Body Chess by Laurence Fuller

Artwork by Heidi Yardley - Poem by Laurence Fuller

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Notebooks of a self I used to be, exultations of a person I no longer recognize. Near misses running between past lives, I adore you before the door closed and you were gone that night. Drifting spirit of Nordic dreams, I saw you in the background of the life I could be living if I gave myself the chance. You don’t trust me and why should you, but it seems we’ve been speaking inside each other for years.

What were you doing with her that dark primal wicked essence, carnal desire that’s not like you, gentry bow courtiers of the past, line up and bow by ghost light, not just one, but many bow after you. I should be standing there beside you when the cameras flash. I have gemstones of the mind beside you see me calling out to you, rest in my arms and talk of violent love we won’t scratch each other with, just play games of unrequited possession.

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Drowning in bathtubs of hot red wine, sinking in luxury. She lay awake in disruptive questioning the integrity of all this promise that she had, for you there was a young hope to be a part of savage chess games in the dark.

Trying to put my bad days behind but you pull it out of me. There in that bliss divide, silence waits us both out, silent tone reaching labyrinth rocks, I’d give you what you want if you let me, so closed off to the impossibility that I might not be playing chess tonight, am I suppose to second guess the gossip you might tell your friends? 

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He forced her against the bedframe her mother bought her last year, pressed her face into the plush goose feathered pillows. She flashed her eyes and said it’s ok, I changed the sheets. Laughter was all he managed to muster, as he sunk into pools of wrought expression, he spilled over the sides of himself as he hung in the balance of wanting to crack that awful demon and just hang in the dire nature of its silence. She turned over now with antique patterns bleeding down her skin, marked with tradition and tightened by the wrenching tools of a carpenter her grandfather knew. Don’t come too close unless you mean it, I can’t take another drifter in, I’m done with boys. Come back a man and I’ll let you in. 

I want to crack that egg over the bullish redesign that fired up that fuckers discontent, punish him for forceful love he didn’t earn, couldn’t charm and let pushed his forceful nature do the work. Just one poor girl bore the weight of all his ventures. 

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I want to meet him where he’s at and in perfect harmony we are together now. She knew who I was before I met you, reputation is inescapable. Now I’m present in conversations I had no idea about and so were you. I told her about you too, she tries to hold me down so she saw it as a challenge, don’t expect her to wait with open arms for your arrival. 

I knew I was interested in you from the day I met you, we were pulled by circumstance to two very different beds that night, all these rules and regulations, hold us back with hesitation. The heart led you to destruction before, you opened up and he was gone, just wanted the chase and once he got his prey onto some new pursuit, some new fancy, keep them at bay just enough.

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Let me in that abstract darkness you crumpled over with comfort in shades of antique furnishings, your grandmothers ring that never comes off leaves an indentation round your fingers. Her ghost sits in stiff dark corners watching that fabric pulled over your expressions, hiding the real you for someone with an honest gaze, give me reassurance this is right, that silence waits for you to speak, not me. That silence in the slight reflections of us on glazed wooden floors that creak with our own substantial movements. 

You think you want some young bad man to pull around, but there’s more to you than badly written magazines of other people’s regurgitated words. Get away from the window, the outside world slaps checkered maps against glass pains for us to navigate. I’ll protect you, stay here I’ll hold open the back door let the cotton moths out.

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Wicked looks and I’m suppose to know what it means, pretend to be someone else and I’m suppose to see the real you beneath. I suppose I am the same, I talk of danger and discomfort because I want you lying next to me. I’m striped blank and backlit, painting my face better in the dark.


Who are you lying graceful on my couch, heavy breathing, part lips brushing up against the side of red wine cups. She wants me too, but she’s so shy it will hurt so much should this guy not get back, it has to be perfect or all those plans of who I am will fall to pieces, I’ll think what I want, you no longer pass with satisfaction in the sanctity of my little world. Reputation is my comfort among this little circle I’m blessed and constant in good graces, out a little wider the world doesn’t know who I am and never will. I like it that way, holding back the best of me, this patterned canvas will conceal my heart and show just enough of what I want. 

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Lovers come and go but friends are forever, that’s what they tell you until that crystal candelabra swings in your favor, then they’re gone. They charming flash their teeth in and everyone comes rushing to the savior that promises all their lacking. Trust the honorable scruffy rug you lay out with pillows and dream of being cherished. I want to fall asleep in your arms but its too dangerous tonight, there’s a lot of tension here, you can feel it too. Too much a stake I break for the drifter in me consuming Casanova.

