Tragic messy art. Secret poet. Bus and train flaneur. Weighty tome buff. Quite gorm. Artist_in_a_shed on Instagram.
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Work work work.
Time stretched. Oil on card.
Not a Siskin
Quick - get the book.
Where’s the book?
Here. Rifle, shuffle,
Ruffle like a deck.
A flick of wet feathers,
Yellow underneath
Tending to beige?
Some dabs of zinc.
A jubilant trill?
Insistent sing-song?
But - oh - it’s gone -
A flutter of wings and pages.
Morn @imcmillan.bsky.social
Heavy rock. Berwick beach. Oil on canvas.
Atoms
Under every cloud
Lie a thousand shadows
Each singed onto render
Like a ghost-tree
Some where luckier than others
Living half lives
Vaporising like spit
On a Dead Sea beach
In a dream
The trees returned
Though smaller
Stunted, raw
Morn @imcmillan.bsky.social
Evening stroll. Woolly formations.
Landslip. Collage and watercolour on paper.
Gripper
Underscored by a wheezing curse
I make for the sentry box
Killing, or worse, broken
By high falls and scarred
By a biro, a man as a cypher
Tending to hero. Yet he is nothing,
Emasculated, without a cool mission
And in action so underrated.
Morn @imcmillan.bsky.social
Early stroll. Sunlight bathing those trees. A pale rainbow’s curve. I am hooded. A man in a parked car scratches his head. Dropped 5p like a bright eye.
Early stroll. I carry a card in a bright red envelope. White line as art, road as gallery. The narrative of old
footprints in old concrete. A cat’s cold stare. Six shoes on a front doorstep.
