From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine.

At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal.
It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity.
(A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds)

A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past.
Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre.
Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators.

I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success.

However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative.

A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message;
Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages.

To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past!
Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors!

Purcy Flaherty.

To all the ungrateful ******
that felt me up on the back seat
in some unknown parking lot
because you wouldn't spring
for a real date
Perhaps your waiting for me
to bled my angst onto this page
Pffft
Don't wait!
If you've decimated me
into tiny parts
where slot A no longer fits
for your tiny part B
you don't deserve to be carried,
vaunted upon a poetic chaise
it's a pathetic waste
of my Joie de vivre
I can't read another word
of You were my one and only
until you left me
so I'm just going to keep
writing about
how good I was for him
and how he doesn't deserve me
Because He doesn't care!
He's down and *****
on the back seat
in another unknown parking lot
with another faceless name
for him, it's freaking hot
So stop spilling your life's blood
upon an empty page
Pick up, move on
Discover life after ungrateful ******
Write something that will live longer
than just your age

Pictures in gilded frames
Hang immortalising people of
Old in evanescent faces.
Timelessly captured and
Owned forever poised.
Ghostly images fading
Reminders timeworn in
Antiquity. Long dead
Plates forgotten names
Haunting souls captured in
Sepia smiles.




©Jacqui Slade

while others dream of
getting an education
finding a job
getting a husband
buying a house
choosing curtains
washing sheets
doing chores
and shopping groceries for the week at the local supermarket
going out with the girls for a night out at some nice pub
having a baby
changing diapers
teaching your kid to talk and read
living the dream
cooking pies for pastry contests
growing old and becoming
a nanny
playing bingo in the local club
and driving a nice car
and not having troublesome teenagers
and dying peacefully
and having a fairly nice funeral
and a nice piece of land in the local cemetery,
I dream of
staying up until 4 a.m.
the only light coming from my
laptop screen
killing characters while pressing
keyboard buttons
drinking wine
and smoking rolled
cigarettes
in a cramped apartment
in some unknown city
a room
stuffed with art
and scattered manuscripts
all over the floor
caffeine nights
and starving my body
but feeding my mind
and freeing my soul
I don't dream of getting married
but of getting my characters together and
then drifting them apart
I don't dream of having children
but of writing children who
grab the opportunity and live
a fascinating life
I don't dream of living
I dream of creating lives
and deaths
and dreams
and love
I don't dream of dying an old lady
I dream of immortalising myself
in creating fictional lives

Precise incision

Secretion of vena sera

Immortalising the hideous actions

Of my adolescence.

Pen to paper,
words on a page -
ink smudges
with wisdom I wish I could say.

Life is short
when days are numbered
but my thoughts
when scripted to paper
can immortalise my thoughts -
immortalising my soul

An immortal soul,
means immortal life!
Is it only my body then
that is faced with ending this form of life* -

Raindrops have long returned to their nests of ethereal clouds.
Few stayed here,
diamond drops scattered on
the white pearly glow of my bougainvillaeas,
immortalising the beauty of a mystic's smiles.

I could write something about not being able to find the right words
I was honestly planning on it,
I'm not so good with language
for someone who calls himself a poet

nevertheless, I am a believer in definitions
and surprisingly enough
I like words

I dress everything up in adverbs and poetic devices
still,
usually the things that make me happy don't make very good poems

although I'd still like to try for you

immortalising this feeling in any descriptor I can pull
out to describe it

I like making things pretty, especially with words
like I make myself look pretty when I know I might run into you

on the off-chance that you might notice
I sparkle when I see you
it's not just the glitter, either

I'm not wearing any blush, it's all natural

there's this thought in my head
a foreboding that it might turn bad

just like I might **** you off so bad that
I start to look more appealing to punch than the drywall

having said that, it doesn't really matter,
I'm always scared

you wouldn't hurt me like that

I trust you enough
to fall asleep next to you
because I know I won't wake up with knife marks

I trust you enough to be vulnerable, to be mentally ill

to tell you,
I'm not a normal kid
I'm not healthy

but know that you're not just an extension of my recovery

you're not my ego-boost machine
or a stuffed toy for nothing but empty affection

I really like you
the things you do,
the way you talk so posh

I want to be with you
the way you are with me,
the way you're so sweet and patient

I want to be better with you
to not be so much

don't misunderstand,
I don't depend on you

I can breathe on my own
and my heart doesn't stop when you go home in the morning

but I'd much rather sync my heartbeat with yours

and rest my pretty little head on your chest while I fall asleep

Who will listen to me verse at tedious length?
Upon the ways that you ignite,
A poet's heart, fill it with mettle and strength,
Pity, peace and delight.
If I could write the ebullience of your Heart,
In to sublime, divinest verse,
Who would care to hear that truth ringing out?
Across the flowering universe.
Who would commit their dwindling time,
To hearing all that I hath writ,
In letters and in rhyme,
The way in which I dost immortalise thy spirit.
    So long as I can write and see,
    I will commit to immortalising thee.

Gliding on the Isis, Dad at the castle
Not hindered by the usual watern bustle
Summer is come, my sister’s a flower
Unfurling to sweet sixteen’s tune in this hour
Dog roses and nettles, poplar and willow
Leaning over the bow’s bitter pillow
The world’s upside down – Didn’t need the self-posed illusion
To prove it. Elderflower, wine, and face masks are an odd infusion
But I lie, steampunk Docs in first position, stilled in time
Immortalising it in few photos and poor rhyme
Poor as my experiences are rich, but capturing to perfection
The aimlessness of mine, of our, wonderings’, wanderings’, their recollection.