You want to play this game enough to pull me to the edges of the carpet stained with that same couch that’s been sitting there for years, the dusty furnishings of absence, feel the absence of me then when I’m there again you won’t take me for granted. I’ll let you think that I’ll come back just enough that you don’t chase her, let that line I tied fly to its tightened ending, see how far you run before it snaps.

Minotaur's Song: Chapter One - Nicola Hicks @ Flowers NY by Laurence Fuller

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Bellowing throughout the countryside could be heard as she writhed in mud, beneath the bubbling soil lava breathed and boiled. The birth of the Minotaur has come. Worms and roots snapped and shuddered under his steaming hooves. Strapped harnessed, unchained body brushes it’s own will to the point of its aspiration, snout puffed, eyes bleeding flames of desire. Horns flexed their polished and pointed threat to the rumbling skies, the earth summoned his greater purpose unfulfilled in the greatness of his strength. 

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The Royals gather surrounding that same dining table where iridescent demon dramas play beast like games and pour city champagne over dusty draws that sparkle in their guts. Pushing back into the past, where Romance joined it's awful tune to the trumpet tunnels of the sky. Baskets of fruit usher summertime and the deep unending questions they feel too small to answer, too big for the little things, too small for the cosmos. Roaring golden fabrics rolling down walls of an art princess in an ivory tower carved by Irish craftsman, paid for by Victorian gentry in their quest for beauty. They wish there was an easier way to live a more certain path for the guidance of art to be directed. 

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A chorus of angry declarations echoed royal halls cascading and announcing themselves that this should be the way for this savage youth. Without a father’s love he would be wild untamed and beastlike to the end of his strange days. And yet it was decided to raise him as a boy, give him hope for that possibility of a free unburdened future filled with love and life, mystery and chance, forever unending promises of joy. The Minotaur would spend his youth on the riverbanks of Elysium.

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A bird floated on water’s surface, his proud beak glinting and his feathers plumed and puffed. Watching his flock over the rocks and dried up coral, proudly sat the Minotaur, picking oysters from the rocks for them to eat, they sat on his shoulder gripping claws into his rough and broiling flesh, to pick the remnants of his curious scavenge from the scruff of his jagged chin. His quiet watching of the universe unfold and glow to him in unexpected growth, his curiosity in the rock pools and octopus with crawling wriggling glimmers of color light and dreams. Scooping in his rough and rugged palms tiny slimey moluscs, delight and divine becoming of the new world in every moment he sipped up into the abundant pleasures of the water which ran down his jutting jaw. Drinking great gulps of strange love.

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The minotaur’s mother, fox like shifting shadow beast, visited him in secret baring tokens from the city. She told him fables of the life he left behind. She warned of seduction with some rough tongue tasting the pollen rich air, tingly from the sense of the underside of all that delicious pleasure. Big tree leaves drip with desire if only his eyes could tell the difference from what his heart already knows. Blown up sticking points of hungry little birds flying on open clouds bubbles in the sky. Look at the foreverness of joy, love, family, respect, duty to ones own, doubles its request to the underside of this haunted boy.

Evening landed, cloud licked skies bleed horizon to their shutting. Raising his arms to the galaxies of a universal mysteries which swilled in radiant rivers of his dreams. He lifted his flock, fly into the sky to pick from the stars, beckoning the Viking God Odin to his council.

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Odin shook the calamitous winds, his descending presence from the mountainside crushing and variant bellowing changes in the now smoke filled respite of the quiet river banks. Hollow fills the night sky flicking it’s frozen drops of untamed madness fill the winds. Open your guts for that confused state of abandoned beauty that Odin summons over Elysium. Minotaur staring up at the descending spirit, his eyes filled with the reflection of the sky like glass bubbled marbles piled up to glint in anticipation of its happening.

Admiration in his heart the Minotaur asked Odin to tell him omens of his future. Odin whispered tales of three goddess born; art princesses. The first; Progeny bursts out black and charred but with the will and reason to be, lava colored flesh pushing off the surface, shaking clean the molten crust, fiercely flipping off face chest and arms reaching to the sky, the land, the vast uncertain future, beckoning the right to what’s theirs, progression of this new world born of chaos, limbs of salt and flame, chewed up. Dying dripping tired bodies piled up across the burning skies cover ferocious talent.

