River poem


Who has bared witness to your survival
Conduits of the colonisers
Ever seeking blood of bloods


living connecting communicating
through your archaic will
of energy to sustain
Virtuous woman knows not of herself
giving unto others the knowledge of
Sparkling eyes the silver clouds long for.
I am riding, observing your gracious flesh
pulled from its resting place to fulfil the
needs of endless population crisis.
Dumbasses flashing neon orange in the sunlight.
Who am I to judge when the problems lie so
deeply consumed by the nature of the dominant
Changing you like an unwanted, mad surgeon
like some doctor to pursue the
science fiction of female genitalia.

You are so mutable, love of loves to me
teacher of all
May I call you Papatuanuku?
Are you her?
Can I ride you on this experiment of self?

Make me hear everyone speak poetically
so I can smoke 24/7
Am I poisoning myself like they ripped holes in you?
Will we find the passage guarded by someone else?
Can we even blame them darling?
Is it the inorganic plan?

Sorry for lusting
can we be the same?
Is that why the wind will change my face?
Force these changes so I become wiser
As wise as you?
Can I stop everything,
or is it part of this organised chaos?

Unquenched disorder in a world of mirage
Did I really see a cow being fucked from behind
or was it just a big cow?

So many questions, how uncharismatic…

Everyone loves you, but no one knows
Manufacturers of mystic symbols love their creations
Not as much as I love you
after 3 wines and 20 cigarettes
I am as much of a void
But I learn in hindsight darling.
As deep as a trench I’ll find myself and you
staring down at me licking at your thighs.
Let me learn to love myself with your body.

Nothing is as good as a guess
Life is an elusive substance
Can I use my foolish youth as some kind of
Crowned calamity of desire for bricks rendered pure
obtaining your depths for new yuppies validating old industry
on their morning runs together.
Let’s spit on them.
Can I see life drip from your mouth first Papa?
It would give me such heavenly feelings
bearer of gods and demigods. Ancestors born again in me.
Incest is not incest if we’re so devoid
Meeting you is not as meeting a lost cousin.

Lorna Simpson was born in 1960, she is an African-American photographer and multi media artist, she received a Bachelor of Photography from the New York School of Visual Arts, but began engaging in different medias to challenge and engage the viewer.
In the 1980s her name became synonymous with ‘photo-text’ artworks where graphic text is inserted in studio portrait style photographs which bought new conceptual meaning to the work. The text is involved in creating discourse around the photos that bear witness to the lives of African-American women in American culture.

I began reading a chapter in the book Art on my Mind: Visual Politics by bell hooks yesterday and she wrote about Lorna Simpson’s work. What caught me in the first few paragraphs was the reference of Ms Simpson in her book regarding the uninitiated not having the eyes to see. This cleared all confusion for me on the wild ignorance that we might see from the outside world, and why socialising is sometimes, perhaps most times harmful if we are not conditioned enough to those who do not have the metaphysical eyes to see the traumas each of us have experienced and do experience in the world of many different social structures that bind and connect us to one another.

The Waterbearer 1986 Lorna SimpsonThe Waterbearer, 1986
Lorna Simpson

Five Day Forecast 1991 by Lorna Simpson born 1960Five Day Forecast, 1991
Lorna Simpson

Then & Now 2016 by Lorna Simpson born 1960Then and Now, 2016
Lorna Simpson