I looked down to my stomach, blood was oozing out of the freshly made hole as the bullet wound in my side

became piercing agony. My once-white shirt now turned crimson, as blood seeped out of the bullet-hole. I tried applying pressure with my hands to no avail, more blood kept flowing from the wound. Looking to the dead man on the ground, I wondered if my fate was the same as his. Blood soaked my hands, blood soaked my shirt, blood soaked my jeans and blood soaked the carpet around me. Red. Red. Red. My thoughts kept circling Him, knowing He could help me. Trying to remember what He told me. My vision started to blur and I realised I only had seconds of consciousness left, reaching for the blurry outline of my phone I pressed the hidden button before it all went dark. My last thought was of Him IMAGE: Imago= the image Imagination derived from Imago Imagery= Vivid, descriptive language that appeals to one or more of the five senses

In a station of the Metro- Ezra Pound The apparition of these faces in the crowd Petals on a wet, black bough.
Three years ago in Paris I got out of a metro train at La Concorde, and saw suddenly a beautiful face, and then another and another, and then a beautiful childs face, and then another beautiful woman, and I tried all that day to find words for what this had meant to me, and I could not find any words that seemed to me worthy, or as lovely as that sudden emotion. And that evening, as I went home along the Rue Raynouard, I was still trying and I found, suddenly, the expression. I do not means that I found words but there came an equation . . . not in speech, but in little splotches of colour. It was just that a pattern, or hardly a pattern, if by pattern you mean something with a repeat in it. But it was a word, the beginning, for me, of a language in colour. I do not mean that I was unfamiliar with the kindergarten stories about colours being like tones in music. I think that sort of thing is nonsense. If you try to make notes permanently correspond with particular colours, it is like tying narrow meanings to symbols. That evening, in the Rue Raynouard, I realised quite vividly that if I were a painter, or if I had, often, that kind of emotion, or even if I had the energy to get paints and brushes and keep at it, I might found a new school of painting that would speak only by arrangements in colour. And so, when I came to read Kandinskys chapter on the language of form and colour, I found little that was new to me. I only felt that someone else understood what I understood, and had written it out very clearly. It seems quite natural to me that an artist should have just as much pleasure in an arrangement of planes or in a pattern of figures, as in painting portraits of fine ladies, or in portraying the Mother of God as the symbolists bid us. When I find people ridiculing the new arts, or making fun of the clumsy odd terms that we use in trying to talk of them amongst ourselves; when they laugh at our talking about the ice -block quality in Picasso, I think it is only because they do not know what thought is like, and they are familiar only with argument and gibe and opinion. That is to say, they can only enjoy what they have been brought up to consider enjoyable, or what some essayist has talked about in mellifluous phrases. They think only the shells of thought, as de G ourmont calls them; the thoughts that have been already thought out by others. Any mind that is worth calling a mind must have needs beyond the existing categories of language, just as a painter must have pigments or shades more numerous than the existing names of the colours. Perhaps this is enough to explain the words in my Vortex: Every concept, every emotion, presents itself to the vivid consciousness in some primary form. It belongs to the art of this form. That is to say, my experience in Paris should have gone into paint. If instead of colour I had perceived sound or planes in relation, I should have expressed it in music or in sculpture. Colour was, in that instance, the primary pigment; I mean that it was the first adequate equation that c ame into consciousness. The Vorticist uses the primary pigment. Vorticism is art before it has spread itself into flaccidity, into elaboration and secondary application. What I have said of one vorticist art can be transposed for another vorticist art. But let me go on then with my own branch of vorticism, about which I can probably speak with greater clarity. All poetic language is the language of exploration. Since the beginning of bad writing, writers have used images and ornaments. The

point of Imagisme is that it does not use images as ornaments. The image is itself the speech. The image is the word beyond formulated language. I once saw a small child go to an electric light switch and say, Mamma, can I open the light? She was using the age-old language of exploration, the language of art. It was a sort of metaphor, but she was not using it as ornamentation. One is tired of ornamentations, they are all a trick, and any sharp person can learn them. The Japanese have had a sense of exploration. They have understood the beauty of this sort of knowing. A Chinaman said long ago that if a man cant say what he has to say in twelve lines he had better keep quiet. The Japanese have evolved the still shorter form of the hokku. The fallen blossom falls back to its branch: A butterfly. That is the substance of a very well-known hokku. Victor Plarr tells me that once, when he was walking over snow with a Japanese naval officer, they came to a place where a cat had crrossed the path, and the officer said, Stop, I am making a poem. Which poem was, roughly, as follows: The footsteps of the cat upon the snow [are like] plum-blossoms. The words are like would not occur in the original, but I add th em for clarity. The one-image poem is a form of super-position, that is to say, it is one idea set on top of another. I found it useful in getting out of the impasse in which I had been left by my metro emotion. I wrote a thirty-line poem, and destroyed it because it was what we call work of second intensity. Six months later I made a poem half that length; a year later I made the following hokku-like sentence: The apparition of these faces in the crowd: Petals on a wet, black bough. I dare say it is meaningless unless one has drifted into a certain vein of thought. In a poem of this sort one is trying to record the precise instant when a thing outward transforms itself, or darts, into a thing inward and subjective.

The bleak light covers the only single piece of furniture in the damp room, a wooden chair with three legs. Entering the room, the stench of mold immediately assails my senses and the cold air from the broken window stings my nostrils. The wind whistles through the broken window and glass crunches under my boots as I enter. Stepping closer to the chair, I run my hand over the wood and feel its grainy texture. In some places, the wood feels soft, almost like I could dig my fingernail into it. The chair has an old cushion tied to it, made of cheap dollar store fabric. Now unidentifiable in colour, the cushion feels wet and my hand comes away dirty. The seams of the cushion are bursting and stuffing is visible through the various holes. Touching the chair has made me feel as if I can almost taste the dirt on my tongue as I slowly run my hand back across it. Sight Touch Sound Smell Taste. When Imagery goes bad The first man who compared a woman to a rose was a poet, the second, an imbecile Gerard de Nerval Clich- a ready made expression HAIKU Water. Rain Wet Trickle. Stream. Wave. Wet