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Listening melancholic protected by all those things which made Elysium home, the Minotaur slept. Sleep that rectified discomfort you were wrestling with, throwing diamonds against the wall hoping they'd catch meaning on their long way down to the chattering floor where they all live growing spider legs and scuttering the carpet for a home. Restless sleep made mornings drip away their spirits in time enchanted stings. He dreamt of childish indiscretions, the burgeoning of youth.

Deep in the night of another river, the viking bashed in the smokey musk hut simmering on the ice that coated the mountainside. White devil appears, white flesh glinting from the dim light of the moon, white blood pumping in a forgotten forest night, forgotten and stretching reaching to the sliding shiny surface crushed with salt washed traces he gripped once before in the battle for Elysium charging furious armies of pelt clad thunderous viking clammer channeling Gods and heroes to the call of destiny.

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CHILDISH FORCE OF NATURE by Laurence Fuller

Text by Laurence Fuller, Art works by Sima

Childish force of nature, my swirling body swims with salt drops dropping in pools of unexpected pleasure. Crashing water weeds washing their spirits with me. Together we cross over the top layer, before we get sucked under the other underneath pulled out to sea.

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Working through that introspection to the other side of a long lost handle on the inner dissonance of myself, I’m lost to find that gripping heartache that was so raw about my flesh, I hold you here like a wax candle dripping down my fingers. I hold its near sited gaze on the better world that sinks in endless washing brushes around its drowning middle temperatures. I wish I had a heavier weighted line to sink me down and meet you there. 

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Early young washed up seagulls wrestless flapping won’t you let them be who they are. I make mistakes too, I’m still young, it doesn’t have to be this way, let me flap and I’ll forget I was here with you. Craving skin swallowing up my body. If you desire this it will bring forces of nature on the waves of distant hope, you’re undivided self will pull me into you. This brutal part of yourself will never let me go. I don’t trust the water here. Why does art matter? I can’t remember, just stop trying to make it and there it is. Show me with your actions. 

This is who I am it’s the journey I’ve been on alone. Clung to the clutches to severe cheeks of desire. Dig your fingers into my flesh unattainable stomping grounds of my beach. I’m not good with names, better with people, he changed unrecognizable to the man I fell in love with. I see him there and in that fragile balance of life I lost contact with the him that swam within me. Just paint the thing.

Sunshine smiles don’t know this yet, just hope there’s more to the nervous childish energy behind my eyes, don’t bite my remaining fingertips I scrubbed them to the nerves already my skin peeled back by accident I burnt myself and so did you. I melted that pain away by the daylight of reflection. 

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Alone with my talent in a shell of many bodies piled up. These people who punch inside of us want to control us like puppets from the inside ripping at our veins, our heart the opals of our eyes. Shadows of our mind. There’s an open awkwardness to who you are. I feel I am at the beginning of who I am, I’d rather be a master of something new.

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I choose between the competition of Van Goghs crabs and then his sunflowers, they just are and they just do what they please, no one tells them what to do, they are completely themselves. Not his sunflowers but his bulb fields radiate with many purpose beings. Their not dried out but burnt that’s why they live with so much humming lust for life, so much more to give so many days to be what they truly desire as the universe folds in on itself to make it happen. The will within the oak tree that bursts through the rubble of a parish church ceiling so wandering shepherds can pillow books beneath their sleeping states. 





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There’s something of a child in me listening to the happy man looking at wooden pencil boxes on his pillow and toys, I play forever play many toys to task the marching band by boyish joy, clanging calamity of my imagination. Hope for the boy developing between my ears there they are, just for today I can pretend, I can pretend I am. 

Wonder you were gone, buried wonder you were gone, gone before my life was over here again I felt that there was something here again, was I alone in that sin, living over burlesque unity my friend I’ve longed for never changing in the wind. 


I let the symbols from my childhood dictate strange imaginings and we people are like paintings aren’t we, we just give something away and there it sits in the corner of our minds drifting in the thoughts of all the other things that we are. Don’t you want to get back there? Don’t you want to feel that way again? How lucky we are to have touched it even for a moment bent on the breeze of tired hillside grass. 

