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.