Wednesday, 9 May 2018

Are you Qualified to SPEAK?

For quite some time I have been feeling a little despondent; it is mainly to do with this idea of the “Institutionalization of African Art”. Writing out an oral culture, which is clearly impossible, an oxymoron in fact. This talk really harps back to the days of dependency and that omnipresent hangover of Colonialism. The questioning of, who exactly is qualified to talk on the subject of Africa? This is a matter of control. It is an ugly way to find order and gain rights to have opinions and what and whose opinions matter? To take charge of the way in which the words are placed and what phraseologies work best, sadly now, these inconsequential issues are of enormous importance. This maybe so today, but was never so in the recent past or beforehand. Personally, my passion for Contemporary African Art stems from the easy ignorance, that enlightening lack of education and the freedom to play with the idea of a brave new world. Its very strength lay in its lawlessness and nonconformity. There was no decorum or airs and graces; this gave the whole environment a sense of liberation, an awareness of an incredible newness, something unique and special with ideas that where inclusive and at the same time, that quintessential accessibility to the creators of the artworks too. Initially, unbeknown to me, this “Otherness” was a door that I had been blindingly seeking my entire adult-life. Today, the artists who are being bestowed grants and awards are simply over-qualified, many have done their MFA, Masters in Fine Art, some have even gone as far as doing PhD’s, so the whole idea of Africa is now leaning towards the academics, the historians, the wealthy educated privileged and drifting quickly away from supporting the true, original, raw and authentic impoverished artists. So, with that in mind I wrote this today...

Heartbroken, that is the word I was looking for. The wilderness has been tamed; the crops sprayed with chemicals, the water-table contaminated and those in control just sit back and smile. All that is free must be repackaged, forced into a certain thought process and caged, surrounded by newly built fences, making everything so exclusive and therefore precious. Awards dished out to those that stay on-the tracks and those compromised few, so willing to play by the rules are highly rewarded. Elitism has well and truly won, she has her claws embedded into the undomesticated; constantly polishing the unruly, finding every kind of fault in nature and reshaping to make a square pegs fit into round holes. The passionate have been de-fanged, their poison bled out, rendering their potent-sting useless. What good is life on earth when all life is instructed to do as they’re told by voices of authority; overlooked by cameras on every street enforcing draconian reliance of a bygone era. The time to riot was yesterday; today we have all but destroyed ourselves. Clap as hard as you can, in order to see us out with a BANG.

Tuesday, 24 April 2018

Salisbury and Gary in Captivity

When out walking my brother's dog, Cordelia (Cordy) around Bewl reservoir, I found a baby tawny owl that had been pushed or fallen out of the nest. Unbeknown to me, but the area is contaminated with poisonous green algae, lethal for the wildlife and even dangerous for humans causing rashing, vomiting and and and. We escaped with our lives and I decided to celebrate by naming my beautiful baby, "Salisbury" and took himher off to a rescue centre nearby, called Folly, a wildlife hospital..they immediately screamed, "bring me a headless chick and chop it up good and fine now and be sure to leave the feathers," was the cry from the young lady, Sandie, now in charge of my newborn. Within a minute Sandie, forced open Sailsbury's blue beak and with tweezers fed the wild fluffy carnivore....I left feeling a little bewildered and wondering who saves the chicks? That aside, this was an exciting day and I'm delighted Salisbury has been given a second chance at life, a new start and of course, we all need more of that! XX #Salisbury Salisbury, Wiltshire

When big brother came out I was amazed about how many people wanted to watch people sleeping in a room? Go tomorrow I am going to speak with Folly and ask some techheads (Luke Dunn) to see if we can get some headcams for Gary and Salisbury, the two tawny owls at Folly Wildlife Rescue Centre. I want to stream them live and then put advertisements every 30 minutes throughout the raise money for the Centre..They are only there for a Month... #Salisbury #Techies #Techheads #Geeks #Editors #Videos #camcorders #wildlife #tawnyowls #mypeople 

Salisbury is at the back and Gary is being HARD at the front.