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What you want is space I can tell there’s too much of me in here, I can only curl up into a ball on your flower stitched sheets and come close to tears at the thought of that home which pulled your under ripping tides of womankind. In calm lakes of passive humility it grabbed your ankle and there you were before it caught and clawed your legs calling out to chivalry, something noble out there on the far gotten distance of your future, some oncoming hooves trotting the specked range reaching limits of your beach at night. 


A traveler gallops forward from the sands of other shores his worldly manner pushing past the perfect symmetry of twisted sheets and whirling human reflections of our living breathing connection to this oncoming wave of joy, slow down boy. Map the landscape of your heart before it’s captured by pirates of another country. 

Adoration for potential, the potential of this planet, sharks and turtles do what they are, watch them for a while before you pick them up, brush the sharp skin before you clutch its fin. Know this about me and them, I dive deeper than the shallow banks of most, I’ve invested in the inner world of who I am and I saw you there, stretching the legs of jelly fish across the shoreline of poetry, sea creatures populate the coral. Anemone bodies undulating together in that scooped out palace of this washing wistful daydream morning. I’ll think in bed, down antique telephones of tide this morning, muses bless my heart with powerful gifts too big to grasp easier to hold this small ball of nothing in quiet happy moments.



Over there that group they are not where they are almost never there anymore, I forgot to get them closer to this person I lost out at sea, to the siren islands he left my soul to that seduction. I can’t get him home again to the shipwrecks of mossy time, lion fish awaken their poisonous love. Sting me with your mark forever I don’t care about any of it anymore, I just want to feel some love blazing in my blood give me that fix of what I miss, naturalness open the pupil of my eyes to the muse, addicted to the absurd symbols of my unawakened imagination. 

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I’m back to scratching up the surfaces crusted on the sea floor of insight, inside my life there’s too much neon breaking out the background, hoping for colorful sea slugs, dolphin dreams retracting clouds above the surface of myself, when reality pulls me from this dream I’ll still be sat here calmly moving with the drifting deep tides. Bashing against a better self realized petulance, so stubbornly I dart between coral shelters, a strange home I’ve made I know I’m better when I’ve lost all hope, alone. You’ll like me more then I’ve too many people speaking in me to think clearly. Take time this moonlight night won’t last forever, too many years ahead to waste this potential. 

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ALL TOO HUMAN: LUCIAN FREUD by Laurence Fuller

Whatever estimate may be placed upon Lucian Freud's 'naked portraits' by future generations, it is unlikely that they will ever be attributed to any time other than ours. Just as the regents and regentesses of Frans Hals (a painter with whom Freud has something in common) unquestionably belong to seventeenth- century Holland, so Freud's subjects seem indubitably to be children of this troubled century. Their modernity is not in question.

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All Too Human: Leon Kossof by Laurence Fuller

‘Although I have drawn and painted from landscapes and people constantly I have never finished a picture without first experiencing a huge emptying of all factual and topographical knowledge,’ writes Leon Kossoff. ‘And always, the moment before finishing, the painting disappears, sometimes into greyness for ever, or sometimes into a huge heap on the floor to be reclaimed, redrawn and committed to an image which makes itself.’

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All Too Human: David Bomberg by Laurence Fuller

David Bomberg drew a charcoal self-portrait in 1932 when he was 42 years old. As a young man he had been widely acclaimed for his ‘avant-garde’ paintings but when he became disillusioned with modernism interest in his work withered. The slant of his eyes and the line of his lips reveal both his contempt for the critics who shunned him and his stubborn determination. The strength of the heavy, binding outline joining the dome of the skull to that proud jaw seems like a declaration that he is not a broken man.

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Andy Warhol by Laurence Fuller

Peter Fuller's controversial views on Andy Warhol were at the root of his argument on aesthetics, now that the second draft of my screenplay about my father Modern Art is complete, I've decided it's time to start posting his most significant works. The below televised debate caused a huge stir when he was able to take on a room full of intellectuals on the subject of Warhol's work and what it means for the world.

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Iridescent Demon Dramas by Laurence Fuller

Iridescent demon dramas play  beast like games and pour city champagne over dusty draws that sparkle in my guts. Pushed back into the past,  where Romance  joined it's aweful tune to the trumpet tunnels of the sky. Baskets of fruit usher summertime and the deep unending questions I feel too small to answer, too big for the little things, too small for the cosmos.

