I'm sitting on a capstan on the dockside
as, off and on, I've been for several days.
The skipper of a frigate by the dockside
has suspicions that he's not afraid to air -
he's sent an officer, repeatedly, to question
why I'm sitting on this capstan on the dockside,
why I've been doing so for several days.
I've explained, as plain as I can make it sound,
that sitting on a capstan on the dockside
is not an occupation I would recommend.
As a chair the capstan lacks a few essentials,
and I've tried to make it clear it's not for fun
that I'm sitting on a capstan on the dockside
observing naval vessels leave and come.
I think I'm now about to be arrested,
for the skipper's glasses glint more often in the sun.
I can only say what I have said - and now repeat:
that I'm waiting for another man to come,
a man essential to a most essential plan:
a man who will be authorised to start
the job that I've been given clearance to complete.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
Tom Lubbock, writing in The Independent (friday 15 May 2009) returned to the age old topic of censorship in the arts. Well, in painting act...