A Poem: Room 3

A light so bright black would shine,
lodged in the corner.
A science awaits the oncoming, calculate time
Ridged! Out stretched trolley hold

Smelling clean the untouched uniform is tied.
A pen mark, a line.
Skin splits…
Like a conductor keeping time.

Time ticks slow…
Eyes scatter the space leaving the subject alone.
Burning hair greats the pneumatic scream.
Oblivious a smile?

Glue and staples and a stitch in time.
Lungs exfoliating air
As if it was me lay there.

By Alan Whitfield 2012


Author: alanwhitfield80

Hello! I get about a bit so here about me first. I am a visual artist and poet who works within the context of fine art. My work is grounded in documentary, exploring the inner beauty of everyday life through various lens based media. Notions of nostalgia and social commentary are present, but from a definite northern working class perspective. Instinctively I exploring the townscapes of North Wales and the North West, often producing work that reflects the every day minutiae of life.

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