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Echoes Of You - Open Letter with Christopher Lyndon Gee by Laurence Fuller

During my first lead role in an amateur theatre production of Shakespeare's the Tempest when I was 13 years old, a well established avant-garde conductor called Christopher Lyndon-Gee came to the performance, after the show he walked out and shook my hand, 'he said you truly do have the natural gift'. It was one of the few moments I can remember which set my course as an actor, it was a fuse which was lit early on with a determination that has never dulled. He later wrote my letter of recommendation for Bristol Old Vic Theatre School.

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Julian Schnabel: Images Of God by Laurence Fuller

Over the last four years I have seen a good many of Schnabel’s paintings, but I had not, until this exhibition, set eyes on one that manifested any painterly qualities at all. I was therefore pleasantly surprised to look at a picture like Alexander Pope, which indicates that Schnabel could conceivably learn to draw; or at Seed, which shows that, after all, he might have some decorative sensibility. Drawing and decorative sensibility are, you must understand, two of the necessary prerequisites for good painting.

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Rebel poem by Laurence Fuller

Rebel artist, rebel against the father, rebel with the river, rebel bending time, bending lines bending all that’s mine, he makes what’s his and gives it back to the great unending shimmer. I’ll give to you if I freely choose, I’ll walk my limping gate, my rebel friend, I’ll be there in the end, rebel makes his own chewed up calamity in time, rebel’s wish they had more than just their solitude to offer, a sorry piece of meat wrapped flimsy round his wrist, he hides the true prize made valor, mist and sin.

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The Minotaur - Poem by Laurence Fuller

Progeny bursts out black and charred but with the will and reason to be, lava colored flesh pushing off the surface, shaking clean the molten crust, fiercely flipping of face chest and arms reaching to the sky, the land, the vast uncertain future, beckoning the right to what’s theirs, progression of this new world born of chaos, limbs of salt and flame, chewed up.

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Paul T Murray obituary - Paint It Red by Laurence Fuller

In rare moments in Los Angeles you come across a Paul T Murray, a man who in the back alley of North Hollywood hangs the sign over the door Celtic Films. A room dedicated to a simple task to make films, there is a large TV in the corner and a writing desk with a computer. I sat in a creaking wooden chair, with an open beer can in front of me, I look at the place mat surrounded by four leaf clovers, and 'The Claddagh Ring'.

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Fight For It - Poem by Laurence Fuller

Fight For It: Take me back to that place wrought with tense, push pull biting sticks, ripped up, flipped over with beauty breeze. Uncovered my unconscious friends all mumbling down there my deep desires, pushing fighting kicking against spiritual discomforts, angered by friendly giants, shattered shards of being he said. I spike those shards through shadow enemies.

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Open Letters To Marcelle Hanselaar II by Laurence Fuller

Dear M, 

Today I miss you deeply. Trying to gather my thoughts and myself. So much is happening, I’m hoping to rise again from the safety of a shell that I enclose myself within to finish my screenplay. At least that is what I tell myself and what has happened. It’s done now and all stripping back is happening in rewrites. I’m in the stage of reshaping the muddy mold of the first impression, knocking the rusty edges off and finding form beneath with finer rivets. Hope and faith guiding me further to some inevitable conclusion I'm not yet aware of.

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The Poet & The Actor by Laurence Fuller

The poet fights the ardor of his recompense, asking forgiveness for his follies in constant battle with the universe of the mind. Poetry’s unlimited potential reaches out across the universe of the mind its unlimited potential reaches out across the multitude of time, filtering only back to the passing minutes and seconds of reacting soundbites when limited consciousness is distracted by the comings and goings of it all.

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"THE METHOD" LEGACY: Foundations; Phantom Day-Lewis & BOVTS - Part I by Laurence Fuller

Last Sunday after the ceremony, sitting in the Roosevelt after party sipping a gin cocktail after the show, where the first Oscars were held, I contemplated on the proceedings and the history of acting in film which has led us here. It seemed inappropriate to write or publish this in anticipation of the Oscars, because I didn't think he would win this year, he didn't think he would win this year "it's been great just to sit back and watch Gary collect his dues", I felt as many did it would be Gary for Darkest Hour. So this piece is something of a reflection of what we have lost, and the mantle now left to young leading men, like Timothée Chalamet, or those unknowns challenging the guard with independent films as Day-Lewis once did with My Beautiful Launderette or My Left Foot.

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