to the floor.
this is our home.
turqoise staircases withdraw their tongues,
and sterile heaven ducks,
cascade orange glass noise,
across the brick mountains of the garage.
this is our home.
a hymn. a beautiful seat.
a flower made from apple metal.
this is our home.

Anxiety depart light arrive

Often i can hear the sound of lizard quilted terrains and folding paper hands,
pitter patter upon my tense aching shoulders;
misted breaths of milk and anger, clammering
prodding my lungs and neck and back.
Daggering my head with a nihilistic confusion
of dreams of thoughts. my over baked over thinking head.
A glimmer of the moment. of sitting here now in this.
To resist the pull of the future and thats and ifs and possibles
is all i want. my real baked dream.
To shove all this 'other' aside,
and sit and read and rest content. simple joy. old and new.
of saturday mornings in bed with my girl
of evenings immersed in a story or film
of walks with my fictional turtle.
this is all i want.
not this tense stress anxious fingers of foals and bear voices
not the loss of the wind in my eyes
not a hand on my body jeering in a constant yellow thunder.

a recent collage

some drawings

some sketchbook bits and bobs

Wednesday, 11 March 2009

a painting i did the other night. i call it 'the love of andrew rees'


There are no trampolines in Heaven, Jacob knew from a very
early age. I think that was what made him behave so badly.

If trampolines can cause injury and heaven is full of god
then trampolines can't be in heaven because god doesn't
want cuts and bruises in heaven. So they must be in hell.

Jacob was a tough kid, took no prisoners in the playground,
didn't eat his greens, and died too soon in a tadpoling

He went to Heaven anyway (for being young), and
much to his concern he found trampolines. They were
equipped with extra thick padding round the edges and
constant safety monitors, but, even so, he never went on,
because it wasn't risk-free, and in Heaven you don't take

something I dug up and wasn't sick on.

blowing smoke out of my window,
dragon claw plated in fish-scale-skin breathing over
the statues across the street,
into the leaf-soaked gutters of the abandoned night,
blowing smoke out of my wide window
seeping in the statues that marvel
at the faint orange sky,
the occasional window flickers with burning filament
as the marble figures
move slowly into the morning,
blowing smoke out of my window.

clever monkey do good


quite clearly the clever thing to do in this situation.

bloody zoo-watchy-people.