At the bridge of the failed painter, I stoop and check the sagging timbers before placing one foot, then the other, on this sorry decrepitude. It cracks and pops like a first fleet ship, but the sounds are not ominous; more the rattled wheezing of an invalid friend. I proceed with care,sucking the thumb pricked on its splintery balustrade. Ahead, lies the gate and welltrod path and, branching like spider veins, the merest hints of tracks―overgrown, leading to a wilderness filled with possibilities. I stand and consider. Buttoning my duffel coat—a veteran of the moth wars, I step off the path, and into the weeds.
©L.M.Noonan



The morgue chamber

a farrago of incidents ingeniously inventive—
                  the neighbour smitten, desolate ,friendless, both hands held overhead;
the legacy of hope
I begin where I can
I use myself—delivered of my fears and sorrows;
and trespass on alien waters
making art in the shallow picture space between the subject and the methodologies
seeking to apprehend a sensuality as the narrative

pain is pictureable
a valuable almanac sometimes mistaken as antediluvian dismal foreboding
another faltering step along the path of formality
sprinkling visual cues
feathery references

at length I pronounce Grace and Glory
untitled 1,2 and 3
and place my exquisite corpses on the altar that is the existential dung heap


© L.M.Noonan 2009

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