Sometimes i feel very strongly about, well, stuff. As a writer this is not always a good thing, cause unless i am very careful a poem can turn into a rant, turn bitter and no-one wants that. So this was a MUCH longer piece, razor sharp, cutting everywhere for no good reason. So instead here are two very short stories about people who become ‘art adjacent’ through no fault of their own, and the world is so much poorer for that.

When she was 16
She would dance in her room
Slam down hard onto the wooden floor
The fierce groove up there in her head
Headphones
Totally lost
Wired
Arms shooting out, feet twisting the twist

Shhh be quiet, be still, what will the neighbours say?

She would learn to be quieter
Keep her distance from the anger and joy
And to be what was asked of her
Art Adjacent

He would play the fool
Always on the edge
Of falling, exploding, screaming
The words would tumble out, float bullet like this way and that
Knock the sweat from your senses
Make you brave and boisterous and breakable

Shhh slow down, or, even better, be still

He would learn to be quieter
Say things that did not provoke
Polite, not pushy
Nice smile
Art Adjacent

For years
I walked the path of the Art Adjacent
I was lucky though
Kept losing my way
Ending up in the bramble, and the random, and the giggle intense
Got through to the other side
Safe here on the other side
Looking in.