Wednesday, 17 January 2018


Light on the Sea | Agadir, Maroc

Smoke and mirrors, lies and deceit, bright sparks playing with fire. Double-takes and blindsiding those that should find out that the stories told are falsehoods and terrifying fairy tales. Dying energy, the beams are fading, turning into dim embers of golden days gone by. The old order is dwindling, ever closer to the end, as that arrogant outdated supremacy ceases to burn as brightly as before. Counting down the days, that surely must be numbered, snuffing out the candles and replacing them anew. Lights of every kind, omnipotent light that illumination, that luminous light that shines, and flares into every corner. The contingent reality of our Celestial powers within the infinite enlightened Cosmos. Revealing the tendency to oppress the primitive and celebrate the unworthy.  Seraphim bring purity to our unblinking eyes, seeing truths where darkness overshadowed certainty, coining belittling narratives. Fabrications of what serves best for the few, those devious make-believes, deemed worthy by ambitious, cunning writers, turning fiction into fact.

The Nanny State, control-freaks, “Witch Doctors” with their multiple bags of tricks and ‘sandpit workshops’, building blocks of innovation. Motivational speakers and lifestyle gurus', coaching ugly ideas of ownership, brazenly spouting that privilege is merely for the few, hardly for the many. Laughing through their implanted back teeth, tongue-in-cheek whilst gainfully snorting through their noses. The Champagne Charlies with Oxbridge haircuts. Intellectual property rights, mental strategies, brainstorming in ‘think tanks’ devising vile and cruel human experiments.  Logos and catch-phrases, sound-bites and sloppy orgasmic undertones with every filthy lecture. Edward Bernays the "double nephew” of the incestuous Viennese psychoanalyst Freud and his Century of Self, in an ‘Age of Mass Democracy’. Hypocrisy with divisive intent to rule the one, fcuk them all. Power is contagious, dangerous and monstrous with ethnic cleansing disguised as humanitarian Aid as the culling of the Africans is set to continue. 

Reptilian minds with their Lizhard tails; when mentioned, ignored, neglected, pushed aside, rejected and seen as ‘Conspiracy Theorists’ with their fake news. Phraseology with the ultimate goal of causing global media censorship. Edward de Bono and his lateral thinking.  We are blinded by the light, a form of disinformation, a blackout, curfew for the populace. An illusion, confusion, the Bavarian Illuminati. Elite ivy-leaguers, integrating with the top brass on the High-Table, feeding-off fattened swans adeptly scooped from mucky Hudson waters. Neuro-linguistic programming, psycho-babble, cognitive behavioural therapy of our present imperfect continuous tense everyday lives. Committees and Gentleman Clubs, breakfast power meets, Crisis with Isis, terrorism and bombs ready to explode on every street corner. Privacy, insanity mixed with secrecy and all-the-while, being unknowingly hypnotised into an altered state of false happiness by ‘Wisemen’, re-engineering our every thought. God forbid we challenge the way it always will be. (Click fingers) And we’re back in the room.

JP. 2018

Friday, 29 December 2017



A Love Letter To Myself.

Dear Joe,

There is no medicine, no pill or gullible fool with letters after their names can wipe away my anguish and in some perverse way I relish it, nurture it even. I simply hold it as my own as I try unsuccessfully to work through the pain and stand firm for all those tiny things I value so highly. I am but myself, none will come after me, when I am gone I will basically cease to be. There seems to be an emptiness inside of me. 

I thought at first I could write it off, write it out of me, but it seems to be growing. It is a loneliness, a sense of isolation and others judging, pointing with angry faces, yet none of them know me, they don’t want to know me, they just seem to want to judge me, mindlessly.  Is this my imagination working overtime or is it my unhappiness shining through, I just can’t tell? 

