Philip Charles Williams
Writer, Painter, Maker.
Blog by Philip Charles Williams
Focusing on a giant green pepper,
Feeling the muscular folds
Rumple into deep green and black channels,
Like the gyrification of an exhausted
And diseased brain.
Texture is the skin of the world and
Our birthright is to feel the history of the earth,
Tactilely reading plutonic rock
With our bare...
About selling
They were never wrong;
The old cognoscenti in sports coats,
Spinning stories, sensuously salacious,
Selling art to suckers
Through their ears.
About people
They were never wrong;
The old guards
Shuffling past the Brueghel,
Listen for hours,
Pained by monologues
Of what people do ...
Nobody knows
Everyone wears the same clothes,
Except for a trendy scarf.
Nobody knows
There are lines of coke beneath the keyboards
And trash cans full of barf.
Nobody knows
This is a dying industry, dying like an old Hollywood starlet,
Dying for decades.
Nobody knows
The art of histrionics
Like media executiv...
Nothing is created.
Not the small beat of first love, not the big bang of your wedding day,
Not the first hour your first daughter was born.
Nothing is destroyed.
Not ideas, not technology,
Not real love that bloomed before your eyes.
Everything is struggle.
Uphill careers, backward relationships,
Rusted-ou...
Why reject the reverence
That makes this day,
This day,
More holy than yesterday or
Tomorrow?
If your birthday is just a number,
Aren’t birthdays mystical as well?
When Pythagoras sat cross-legged
Looking out at the Ionian Sea,
Listening to the inaudible symphony
Of a mathematical universe,
When Cardano ...
In his mid-sixties,
Sometimes Art-Dealer,
Sometimes Importer,
World-weary eyes hovered
Over a three-day
Graying growth beard.
He glided up the path
Around the ruins
Of Erol Flynn’s old tennis court,
With Pritzi, his ever-vigilant
German Shepherd
By his side.
Sitting on a bench ...
He said it aloud,
Matter of fact;
“I’m just a schmo”.
And with that,
The axis of the city turned
Away from his creative self,
Away from his power,
Away from his youthful visions
Like the winter axis turning away from the sun,
Like a beggar knocking on a church door that never opens,
Like a wife who has ...
You can almost hear the snickering
Behind their quizzical stares,
And feel their question behind
The long, awkward silence that asks
What is art
Compared to wealth?
You might wonder
If they care about the past,
Shrugging before yet another cemetery,
Another memorial,
Questioning the origin story o...
We keep choosing
And this is what we get;
Vacant offices and ghost exchanges,
Avatars of buyer personas
Walking through malls like vast catacombs
Waiting to be resurrected by a flash sale.
The same joke is told everywhere we go,
Like personalized license plates,
The same meme copied like fractals
Down ...
Categories
- General
(9)
- The City
(7)
- The Country
(1)
- The Frontier
(5)