What am I?
A cherub without any wings,
Dangling on a fish wire for the good company of the King,
Gentry in distinguished garb,
Throw pennies and watch my stumbling, before their banquet,
A source of joy for those pawing at their toy.
What am I?
I am full of keys with no lock,
A man sits on me just with a hat a suit and an old pair of socks,
You can throw me or at least my building blocks,
I’m a piano made of rocks.
Ello sir,
Can I help sir?
A penny for a chance sir.
Here, let me show you, I can dance.
They know me as a friend of the King,
Behind the ropes, the carpet, the bright glistening,
He stands back to acknowledge and throws a purse into my hands,
Penneis scatter by my feet.
What am I?
That which can be understand but not talk,
Speak but not be heard,
Writ with chalk or carved in chalk,
Given by the groom,
Or gifted by the lake on a warm afternoon,
Declared at the feet of a king on his throne,
I am a poem.
What am I?
He, who advises the King on his robes,
Sells the King’s wares,
Tears a passion to tatters as he declares,
Lost in the garden, mumbling and playing the flute,
To a hazardous lute.
Whose socks and mismatched hat,
whose overlooked, passed by and on whose shoes they did spat.
The sun supposedly the source of all light,
Yet I am always walking in his shadows like his ghost.
I am that which one day might be great.
Should his hand bless my shoulder,
Before me he displays, all the wonder,
Every kind of jewel; diamond, emerald, gold.
I am of course ~ The Fool.
Created for "Art Market” exhibition x FakeWhale (the first gallery exhibit with objkt) by Laurence Fuller, 2024 @laurencefuller ~ www.laurencefuller.art
There was a lion that never learned how to use its teeth or its claws,
At the first shadow of a snake it jumped and mewed and pawed,
Shaking inside, just a frightened little mouse,
But that shadow was just a stick, how silly he looks, how ridiculous,
The lion sighs,
“I never needed to learn how to fight,
Upon my flesh a simple stick will not bite,”
The lion laughed and rested for the night,
Dreaming away and drifting through memories,
In front of him a whole circus he sees.
He saw himself a great ringmaster, all around they dance and sing,
He held a hat and a cane,
And truly believed it was for him they sang.
“When I wake up,
I will be the one holding the stick”
He believed.
But when morning broke those singers turned to birds in the trees.
And it turned out it was not for him at all that music was playing.
In anger he roared,
“Where’s my stick?!”
He sauntered over and picked it up, hoping to reclaim his cane.
But wait, it was more scales than he had imagined, not hard at all.
It was the snake after all, and it bit deeper with a poison that felt like fire coursing through his veins, more pain than he had ever imagined, his blood turned to flames.
The lion roared… and then… collapsed.
The bird’s songs went on, and day past into night and time passed.
The snake had waited for its chance, throughout the night,
It did wait and wait for the lion to grab the bait.
Adapted from the fable by Aesop ~ by Laurence Fuller @laurencefuller
By the side of a great mountain, A Snow White majestic mountain goat clambered among the rocks, He was known as the greatest of climbers,
He climbed to the highest peaks to eat fresh grass,
as the higher the impasse, the richer it tasted.
Though this winter frosted over all the surfaces up the rubble of the mountain.
A rose covered in frost wilted by the cold dawn,
And all the rocks in fact were covered in ice.
The goat slipped with every step, He could not get up to the head,
Of a single slope,
Though he tried until his face glowed red.
It took him weeks to climb what used to take a day
Exhausted the goat rested halfway, Napping on the hill all day.
Until he heard the clanking echo of a chisel,
Curious he ventured to its source.
A sculptor chipped away at a large masterpiece,
The sculptors creations were renowned across the land, As pieces that formed around the twisting arms of beauty,
And their embrace which wrapped the human touch in light.
No man nor woman looked like they did beneath his gaze,
When he saw the goat, he put down his hammer,
The goat asked the sculptor;
“This is the coldest winter we’ve had,
My hooves can’t get a foot and the richest grass grows at the top,
I know sculptor you are used to carving with tools these masterpieces ,
Please give me advice to make it easier?"
The sculptor answered;
“It’s not the ice you need to solve but the rocks beneath,
Simply trying to change your slipping won’t get you far
The winter is cold because the roses in the mountain forest are frosted over. Nothing grows without their colour, It will be ice forever,
Unless they’re warmed at the centre."
“But how” the goat asked “how could I warm all those roses by myself?”
“You can’t” the sculptor answered “for the roses are the soul of the forest”
The sculptor takes out a dragon’s scale and present it as a promise;
“Persuade the dragon and she will melt them with a fiery kiss”
The goat ambled to the where sculptor pointed, slipping all the way.
The golden glow from her cave lighted the fading day ~ unfurling from the hunt of her latest prey.