I seem to be trapped in a place I refuse to call my home. Nobody here is like me. The odd man out, the weirdo, there’s always one and here it seems to be me. I have never felt this meaningless before and it is beginning to show on my face. I can no longer hide my misery in public. That skip in my step has gone, replaced by a shuffle now, as if waiting for life to finish me off. Maybe this mood will pass and I will forget the agony of these moments alone, the sad, unshared discord that makes me so incredibly sick. 

I wish I had a friend to share my melancholy with, that lonely sense of grieving over a life that has not yet ended. This slow excruciating death that has no sickness attached, hours spent writing and finding no readers, with all these reams of wasted days soon forgotten. I gently rock myself in my director’s chair, trying desperately to think of better times. Will I ever love again or be loved or have those chances all put disappeared? Is this what life is like when all is lost and the future seems so cold and alone, like gazing into a pointless well and just wanting to fall in and be consumed by the void that seems to be the latter part of a life lived so poorly?

This is but a phase, a necessary process, a passage of time we must endure, the growing pains of coming to terms with middle age. That depressing knowledge, that your future is shorter than your past. Like the bald eagles from Mexico, Northern America and Canada, who courageously pluck their own old rotten feathers then carefully rips off their talons and have to break their sharp beaks in their forties, smashing them relentlessly on the cliff faced rocks in order to live for a further thirty years. If this dreadful process is not done, they too, will fall from the sky and be no more. Or perhaps like the snakes in the deserts of Africa that shed their skins whilst crawling sorely on their bellies in order to gain that necessary change in order to survive. We humans are no different, we also have to suffer in the passing of time and regretfully accept that heartbreaking end of that wonderful sense of eternal youth. We must gracefully come to terms with the knowing nothing will quite be as it was in those brighter, hopeful days of yesterday.  So we must be patient and embrace this solitary transformation and have confidence in seeing what our tomorrows will brings…..

Best wishes old friends. Hugs and kisses from me. XOX

Wednesday, 29 November 2017

Mental Health | My Story

Mind Matters | AFRICAN JOE

Expelled Again
Joe Pollitt | the African 'ShoeShiner'
Somerset House
African Art Fair 1:54
Magnin-A Gallery
London, 2017
Photo by Serge Clottey

So I see my therapist and tell him all about the wonders of Voodoo, how I want to join the Gays and take over the world, how African I am, we all come from Africa, surely he must know that. He, himself is Sudanese and been to South Sudan but declared to me he'd never been to Africa and the more I speak the more I can see his eyes widening, like the cat that got the cream. I tell him about my failing shoeshining business and how the Police wont let me SHINE. How I need his help to take down the UN as Aid is killing my beloved AFRICA, which I went to see off my own bat, went to Uganda, spent a small fortunate to see the AID CRISIS for myself and have evidence of the lack of Development in the North and East of the country where those living there, live under the most horrendous conditions of Underdevelopment and lack of care by their supposed Government that is being supported by the Americans and people like ourselves. The Ugandan Government actually pay CNN to never show the world the true story of those inside the country because for Corporate America, Uganda is big money, the people are just a nuisance. I have photographic and video evidence to back this up. Any NGO in Uganda has to sign an agreement that they will not speak badly about them, otherwise they are unable to establish themselves. They are effectively silenced, meaning that any NGO in Uganda are "African Haters" and only interested in dipping their filthy paws into the honey pot that is "AID". I could not believe it, it made me so angry I wanted to explode. The Africans are being used to create "AID", human sacrifice on a huge scale. War and man-made famines, these are pushing up the prices and bringing in "AID" and the UN is happy, job done. They laugh at the "C130 Runners", as they call them, these are my AFRICANS, whole families, starving desperately running after the only chance they have of staying alive. They are running to catch a C-130 Super Hercules military Aid plane, which is filled with just two pallets of GMO American rice for photographers to shoot to say, "LOOK, WE'RE Saving Africa", no, you're helping yourselves and nobody else and the world should fucking well know about this. A UN spokesman in Uganda telling me, Joe Pollitt the Freedom Writer, how to write about Africa, and in his plummy Norfolk voice instructing me to write it as if it where my Mother or Grandmother fleeing a famine. Well I wont write it like that, I will write like this. "I heard from the Red Cross the work is so stressful you fizzle after 3 to 4 years. So Charlie, how many years can you do this before you just burn out?" I asked to which he answered, "I'm here until I retire. Best job ever." My blood is boiling and I am not unwell, I am perfectly fine. The Press is selling us all an extremely skewed version of the truth. The pathetic so-called journalists are just re-writing UN press releases, all too worried never to work again if they do their jobs correctly, especially about Africa, they avoid it like the plague. I can show you all, I've been there and bought the t-shirt but in this Mental Unit in Royal Tunbridge Wells, they don't believe me, well who would? I have a stamp in my Passport that says otherwise. I have an Ugandan Press Pass, not for just Kampala for the entire country, which clearly states I'm a freelance journalist, working for the UNHCR and I can tell you all, Save the Children, UNICEF the whole bloody lot of them, are just putting up their flags and nothing has been done. Money has somehow got lost in the post.

