read previous blog
Read above blog
By adding some text to a cheap mirror, I want people to question their identity and who owns it? Is it an abusive childhood, is it a system that delegates you to the sidelines because an unexamined but programmed view of disability? Are you scared to look in the mirror because somebody else has defined you as ugly? Why are other people owning your gaze? Who says you are you? Who has written your script? Look into your own eyes and be able to keep the stare. Copyright your own soul. Don't let the bastards own it.
Yesterday I wrote this poem on a path.
'Do not step here, my dreams have fallen out of my pocket and are hard to find again.
Don't grind them into the ground or I will have to wait for the rain
to feed the daisies to push them back up again.'
I didn’t have to aim it at a particular audience except humanity in a part of Brixton, South London.
Didn’t know if they liked poetry or art beforehand. But it made everyone who came across it stop.
They read it, asked questions, and gave me knowing nods, but the best thing was that they stepped gently around the poem, from the child to the drunk to the woman going home with her shopping.
Nobody complained of vandalism. Vandalism belongs to the world that steps onto dreams.