I was speaking to someone the other night about art (little working class ‘a’ in this instance) and as usual, when out of my narrow comfort zone of the written word, i was all over the place, fumbling and falling and kinda failing to express what i meant. Then today i was going over an older poem, and there it was, explaining just what i wanted to say.

Photos do not tell the whole truth
If a person knows you are taking a picture, they pose,
This is a fact

If a person does not know you are taking a picture
The world around them adds its own take on the narrative

Put a man up against a wild blue sky and fierce grey sea
And unless
He is standing on his head and pulling out his tongue
He becomes a somewhat noble adventurer

This is not reality, it’s a comfortable con
All fresh and snuggly-wuggly at the same time

This piece of writing will not tell the whole truth
Just A truth
It will never lie, exactly
But there will be posing

Names are usually withheld to protect both the innocent
And the wicked.

All art is this way,
The million zillion ways we perceive art
Alternate Universes really
Shape-shifting in time
Against the click-clack of our internal
Comfort Zone Clocks

We take what we enjoy and throw away the rest
And the artists have caught onto this
And proceed accordingly.