The goat explained;
“The soul of the forest is frosted and rocks keep slipping,
We cannot go on this way.
If not for your first breathe to light the way”
The dragon spread out her majesty;
“You are in luck, such a scorching kiss is tradition in my dynasty”
She looked out upon the roses,
And breathed with calamity.
The fire off the petals swelled with immensity.
Once wilted, they now burn intensely.
The dragon wrapped in flames and perched pulsating,
All around the roses burned and color in the forest returned.
Ice on the rocks melted,
The petals made a furnace,
Glistening atop the rocks for the goat’s purpose,
All life returned.
The goat climbed mountain’s top to deliver his last verse,
All the forest shon now and the dragon lifted the curse.
"The grass is richer by the rocks at the mountain’s top”
The goat said.
"But the real beauty is the view."
Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller @laurencefuller
Stray too far from the path of light and you may find yourself in the Valley Of The Witch.
AI by Laurence Fuller & Dolce Paganne
Poetry & Sound & Performance by Laurence Fuller
VALLERY OF THE WITCH
Let me tell you of a forest;
In the darkest quarries, the shadows of heroes,
Fallen warriors buried beneath the trees.
Harmonies heard from a chorus of birds,
Their gravestones an army of trees.
Where each fold of its root, a word carved in the wood.
The seven sins dug as deep as they could
Voices around a crackling fire.
Rose in the smoke that made the whole wood exhale and choke.
Like a flurry of locusts had gained possession of old English,
They spoke the most feverish pitch,
In the valley of the witch.
Words that turned their bellies inside out,
Words that wrote the future and pulled skeletons from men’s mouths.
The chattering visions in the creaking house,
If your heart were kept before the golden swords,
Then it's beating stopped in the hairs wicked lords.
Tickling the soul with luscious laws,
Were you madder when we met,
Or madder than before.
Line up, there’s order in the court,
Nymphs, spiders, voles and fauns.
A paddock of crows,
Peck the bastard child's of yore.
Can you hear, the sins of yesteryear,
Wrap around one another.
The death of a sultan,
Gives us pause upon a darker custom.
~ Laurence Fuller, 2023
I saw that spirit washing his feet by the bay,
Beneath the moving clouds in the sky that day.
It contemplated life, and saw the universe through spiritual eyes,
Like the world in his world,
Spheres turning with time,
As if time was turned by his watching itself,
And the clouds were the dew from his mind.
If I could only see through his eyes,
If I could only know what he knows for myself,
My world would be fixed,
And the world would be fixed,
My thoughts, my prosperity, my health,
And this world of others would not seem so seperate,
But a unified force,
If I could only capture this spirit for myself.
~ Laurence Fuller, 2024
Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller
Includes the use of AI tools, and painting textures inspired by Stephanie Fuller @steffullerart
Water breezing through streets,
The hot wet time, it drips easy,
We are this life arrived at last and sighing this afternoon,
The afternoon I met you,
Double espressos and a half finished tattoo,
Thought quenched the state we stayed in,
Beneath the trees shadows, statues swayed in the water ways,
Swans floating by in the shade.
Secret gardens by the palace the day before the big parade,
The day before, the day we saw,
They all arrived to play,
Boarders broken because we stepped on them,
We’ll fix it another day.
The elephants arrived, behind a pride of lions
I watched as she stopped by them
A sorrow in the blistering silence
Could the world conspire any better to create a paradise around her?
Monet had never seen a day so perfect,
Or maybe it was not the day at all,
Out of this ten seconds besides it
From lands afar, the glow of her skin still contained,
The arctic lights, the green sky, mains of wild horses
Sand from the South Seas and dust from paradise.
She rode across Europe, past the horizon once again,
Rode over plains, and fields and ice
The mountains a silhouette reflecting her life
In the day she stopped by the shore to watch,
The whales soaring through echoes,
By the penguins in flight,
She’s watched nature’s valley until dusk beckoned night.
Secret gardens by the palace the day before the big parade,
The day before, the day we saw,
They all arrived to play,
Boarders broken because we stepped on them,
We’ll fix it another day.
A bee hive that dripped with honey,
Frought with the valiant,
Pocket books and purses ready for a little money,
Coffers, hooks and curses to fish the coins from their paws,
The big red daze of the glaring stands filled with the astonished,
Tickle every sense and scintillation with anticipation,
For what can be seen through the blue smoke and haze,
Sun which burned their skin as they laze,
Simmering in those sun’s rays.
Secret gardens by the palace the day before the big parade,
The day before, the day we saw,
They all arrived to play,
Boarders broken because we stepped on them,
We’ll fix it another day.
~ Laurence Fuller, 2024
Original poetry, performance, sound, AI cinematics by @laurencefuller