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Poetry Magnum Opus

Painted dreams


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I followed a feather through a dream across a bridge

cloaked in feathers-cascading with false echoes of
birdsong, disparate dreams of the population drafted
a melody from echoes. The wind shaped wings floating
the bridge to correct divisions, returning Hull to it's
elusive core.
An artist with Alzheimer's, I painted sixty eyes in the sky,
the age I was diagnosed. My imagination remains free and

memories of the time a wolf running through a forest past trees,

passed through sixty eyes to the threshold of vision. I sketch
an affectionate stray cat that comes into the garden, he is
unconstrained, the claws of time are slowly cutting through my
easel. In the night sky, I see sixty eyes closing. I paint myself
with the light from stars, two figures facing each other, the first
light after leaving the womb and the first exposure to sunlight-
both sculpting memories and now the crush of dementia which
is like giving a brush to a statue next to children's playground
with two ghosts sitting on the see-saw.
Hull is a city where the senses will never stagnate, while sailing
on its architecture. The incandescence of the light sprayed across
Pearson Park is like a candle high above the flames of the four

seasons, waxing tears without them falling. Do leaves have ghosts?

the ghosts of a tired perception have left Hull as it hosts a new
synergy created by the city of culture, The river and sky are like
a camera and photographer that will never meet and the waves like
words that will never find a page, Hull a clock becoming aware of
it's age,
I have another dream in which sentences hover close to a blank page
without making contact, the page has forgotten which order the words
go and the feather returns dipped in ink. Walking through Pearson Park
memories of a childhood spent in the park return, ghostly leaves are like
tongues echoing children's laughter as winds above blow through empty
branches, winds never forget to blow moving freely where they want to.
I hold an image in my mind of clutching the moon while sliding down a
helter-skelter, just before I go to sleep that night the moon empty's its
cache of cascading falling memories. I used to walk my dog through the
park, now lost friends are walking my memories through heaven further
towards the threshold to a place where my tale will be told and I will be
free to move memories through the minds and dreams of friends and

I get deja Vu walking down Hessle Road, I cannot remember the future as tears

are launched like lifeboats rescuing thoughts, time spent here is
liberating, like restitching nets to gather visions of the past. Hull is like a needle
with two eyes, one of them invisible making visible the allies who have been
counter stitching cultivating local culture, the thread has fallen away from the
sewers of sorrow. I have been trying to weigh fire before it starts, as Hull's
heart becomes aflame with the city of culture art.I use eyes in the sky as
stepping stones to bring home the paint brush I have swapped with time, day
and night swap tongues, I try and synchronise my strokes with time's brush,
I sketch a clock starting with the hands time completes the body cloaked in
fire, time holds it's breath and blows on the flames, sixty embers are scattered.
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