Notes from an Anarchist 2016
A poetry anthology of everyday subversion, anger, misanthropy and nihilism... with little tiny scraps of humour and hope.
These poems are part of an illustration project on Patreon. Click through to take a look and then share, sponsor and enjoy!
Notes from an Anarchist #1
Notes from an Anarchist #2
Notes from an Anarchist #3
Sarah Eddowes is a Sydney based artist whose work straddles animation and painting. During her Bachelor’s degree, Sarah undertook a 6 month exchange program in Paris at the École Nationale Supérieure des Arts Décoratifs where she was properly introduced to animation and stop motion puppetry. From there she went on to complete a Masters of Animation at the University of Technology, Sydney. Sarah now divides her time between the painting studio as part of a Masters of fine arts, freelancing as an animator and teaching animation at the Australian Film Television and Radio School.
Notes from an Anarchist #4
From my sheets to sink
From cubicle to kitchen
To classroom to desk
From work to my children
From the oven to the bath
It is not the measured run of an athlete
It is not the graceful leap of a dancer
Not even the purposeful run of the hunted deer
It is the scattered, high-strung run
Of a rabbit
At best a fox – on a good fucking day
It is the run of someone who knows that if she stops
The reality of her stupidity
Her sheer meaningless exhaustive motion
Will paralyse her
Or give her time to raise her gun
And we god damn can’t have that.
There would be blood.
And the blood would run.
Notes from an Anarchist #5
I will not vote
It feels as though democracy has been stretched so thin
my angry X in a box might puncture it.
It has been dieted, airbrushed and photoshopped
Unrecognisable even to Cleisthenes
If it was once about a delightful platter of gourmet idealism
And good intentions
It is now an airline meal
Dehydrated, rehydrated, deregulated
Each the same as the offering on the next tray
Each the same haircut on a different 44 year old white skinned man.
Perhaps I shall make from my voting slip
a small folded plane
to fly from the window
into the sizzling sausages of the tirelessly optimistic.
Perhaps I shall just fold it into a small paper purse
Large enough for all I have
And small enough for bus money
Notes from an Anarchist #6
Is negotiating with a terrorist
Deciding if you can give your blood
But keep your skin
Knowing there are others who love you more
And love you better
But staying on the phone anyway
Listening to demands your soul cannot keep
But your mouth agrees to
Finding the place where your dignity is,
and inching so close to its edge, your toes curl
Notes from an Anarchist #7
It is strangely forgettable,
this largest of truths
dangerously, fucking forgettable.
this one that slithers out of reach.
And scares us with its wide eyes in the darkness.
That we must first empty out
And tear up and scrub raw
And leave blank.
That we must be drought-stricken
And hungry as cats
so unusually forgettable,
this largest, this world swallowing truth.
That the wave must go out,
suck back, flay the sand
and expose the naked ribs of the reef
Before it floods and rolls
And fills and feeds and flows
Before it pieces together genius
And builds grace
It is so much easier to forget and despair
Forget and live easily.
Notes from an Anarchist #8
She has called herself an anarchist
Not what she is.
Misnomers and appropriations.
The words are words we have heard before
In a different order, granted,
But the same words.
Simplification of complications
Frankly, I just don’t get it
Why is she so angry?
Why is she so happy?
Covering for a lack of talent with verbosity
Covering for a lack of confidence with excess
Clawing for controversiality and failing
Following in larger footsteps than she can fill
Profanity is not art. Its just not fucking art!
Couldn’t even finish – I have better things to do with my time.
Far better things to do- this is my raison d’etre after all.
To discourage the subpar artist,
to curtail the average, curb the flow of standard,
To end the anarchy.
Notes from an Anarchist #9
There are places
On this planet
That reveal my life to be
An unadulterated pile of pretension
Places where the heat
Boils off any notion of style and beauty
And the dust settles
In the flawed logic of
“doing something important with my life.”
Notes from an Anarchist #10
If there is a more dangerous phrase than “what next?”
it has been lost to time.
The myriad dreams are suddenly fulfilled, done.
Sitting proudly on the mantelpiece of self,
Shiny and suddenly small.
If that was what I wanted- it is not what I expected.
If that was what I dreamed – it is less grand than I imagined.
This is the edge of emptiness and if there is no next or now, I will fall.
And probably quite gladly fall. I could be a very fine hellion. I have it in me.
I fight it with nexts. And if there are no nexts – why fight it?
Notes from an Anarchist #11
How the fuck
Can one be sure
Of which side of the lines
One is skating
Particularly if the skates keep sliding
- it is thin fucking ice
- frozen newsreels and afterschool activities
- frozen rooibos and left wing poetry
Will the therapist smile and smile and nod
Sagely – Yes, she was about her own agenda
Making you do these strange and terrible things
Will the people rear back? - You were dragged up!
Our sympathies are with you. Dragged from warzone to
Costume parade. Dragged screaming and swinging.
How can one know? Sanity is not a mirror.
Am I mother of pearl or motherfucker?
Mother of the Year or Mother Complex
The lines of strange and marvellous
are so thin and slippery
and my fucking skates are too tight.
Notes from an Anarchist #14
At times I am
Of other people’s terror
Is finding them uninteresting
To turn away.
Notes from an Anarchist #15
art makes me want
to tear off my clothes
all of them
ripping them away
I don’t. Because the women
with grey pixie cuts and black
edged frames and
- they don’t.
and they seem to be here a lot
they know. they know art.
in fact, now I can’t remember why
I wear clothes
I want to touch the paintings
With my tongue
I want to taste the colour.
when the fat man
on the high chair
is texting his mother
I stroke the paintings.
bad art is the best
it smells like hope.
I settle. For peeling off my
and stacking it quietly in
in the corner
nudity can be
metaphorical in a pinch
its adaptable like that.
if they notice - if they catch me.
I’ll say its art.