Josephine Peterkin

Biography

A young escapist

Samples

Touch Red paws drawing into land by; continuous, cross-work trotting, needling through richly branched roots – engraining mass in his boot paws. So scratched and scuffed under the rim of instinct that follows nature – This unceasing inner voice feeling, the cosmic code of Sensations. By leather nose and feet passing – terrain. Trenching… His whispers in agitated areas. On a limb always, with slanted chances. In the midst of frozen air and silence… Twilight gloom, groomed – and gilt his fire fibre (fate stepped jubilantly/… Thick/light, Choppy/saucy, strides) – He stepped clockwise closer to His Stuffer stitching, His frame again. For He is nature’s nerve, of nature’s changing geometry, and passing shapes. Earth, Air, Fire and Water. It is unacceptable! For red footsteps to cross Land. (As Marin blurs paint and reality (that is not art – conservatives say, is he not a mark of nature’s beauty?) Look through his running legs- darting isosceles/rectangular/open, yet concaving periphery, breathing… Catching. Himself? in his tumbling, yarn legs – Jolting fresh, flesh, into the shackled bite! Overwrought in endless, arbitrary, charging pain! His senses muzzled by the pipes of pain, (aren’t theirs too, to like this?) spikes that glamorise his constricting death. They flock like metallic shocks of silver bullets, to their golden prize- Ah’s and Ooo’s of bubble babble. Forgetful- Frightful! Only the excitement of torture as memorable! Once free, Thou’s embroidered bough pads could clench! So softly to, Earth’s skin. An eagle’s clasp, so sown. Our nomadic warrior, now double coated in Red, by no artist like Pollock, but of a brute! No anarchist of civilisation, did ever deserve to bleed. Yet I will remember and feel you like my name. Now, Thou’s plump, possessed necklace of jewel pads, – hang – (and have fallen, dry of life) south on display, branched by a tag, for money? His jewels that protected from jagged dangers. How illuminated their customers are, to see a variety of withered leather paws. That traced the earth Earth, more than they? All are littered textures of an industrial, capitalist world, scavengers of wealth. Common sense is Google, Nature is a picture – framed in screens, alive digitally. Feel the bristles of ancestral shadows and air, our brush with life is only a pulse – that runs bar-along with instinct. Yet the mind’s arctic mouth, masts us to evil winds. Into contact, with traps. It is jaded between the crescent curtain and fullness of the moon. Touch where he stepped, and branch with nature again –

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Blog entries by Josephine Peterkin

Cellular Configurations (04/12/2018)

Blog link: https://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/josephinepeterkin