I am taking a porcelain holiday. If a trip to the asylum can be called a holiday. I might have made too many pots recently like a drunkard drinking clay. I bite life's grave reality and it hammers me clean with a nice hot meteorite shower. Porcelain is a good excuse to make less. It's a tricky little bitch. Cold dumb lamb fat. Dripping, slipping, sipping more unnecessary beer. Price point penis aggravates chalky cheese squeeze. Porcelain is older than the cross and may have killed more people. Everyday lingers with its odourless stink. Why am I so obsessive? Is busyness justification for a wasted life which is a desert anyway? Birth - Sand - Death. If life is sand and only sand - better to be the wind. Last night I farted in my car. Returning from a visit to my elderly parents I was required to pullover for a random breath test from the popo. Seemingly synchronised with the opening of the electric window my bowl breathed silently out. A warm wave contorted the young Sargent's face. Jesus! he said. Yes? I replied, as my bad butt breath melted his eyes. If his alcohol meter could smell shit I would have been going straight to jail. I was way, way over the limit. 

There is an ancient madness to porcelain: Porzellankrankheit. This is a rock to die for unless you don't want too. It is the most valuable mud in the world and the cheapest. Discount store Buddha. Toilet Bowl. Teeth. Madness is scary because it is without edges. There is nothing to stop you falling, no fences, no moat, no made-up morality. Surrendering to madness is risky, it is the false elation of perceived freedom, an escape from the prison of reality, a beautiful ice bullet in the face. But madness is also beautiful too. 

Covid returns like bleeding teeth. Today's pots are a stupid waste of time. Porcelain mines bake Chinese children so I can stick dicks on a silly dragon. Our legacy is waste. If I was the Earth I'd try and kill us too. This clay moves like almond icing: spreading, dropping, blank faced, emotionless. Christmas after the recent death of a parent. It is almost edible in its flaccid tactility. Porcelain is space food for sad astronauts. Unlike my usual wild clays it's hard to even think of this tooth paste as clay. It is another medium with different rules of which I know nothing. 

It is surprisingly pleasant to be incapable enough to have to beg together a pot. I am more masterbator than master. I am a creepy child playing with unicorn shit in a shed. There are many ways to ruin a perfectly good pot but the two easiest are stabbing a hole in it or affixing a rouge penis. The less context the better. These latest pots are dick heavy for no reason other than self sabotage. Dicking a pot is the laziest form of retail suicide. Drinking alone in a bar full of bellicose tradesmen writing an explanation for the shameless dicking of my seemingly useless pottery seems risky. I've reached a new pinnacle or a new low. Shitness in art is always a question of aesthetics. Ironically a bar full of rough men is terrified to violence by peni. I blame the awkwardness of penis's on the invention of pants. Prior to that it was no weirder than a Swiss army knife on a belt. Admittedly carrying a pocket knife today is the international sign of the pedophile. I am not advocating for enforced naturalism just reflecting on the rich history of hidden appendages. I don’t think many people view the wearing of underpants as an attack on their civil liberty and yet for many, being asked to wear a face mask in a pandemic is a step too far. Perhaps a compromise could be wearing underwear on your face? Dick head.


  • Ancient greek pots have dicks – these were always my favourite in classics 101. So happy to see dicked pots. So the value is cross millennial. I bet in another 1000 years a potter is moaning about putting dicks on pots.

    ondine pickersgill
  • thanks for that laurie xxx

    David Duval-Smith
  • UpCYeuXTALRgWKqi

  • ftChZRQTNGJoc



Leave a comment