Back in the Mental Home, it's a prison not a home, it is structured like the cells in every Police Station I have had the joy of staying in and eating their shitty breakfasts. This place makes me nervous because I know what they can do. I am physically ill and shocked to the core as we speak about the voices on the radio, which I think are talking to me about Mental Health on BBC Radio 1 (but it was on the radio, BBC1 it wasn't my imagination, my hearing voices, come on, it has been advertised, it's clearly underneath this's real not imagined), I'm kidding about the voices go away when I'm not in the car because to me, this pretend system too, is broken. Looking into Dr El Misery PhD's excited quizzing eyes set behind gold rimmed, round Gandhi-style glasses, I proudly talk about creating my own language, which nobody seems to understand, apples and stairs meaning, "Bus Fares" and how I adore writing to myself on Facebook, well I do, this to me is therapy but the Facebook Police have already come after me on a post about a Guggenheim Museum, can't even mention the American Photographer's fucking name on this platform and have to say "Robert Mapplesyrup" to disguise who I really mean. All that I've shown the world has been deleted by the Internet Police, the White Knights of Google, Yahoo, Sony, Apple, Bill and Melinda Gates, the Guggenheim's of this world, to save the face of this disgraceful Museum. I was arrested on suspicion of being a pedophile, my house broken into by seven Policemen and women, humiliated on my street, publicly destroyed and made a mockery of, thanks Facebook, like I needed that. Please excuse me whilst I just take a deep breath and start to laugh out loud for real. Thank my lucky stars that nobody reads my silly posts but I love the craft of writing and playing with the most powerful weapon we have on earth, our words and our letters. With them we can change every system and point out the rotten apples, and there are many.

