Milestones-aware (On Candice Tripp)

Tripp's "You're Good for Kids, Warm and Kind", triptych of puns executed in oil and ink,

An exploration of the artist's role as intermediary, or ratfink,

In care of to bear renderings of recondite pity, whence Ong's hat is concealed

Among the leaves, to the eyes of those who appraise the work. "Yoghurt for Kids", the left
Panel, shows a boy, five milestones ranging foreshortened behind him, standing, bereft,

Beneath a truss of creamy-white flowers; and thus, in the same way that Donne revealed

What happens when one of a pair of entangled quanta escapes our dimension,

Becoming minimum of pathos correlative to poetic invention,
Tripp objectifies a nuance of pity, as wan calyces, partly congealed.
Rare, exfinite pity, milestones-aware, communicates with non-exotic paint's

Rendering in our own dimension, and its elementary particles, quaints,

Shoulder colour confinement, but by their entangled relationship with paint yield

Paroxysms of colour. Salgado, in his illegitimate work, “Blue Screen”,
Uses graffiti over variegation to betray that role: drain a canteen
By duffifie – there is thirst and resignation here – and after a wound has healed,
Disengastronomise the maggots that ate only dead flesh – and the sitter’s eyes
Are in sympathy with such emptiness, for he exquisitely personifies
That variant of pity, where a young man, abjuring the voracity that steeled
Him ultimately to cry out, reaches an impasse, ascetic evanescence;
Less real, impaled by celestial rays, in sorrowful, empty acquiescence;
Brought by an intermediary, made astonishing by a ratfink that squealed,
Pity is ratified as beauty; graffiti is illicit exposition,
"Care of" and "Sweat" are parerga to Salgado's "Storytelling" exhibition.

Beautiful mutable motes in fog, forgetful maths behind their moving; a profusion of bags in the hall; Mr Fire is leaving the hearth; and the rug is glum and so is the dog; beautiful mutable motes in fog, bones of Mozart and Auden, manifestation of that phenomenon where I discover my own salient words transposed in a Thomas Wyatt poem.

Care of

It's a small world getting, while I'm eating
A bag of vinegary chips in Warwick town centre;
A small world that could change the imprint
From Paris to Sorrento, just in the telling;
And I am here to pursue a line of thought,
As my sister is meeting
An old friend of mine at Christie’s.
Christkind carrying a fir tree, Hertha’s altar,
Tablecloths interlarded with pathos,
The elf who makes the cracker toys, Elen Mölter;
And I am here.
It’s a small world getting, but not for a seer.