in the other Turner prize category... a man wearing all black and a white bow-tie, with yellow braces keeping his trousers up... face painted into a loved-up clown... in one pocket candy... in the other? copper pennies... walks in a tube tunnel, sees a busker, doesn't interrupt the musician asking whether it's the 31st of October... slams a handful of copper into the busker's guitar sheath, walks on; well, as saving grace works: not using enough colour ensures just enough happens on the canvas... some say women imagine in black & white... i say: so much more happens in black & white... if i had the oils, i'd just paint a stasis, a pose... with writing i am able to compose constant animation... ants in my pants scenario... sniffing pepper: achoo! hence escaping painting and entering animation... but still the honest and matrimonial ******* of up-kept poetry akin to gardening, unchanged.*

i love how women always
say: there's that voice inside my head...
              that voice
that said to me...
                                  uncoupled narratives,
so... does that mean i
get to paint a ******* oil painting or something?
we get told pink for girls,
blue for boys,
                 Barbies for girls
trucks for boys,
           poetry for girls
and painting for boys...
                                      oh look,
a transgender statement:
                           i'll leave you to your little
political dynamo to censor other
people's oiling of words: i.e. vocabulary -
so it doesn't huh huh hurt.