Back to the Mental Wellness Institution. The "Doctor" looks at me with such delight, licking his lips, you can imagine his surprise when I share my life story with him, he just thought, he doesn't tick the boxes, goody, goody, gumdrops (we have a complete nutta in our midst) and of course he wants to keep me in for further investigations and wishes me a "speedy recovery"....Dr Ahmed El Misery PhD....(Prof. Uck-Med El Misery PhD), Just my luck, you can't make this shit up! Luke Dunn show this to the Mayor. The Institutions set up for Mental Health are failing to understand their patients lives are not the same as theirs and fail to come to grips with others, in just suggesting this I put myself in danger because the system is built around the thinking that the world is insane. They have built this lawless, uncontrolled, drug pushing system around that very concept and it is not in their interest to listen to anybody, they simply don't have to because they are the "Doctors" with PhD certificates, glorious paperwork, just the ticket and they know best, so butt out for speaking. The Institution is simply bogus, more fraud than Freud as all they seem to want to do is medicate those that speak out and send them all to sleep. "We want Zombies", they seem to be shouting but they can give me the expensive medication but I want to stay awake, that is my dream! Some live extraordinary lives, unbelievable lives but when facing the inside looking out, it is absolutely terrifying and I've been in a Kenyan remand prison, just outside Nairobi for not giving bribes to Policemen, so I know exactly what terrifying looks like. Letter ends: Finally, please feel free to bring a family member or friend with you for support and assistance. Yours sincerely....l am in a personal Hell as they are about to duff me up for my own protection, kick and punch me in face for my security and squeeze my balls for my well-being. They seem extremely keen to break my nose and detach my eye balls for what they like to call a full Mental Health check up. Did I mention the electric shocks on my feet and fingertips, what a buzz! I really don't have any mental health issues but suddenly I to them am "Christmas Pudding" come early. I am a 47 year old man, I am not a boy anymore and it is my duty as a man to do my job. Be proud of supporting the underdog, the African, proud enough to say I am one because that is the side of the fence I want to stand by and just like the educational system that teaches Africans to hate themselves, it is so flawed it is broken, set up to keep the wealthy in their seats of power. This is Biblical and just like Samson, I too want to take down the pillars and expose all that is going on. Do all that I can to make others comprehend that a British System is a Broken System in every respect and I am ashamed. (Nobody is gonna Publish this Joe, it's all in your wild IMAGINATION!) So declare me insane and be done with me. "Minds Matter"....who is really behind this? None other than our Dutiful Royals, off I jolly well trot, spoiling all their fun as they giggle at us "nuttas" out here in the real world, rubbing their hands with glee, jog on! I have absolutely no respect for those that have made their money through the blood, sweat and death of so many Africans. Tell me now, WHO IS FUCKING MENTAL?

Joe Pollitt from the Guardian Newspaper London 29/11/2017

Thursday, 23 November 2017


Untitled, POWERLESS by Joe Pollitt

I am screaming at you. POWERLESS. We have no voice, we have nothing now. We are killing ourselves and are just too busy to notice. Africa is King, she is a lioness so let us hear her roar. The youngest Continent on earth looks healthier than ever, as we in the West rot in our own White sickness.

"Oh look, there is always one!" I heard the Whites say last night, well I AM THE ONE! We are a world divided. Black and White, it is that simple. As I listen to Conservative Ministers talking to the first time buyers, those Ministers with property portfolios are daring to generously give them tax breaks, what a joke. Corporations are slowly taking over countries. The high street is full of empty buildings and those homeless are there in their numbers, sitting begging for a fix and a sense of belonging. "Spare any change mister? BIG ISSUE! Please mister, give me money for more drugs, help me to kill myself, I am begging you. BIG ISSUE!" Turning themselves into the ghosts of London Town. We are witnessing the death of Retail, as we busy ourselves shopping online for more bargains. The Council can no longer afford the electricity for the Christmas lights, they will soon become Ebay Lights on Oxford Street and Amazon Lights on Regents Street as they turn Christmas into a business, the sick-Mother-fuckers, cunt-suckers and we watch, powerless to do anything. I hate your Whiteness, your greedy thinking, your off-shoring and creative accountancy, what is mine, is mine mentality. I hate the skin I am just doesn't suit me.

Joe Pollitt, 2017


Thursday, 15 June 2017


Here is a poem I wrote for me dear friend Danne Van Cleve-Norton over in Las Vagas.

Danne Flying High

You to me are like the long awaited rains and
as your goodness falls so the land responds.
Nothing can grow without you. You are my constant.
You are like the glorious smell of just cut lawns.
That fresh wild scent of happiness found and
the splendid joy of seeing in brand new beginnings.

You lift me up when I am down and go that extra mile.
For that and for so much more, I am forever grateful.
You shower your light on the darkest of corners searching
to find those hidden meanings in all things worth knowing.
Never change, you are perfection and loved just the way you
are. You are kind, loving, caring but most of all you are true.

Those agonizing days when stupidity wins and reason is
rejected you are there, to battle out the issues and to comfort.
Like the seasons you are constant. Constantly evolving.
Finding new reasons to wake and explore some more.
You supported me when others turned their backs.
I just wanted to write and say. You’re the best bird in the sky.

JP. 2017