you reach out a hand to pull sky down the stars, yes the heavens themselves are but bread to you, so break it, break it all upon the ground, shake this broken universe until it begs for release from the ungodly bass of your voice; your ego polishes its own brass to trumpet a truth…Read more Capital
The world gets into our pores and writes on us lines with the clay of earth, warmth of sun bite of wind caress ; sorrow & joy clog our faces with our insides, the experience of our lived Grind:connected. Existentially, we are slow-born sculptures that tell of a daring hand a fiery eye, laced with…Read more Pores
sooty secrets buried in black: bleak as beak. --- windswept wood, wild sweet orange, swan's neck swoops. --- carefully curated, beautiful mind hovers over clear blue sky, being. --- reincarnation of flightless, imagined love, figment-tied: lost. --- so a lone --- ---by Kate Gough ---17/8/17
https://youtu.be/808nTiXLam8 I’m still in this place. Sometimes it seems I never leave. * Gallery, 2014 Imagine, if you will a gallery piece installed, a row of plants at progressing stages of growth, lined up in pots and flash-frozen in time, breathing cold puffs, crystalline almost synthetic. Imagine also the moment the exhibit starts to disintegrate, freeing gouged…Read more Grey
I can’t find my incense. I don’t want to write. I desperately want nothing more than to write. For ever. So then, perhaps I’m just a stymied masochist at heart(less), doomed to miserable inaction for the rest of my days. I do not dedicate myself as I should, as I need. . . There’s a…Read more The Ever-Processing Machine
c. Kate Gough
To possess or be possessed by one's own identity? * The self, the anti-self in dire embrace. * Instead of embracing God, he hugs himself. ~ Theodore Roethke, from The Middle of a Roaring World.