Litany of forgotten stained glass angels of the East,
new windscreens of rushed oasis highways.
Love must be somewhere in the desert
this perpetual morning of summer, and its swimming pool eyes.
The light that is an ordinary god,
the light that is anarchic
Holds you here, blending the skylines,
perishing the oceans with adrift plastic sadness.
I thought you said we could be the mother of something
but our delight is neon and brittle.
Who will wash the ocean? who will guard the sun home?
The sunset is a blown lampshade to a land that waits on secret numbers.
The roads hold up a bridge
to another kind of haloed remembering.
Who will raise the crashed ships from the harbour?
Whose eyes can I fall into for sleep?
A maiden name for satellites,
white rays of passing cars and the gold that is their shadow
bodying sunset, strangering sunrise.
And we are the holders of sky artefacts
who romance and digitize seraphim.
Link to crowd funding here:
The ocean is filled up with broken dreams now,
it blows a tomb of hands all reaching out for the sky,
stone dictionaries in plastic bags,
agonise stone wings in ink gulls,
Whale Nation in a plastic bag, breaking like a heart,
blankets of exhausted geography.
The birds are filled with plastic too,
emblazoning emotions in empty bottles,
that never sink, that never hold you, imagine you in mercy.
To feel something, to decamp all the years, to feel something at this age.
The abandonment of light, the vale of light wanting to find something to shelter.
To find something to spotlight and live in,
out of the dark amber and to heaven in.
A nightfall within the living.
To keep going far, to be with the flowers who know the sunlight,
arms like ladders, handing out weather to remind you of livingness.
And you have to praise it anyway, cause it breaks you in two
the seven seas, a heavy metal lover man
the water stars and you all in a backwards birth.
Greta's poem in support of #passonplastic (https://skyoceanrescue.com/passonplastic/)
"BALLS LIKE WINTER FRUIT" 2017
Spray paint and acrylic on canvas
121 x 152 cm
This is from series of poem paintings by Greta Bellamacina. The series blows up short poems to graffiti scale, but written in a uniquely feminine and expressive hand. This piece softens and sensualise a metaphor that begins by describing testicles as winter fruit, describing a whole locked up kingdom of men's emotions being therapeutically released like birds.
COPELAND GALLERY - PECKHAM
16th DECEMBER 9.30 am - 4.00pm
17th DECEMBER 10.00 am - 7.00pm