R told S what T would do tomorrow.
U was Molly Mog's puppet at his time of transmigration.
V went to Italy with money and left W farewelling.
As if the setting sun could be caught unannoyed my dear heart.
The ruinated renovated.
Three words and a half smile sometimes recall the most pastoral of authors.
At the cataclysm X will be sunk in Spinoza in a cabman's shelter.
Where there's a parcel of singers there's a cargo of songs.
Y didn't seem luciferous to Z but meteorous.
That, now, is a useful sort of mercury. A gloss ribboned round, to be able to make the switch whenever it’s needed. The slip, the slipping. Felt matting that remains on hand. Or, at least, in a handy cupboard. I want to know better how the reorganisation is choreographed. What moves, what is morphed, what is left behind. I want to know how to effect this sort of bypass. But I want, myself, to do the rosters.
“today’s ah bit tree arch…with martyred lamb witch bones”
all the truths & all the slants telling until
there are more slants than truths
Fitting words around life and life around words, Sarah’s practice is one of constant refining and defining, drawing from and developing on both mainstream and more experimental traditions. She also enjoys working with, in and from multi-media, cross-genre and mixed art-forms.