I spend the afternoon at The Institute of Contemporary Arts  inside  Poor.Old.Tired.Horse.  an exhibition of words in art from the concrete poetry of the 1960's to now.  I am secretly enjoying  being soaked by  works outside of the travelling circus that I sometimes feel I have become.   By being here I finally understand the work Poetry Machines by Lucy Harrison at The Southbank Centre's Poetry Library.  By being here I understand the quiet gritted teeth of a poem.

I normally go to  Art Galleries with a friend of mine but she is unavailable. I scribble down notes as I am writing a review of this. Whether it gets publsihed or not is not it.  I feel like I am having a bath inside words.  They splash up and stick to the walls,  they laugh at me. Whenever I haven't written a poem it feels like forever. Forever.   Something happened after I met Mrs Greenwood  two  days ago. Something broke.