Saturday, 24 May 2008
I’ll Write A Zillion Poems But None Will Be Read
Pen on paper.
A visual poetry in a form of typographic drawings.
This set of handwritten texts was made on contrary to the fact that all forms of writings are ultimately meant to be read—even if the writer is the only reader.
I wrote them both automatically and consciously with an initial poem in mind that is about: all the different things that I’ll do but am hindered in certain ways. The same poem is repeated but modified as I went along and these changes I’d made will not be recorded as I am not able to read most of the text that were written.
Some pieces are massively covered with writings, made in different colours and layers as to emphasize the obsessive behaviour and compulsive romantic preoccupations as reflected in the original version...
I'll say I’ll.
I'll build a treehouse but I haven't got enough pennies but it's planks I need.
I’ll lay on the beach but it’s been a gloomy week.
I’ll go to Paris but you wouldn’t want to see me.
I’ll never be in politics nor domestics.
I’ll paint the sea but there’s not much to see except lines that freeze.
I’ll believe in everything but there’s nothing to see in me.
I’ll never forget those quiet eyes but it’s heartbreaking.
I’ll sing a song but it will be neverending.
I’ll write a poem but it will not be seen.
I’ll watch you eat but it will be uneasy.
I’ll rock this town but not without you with me.
I’ll do a million things but you will never be convinced and
I’ll be condemned for blasphemy.
I’ll climb the giant bean stalk but you’re not on top.
I’ll be your lady but you wouldn’t like three.
I’ll be alright as there’s not much to dread about.
I’ll overcome the truth but it will be a lie.
I’ll repeat the infinite rides but there’s not enough light and
I’ll not possibly repeat an unfinished.
I’ll get my head in the tub but it’s scorching hot to turn on the tap.
I’ll be thinking but there’s nothing to free.
I’ll sleep with you but you wouldn’t bring me home.
I’ll let the cat free but he wouldn’t leave without me.
I’ll fabricate a zillion stories but none will be on sliver screen.
I’ll sin and it wouldn’t cost more than a Mercedes.
I’ll continue staring at the list but you’re already in bed without me.
I’ll wake up at three but there’s nothing in the fridge to eat nor drink.
I’ll kill who you hate but you got to give me some hints.
I’ll look you straight in the eyes but I reckon you’ll turn into a flea.
I’ll miss you but you’ll never know.
I’ll leave no more messages ‘cos
I’ll be ill.