Glossy red lip glitch,

Makin’ her a goddamn sexy bitch.

Who said that glasses were boring?

Bright red lip red roaring.

Get outta her way,

Got an awful lot to say.

With these red red lips,

brushing off all of those shoulder chips.

Glossy red lip glitch,

Makin’ her a goddamn sexy bitch.

“RED LIP GLITCH” is a digital artwork available on Known Origin.



Movie-star in love with golden aquila,

lay across ancient ruins like Roman goddess

with arched back and five star insecurities.


Rasping vespa screeched around ancient stones,

as she splashed porcelain in crystal clear fountains,

trying to be sultry native with hopeless words.


Don’t let her read the love poems of Catullus,

or she will be forever dreaming of thousands of kisses,

tortured by unrequited love and hooded traitors.


Hallucinating tattooed film stars and la dolce vita,

she was lost to the city and it swept her up,

along with all the other wannabe Italian starlets.


Edinburgh was bitter today, windy and cold,

I went for a walk, threw on a hat black and bold


I didnae realize that the thing on my head

Was a black balaclava, pure rebel wool thread


I marched up to town, battled through tourists,

Came to the Tolbooth, where the street is the jurist


I used to be good, used to be so quiet,

Now, I want to start a fucking street riot.


When walking old streets in soft balaclava,

Beware the rebels of the city of lava.


We might not see ghosts of our ancient city,

But you will feel their cold grief and sad lonely pity.


If closes could talk and walls could speak,

The tales of Auld Reekie the stones would shriek.



An artist gives (not sells) an artwork to a bourgeoisie gallery,

They have no income, no fancy salary.


The bourgeoisie gallery sells it on to a bourgeoisie buyer,

Who keeps it in a safe, makes the price go higher.


They dole out the cash to the grateful artist,

‘We’ve taken our cut, we know best, We’re the smartest.

Do a few more; keep them large and rare,

Cause we’re taking them all to the latest art fair.”


The bourgeoisie gallery turns up in London or Basel,

Everyone trying to act uber posh casual,

“This guys the thing, the latest trend,

For you, we will make the tax rules bend.”


“Give us your cash, we don’t care where it’s from,

We will sell you some art. We will all make a bomb.”


We have sold our souls to the highest bidders,

When all art becomes a series of figures.

Bourgeoisie art for bourgeoisie sake,

Is making the art market totally fake.


Get out of my studio,

I cry and wail,

Art is my soul,

And it’s not for sale.




jeff koonssmall.jpg


Some poems woke me up tonight,

Threw stones at my soul, filled the room with light.


A group of hoodlums, they looked hard and cool,

A few stepped forward, “we are the words that rule.”


“You never listen, you never write!”

(He was the loudest, gave me a fright).


“I’m not a poet. It’s not my thing”

My feeble excuse has a hollow ring.


A small hoodie jumped in front of the others,

“I might be smaller than my brothers,

But Ive been through the mill.

My story in your book, you need to fill.”


Wincing at her bad sentence construction,

I could still sense her sad story seduction.


They loomed in further, 3am shadows dark,

A gang of words, ready to leave a mark.


“Ok, ok. I’ll give it a go.

But please let me sleep now,

Ive had enough of your show.


They back off then, something in my voice,

Smirking at me, they knew I had no choice.


Be careful of wishing for words before sleep,

For, at 3am, into your room they will creep.