Devoted exclusively to the creative process. Here you will see photojournaling, poetry, prose, an occasional review--journaling or philosophical writing can be found on our other blogs. This is our attempt to use our imaginations. Enjoy!

Saturday, December 30, 2006


almost new year the hangman's erection falls limp

note this is the hangman's errection not the hanged man's it makes a huge difference

i suppose that
all the neocons
business men and politicians
that supported saddam in the past
will be so happy
now that his lips
cant move can't talk
can't incriminate

Sunday, December 24, 2006

god bless animals

in cold comfort he cages the words in code
the better to hide behind me dears
cages the words to secret the meaning
and loose the verb that has no feeling
but the climb up his arse is a long rope
and he spends many a day there
studying his d&g like a bible
like a bible full of tripe and trip wire
with the intent of becoming intellectual.
intellectual my fat backside me dears
oh for the blush of cruel animals
that acts with instinct
and hates with passion
anything better than the semaphor of prose
anything better than that pretension.
copyright forsaken

Thursday, December 21, 2006

Jennifer Reflected

"Look out the window," I said to her at about 17:30 tonight. "What at?" she asked. "Me looking at you," I replied.

And then I snapped.

Earlier she had said to me "I want you to take a picture of me where you can actually see my eyes."

This isn't it.

Fucking christmas

'Hey love, what d' you want for Christmas?'
'Do you really wanna know Alf?'
'Aye - I wouldn't bloody ask otherwise, woulda?'
'Reet then. I'll 'ave your cock in me gob - going in an' owt like a friggin' piston and then you coming all over me ripe tits. That'll be best fucking white Christmas in years me darling.'
'Better get a letter to Santa then, hadn't you love?'


Saturday, December 16, 2006

Unfit but Print! Good Blogsite!

I did not do this picture, even though that is my sorry image in part of it. This was done by a really fine artist name Piktor. His site is called Unfit but Print! Check it out. It's marvelous.

I still suck at links, but here is his site:

Saturday, December 09, 2006

Death in the attic

The swish-swish noise in the attic was driving me mad. And I told myself, I have to be original! I have to remember all those men who’ve killed beautifully, serially. Those psychotics with shiny black tailored suits who had ripped kidneys, heart and eyes out of women after poisoning them with their own neurosis and semen; those maniacs who had raped prostitues on squalid London roads…… There was always a patterened originality visible to some clue-fed policeman or some detective with a weird accent. There was some art to be discovered in blood - albeit cruel but yes, original nonetheless. They were perfectionists, yes, my psycho brethen in black suits.

So I picked up a fork, and headed for the attic. My mind was vaguely on Hitchcock movie i hadn't watched. I was thinkin Jack the Ripper. I was thinkin Lector. I was thinking blood, blood, blood!
And as I reached the end of the ladder, my head just above the attic floor, i saw her feet – pretty, petite, and pink, with fingers ready to be ripped off. And there she stood like an uncaring devil - standing on a stool with her back to me, humming Hotel California, cleaning father’s books on the shelf.
And I thought, my heart could break into two, right here behind her, noiselessly and I could die of the beauty of this very moment that surrounded around her and she wouldn’t - for the life of me, ever - know, that there lived a tiny disposable speck of nothing below this attic room who had breathed his last standing behind her with his face starin at her pretty pink feet.

Manic Street Preacher

Friday, December 08, 2006

Letter from Emily Dickinson to her lover

Early June, 1852

They are cleaning house today, Susie, and I've made a flying retreat to my own little chamber, where with affection, and you, I will spend this my precious hour, most precious of all the hours which dot my flying days, and the one so dear, that for it I barter everything, and as soon as it is gone, I am sighing for it again.

I cannot believe, dear Susie, that I have stayed without you almost a whole year long; sometimes the time seems short, and the thought of you as warm as if you had gone but yesterday, and again if years and years ahd trod their silent pathway, the time would seem less long. And now how soon shall I have you, shall hold you in my arms; you will forgive the tears, Susie, they are so glad to come that it is not in my heart to reprove them and send them home. I don't know why it is -- buth there's something in your name, now you are taken from me, which fills my heart so full, and my eye, too. It is not that the mention grieves me, no, Susie, but I think of each "sunnyside" where we have sat together, and lest there be no more, I guess is what makes the tears come. Mattie was here last evening, and we sat on the front door stone, and talked about life and love, and whispered our childish fancies about such blissful things -- the evening was gone so soon, and I walked home with Mattie beneath the silent moon, and wished for you, and Heaven. You did not come, Darling, but a bit of Heaven did, or so it seemed to us, as we walked side by side and wondered if that great blessedness which may be our's sometime, is granted now, to some. Those unions, my dear Susie, by which two lives are one, this sweet and strange adoption wherein we can but look, and are not yet admitted, how it can fill the heart, and make it gang wildly beating, how it will take us one day, and make us all it's own, and we shall not run away from it, but lie still and be happy!

Thursday, December 07, 2006

Monday, December 04, 2006

A field with poles

A field by Draffan at sunset.