Everyone an Artist

flowering skull

From the girl with Down’s syndrome to the man dancing with a stick
It can be done, just try it, a jolt, a lick, a piece of licorice

Plant trees to catch the low flying bomber jets, you can sing
Your way out of wormholes, balance on one leg, do it

They say on hoardings; what if we didn’t want to be just
Flat placards, police cones, witches’ hats?

Steal from looking, from mud, steal melon juice, star
Fighters, get paper and get paint, get music, get far

Strum and yodel  with your bald head to the passing cars

Look again at what is there
Illuminate every  wound,  grow carrots in sand

Forget and in forgetting
Make colour run for miles

Embroider everything
Forget about war.


I could go through walls and windows just to take a look
Other lives fizzing and jingling as I walk about in my old

Black coat

How many lives do you need? Regressed into states
Of Gilgamesh raiments, hallowed batskin

Trance dances

Hypnotized beyond measure; if I smell cucumbers
I think it’s Christmas in my head, your rooms

Your  husbands

Are under my scrutiny, wallpaper is a fine web
An arterial network like the  London Underground

I can enter

Yellow windows of cottage-rottage Thomas Kinkade
Or Merstham Estate, I’m wandering down Quality Street

With one good leg and some smudge

Hocusing and pocusing in my outsider way
Invisible and interfering, stirring the dinner stew

Adding just a bit too much pepper.


Under the great roiling, boiling curds of sky I lay
The moon somewhere; pinging the reflection of the sun’s rays
Back onto their backs, second hand, third hand light
Feeling its incompleteness, the cinema of its unthinking
Mind. Drowned by days, nights where only words come
Struck dumb or not dumb enough, they are an armour
Against; a barrier, an exposure to a relentless radiance

Something near to what I wanted to say

Not close enough, so keep using them to circumscribe
My finger pushing, coaxing, reassigning cloud colours
To each line, each filtered feeling, each stab at truth
Till someone understands at last, a lost father to myself
A core; my utterances there, understood and filled…

See through my dress to my nakedness
My mortal voice made manifest

For anyone who wants to hear.

Don Juan was a Mirrorman


Ok, he said let’s up the odds, and set down every silver edged card
His harp just sat around playing Memphis Blues all by itself
Fruit came in borne by the handservants; red, pink and chartreuse

A woman was unconscious on a table surrounded by cherry cream
Her feminism was to dream in black and white, things reverse
Repeat and disassemble;  the Mirrorman is Don Juan by night.

If the Mirrorman mirrored me, then I would declare full house
And make him turn himself into silver stars and broken things
Like Braqueian birds and Picasso’s guitars

I’d  bring him nuts and nectar, Anaïs Nin would  sing
Harsh songs

Deconstructing volumes and rending silk.


Watercolour, Japanese ink and stitch colour with hand dyed silk-Veronica Aldous

The Mirrorman was Don Juan


Ⓒ Veronica Aldous Poem and artwork. All rights reserved 2015


Les Disparues

girl 2

Their hair is as precious metal subdivided and laid
Carefully on tables, each coded with its mother’s mystery
The missing, the unnamed, those that drop through time

We know them by the gaps they leave, the shadows
Misting walls, in cafe bars they sip invisible ichor
Blue cocktails, daquiri, parsley, mint, and quicklime

They speak to us through candle flame, incense,
 Las flores muertas, Silencio they cry
We are not lost and without desire: in darkened cinemas

Nailed bordellos, old cupboards and keyhole rattlings
We stay,do not forget us,
Underestimate our sticky clinging to the edifice

Like all of you –
We are some child’s child.


Ⓒ Veronica Aldous Poem and artwork. All rights reserved 2015


Little Histories(for Luis Buñuel)

It’s just a look I’m wearing; devoted, disturbed
Keep telling it to wedding guests as they pass by
Sugar almond-stuffed they avoid my eye

Mortal is wearing crimson, my snake of joy
He shoots out his blue forked tongue at flies
And women  at the buffet table eating dainty pies

I let him slink into my pocket, he curls and vibrates
Later I slip him a dead mouse, a beetle and some premier cru
I look nonchalant as though I have an albatross
At home, a fine car and a marriage bed

Instead of a serpent
And an attitude.

Ⓒ Veronica Aldous Poem and artwork. All rights reserved 2015