As we march towards the spring Equinox
Clouds blink and then cry outside my West London skyline.
Faint rays of light bend through the veiled window of my studio.
In a mere ten minutes, a dull tone of grey pastel takes a walk
With confident, improvised strokes.
As I step back and view, Lautreamont comes to mind:
"As beautiful as the chance encounter of a sewing machine
And an umbrella on an operating table."
I step forward and substitute that sewing machine for a tattoo machine.
There is also no need for an umbrella as the clouds have dissolved in real time.
On the picture plane, we have a domestic interior looking out across suburbia.
A machine vibrates and draws blood.
This is a cottage industry of body art.
Bobbins your uncle!
Bobbin's your uncle!