TYPOésies

Graphic poems, punctuating torn typographies, to venture beyond meaning.

“And if the only worthwhile search in life

Was that the swing of a sentence?

And if one of the brightest facets of beauty

Was it a visual succession of rhythmic sounds?

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Perhaps originally its sounds were words of a foreign language.

Their meaning didn't matter, but the rhythm... It was all there!

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So, free in front of the white canvas,

Translating for the eyes the emotion of the ear,

We can cry out our demons and give rhythm to our writings.

Cut out words, hang signs along tears,

Inventing graphic poetry.

A melody of signs.

Obvious.