I reach forward, desperate to touch
to be touched
my hands are dirty, stretching through
the gutters of depravation
turgid with grit and gravel.
My fingers scrape the urban canvas
nails scratching at reality
knuckles grazed, crazed in depravity.
Through the gossamer of morning mist, I,
rest the dilemma of my life in my wrinkled palms.
Sitting, I stare into oblivion. My arms are crooked
my leg haunches in anticipation.
My eyes stare, want, need no more.
My body rests among the turmoil of subsistence.
Close up, my lips poise towards tomorrow
Arms flail towards me, tender, not comforting.
Their outline is direct without discourse, gently pushing the boundaries
I aim to explode.
Explore, such sanity pervades but does not exist.
Surrounded by the mundanity of the morn, seen through misted glass
my shoulders lean towards the call
the call, a silent call of humanity.
Difficult to experience, to touch from the confines of my studio.
Desperate to escape, skin deprived
I stare, movement binding me to my seat, needled in the pain of living.
Images and writing: Susie Packham
painting with words 