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> > Gini

Artist and wordsmith, whose work engages with issues of access, from acknowledged physical needs to perceived symbolic exclusions. After being selected as one of DAO's New Voices in 2011, Gini's online presence has become an integral part of her arts practice

same old swan?

22 March 2016


a pen and ink drawing of an upright bird, its beak open in complaint, superinposed upon a photograph of a swan gliding in the river

I open one eye. It takes a while to open the other and I use the time to enjoy breathing... just being. How quickly I get to take this 'waking up in the morning' thing for granted - now that I'm physically in this really good patch. I roll out of bed into a standing position. I learned this back at the rehab unit (donkeys years ago) after my op, it puts less pressure on the spine. Gulp! Overwhelmed with giddiness I roll back down onto my bed. Standing is out. This might be a good...

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know your wolf...

10 March 2016


Three plastic knives on a translucent background, superimposed upon the repetitive pen and ink drawing of a girls face; she wears long curly hair and glasses; the knifes bear traces of marmelade.

Move on back, move on back and the windscreen wipers go swish swish swish, move on back, move on back and the wheels on the bus go round and round, move on back, move back on. Round and round, move on back and the words in my head go round and round, move back on, jumbled up. jumbled up, back on move. Move back on, move on back, words in my head are falling out falling out  falling out words in my head are  falling out all day long. I need more words; words to keep the wolf at bay,...

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the one I feed

9 March 2016


a green plastic fork and spoon, the fork is translucent, the spoon opaque; they are imposed upon the outline profile of a child's head which is made up of rainbow coloured words and a heart

Complicit in the great epodic downfall of poet writing only for poet? Yet who else should I write for? If not for me? I write my way through the confusion that is the why of my existence, and I am the man in the street, the whatever; the couch potato. The manic and  bedraggled loneliness feeding stray cats; I am the poet, vicarious starman climbing my own steep stairway, mountain of words. I am the tears that slide unmentioned through the stubble on your cheek. I am the mother...

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It never had to be perfect

8 March 2016


a solid blue circle on a white background with three white blobs reminiscent of eyes and mouth of a sad face

I listened to the tree breathing. I listened in the silence of high white cloud lazing over turquoise gleam; the firmament listened as tree-breath settled awesome round my warm and languid body. I listened to the tree drinking, drawing the fallen sky into its gnarled limbs as my own knotted and twisted with time. I listened to the tree singing as my own song filled and refilled the space between me and eternity. I don't have to see through the label disabled, I can see a fine edited...

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