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!

Thursday, May 31, 2007

Monday, May 28, 2007

In the Arithmetic of Shadows

I remembered the blood between my legs. Suddenly and without consequence it flowed. Dark. Almost brown. As old as I was. As young as I had once been. Ragged stocking on the mantle. Scabbed father christmases doling out happiness in empty boxes.

I counted the hues. A rainbow of red. The naked dandelions still fucking behind our flesh. I picked the colors. One by one. From the gullitone of his kiss.

A constant red.

The thirst of the armor. The stench of skin.

Still there, but ready to be removed.

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Monday, May 14, 2007

sleight of hand

“It is just sleight of hand.” She said.
The cards snipped like scissors.
“It gets them every time” she smiled.
The sharp practise of a card hustler with well oiled wrists and nimble fingers had an allure that he found irresistible.
They sat around the coffee table in his hotel room.
She dealt the cards and he poured the drinks.
The clock chimed eight thirty.
“I need the toilet.” She said, giggling.
“Through there, on your right.”
She scooped her self up and moved out of sight.
He took a phial from his pocket and poured it into her glass stirring it quickly with a bic pen.
She came back into the room adjusting her skirt with quick hands and smiling at him.
“Said I wouldn’t be long didn’t I?”
“Drink up.” he said pushing the glass toward her.
“It is just sleight of hand.”
The minutes passed with a watchful eye.
The minutes fogged with a cloying tacky taste.
Memories shattered into broken pieces.
Slip, slip slipping.
Fractured moments through a Vaseline smeared looking glass.
When he awoke his wallet and watch and credit cards had gone, as had his mobile phone.
All that remained was a playing card.
A joker.
Written on the card…
It is just sleight of hand.

Sunday, May 13, 2007

Your Kiss...

your kiss is still melting in my mouth…
like tender cherries soaked
in the sweetest of wines, and
undoing themselves, opening up slowly,
ever so slowly -
enticing the taste buds
teasing them,
playing with them now, you see!
ah, the sweet anguish
of the aftertaste that aches
to taste you…feel you…yet again

your kiss is still melting in my mouth
and melting me within -
wish you would gather me
and sprinkle your dew drops all over
your kiss is still melting in my mouth…


Tuesday, May 08, 2007



love whispers your name
sweetly, in the dark corners
of my wilting heart


Nirvana comes.
Nirvana comes in a mid sized brown, odd bottle. It comes down with a rhapsodiac melody in a dim lit bar on a prehistoric wooden table for two where one of seats never fills up. Nirvana comes and blinks twice, before its familiarity stands out, amongst the cool oceany smoothness of the evening that Sinatra offers in New York New York. And before you know, before you’re quite done for the night, you’re far away with that odd, lost bottle, in your own world where nothing stirs and nothing moves and nothing is the very music that fills the void your heart, and you know, that even if the world is blown away by an H-bomb at this very instant, it is okay, for in that dim lit bar, you have just discovered your way to your very own 8th galaxy.
Nirvana does come…

here and now

the humble light fails
a new world races to overtake me
caught here now
in my rebellious boots
i feel as if i were an anachronism
a fading memory from another time
reluctant to embrace
the corporate
the franchise
the empty heaven

Monday, May 07, 2007


another old thing i pulled outta the closet ...

(fyi - ahurani, a water goddess from ancient persian mythology, watches over rainfall and standing water .. worshippers invoked her for health, healing, prosperity, and growth.)

Message to Piktor

Sorry if my recent post offended you. It wasn't my intention to upset you or anyone else and for that I am sorry. Perhaps this site isn't one that is a viable blog site for me to post such material. I certainly won't post anything like it on here again.

cocaine jesus

Sunday, May 06, 2007

Instead of flowers

Instead of flowers
you sent me butterflies,
But you know,
they die so fast.
I don't even dare to ask,
could you send some more...

Saturday, May 05, 2007

Don't worry


"as you think - so it is."
... and, so, the circle of life
embraced me @ that moment.
as i walked under the cover
of that deep periwinkle bowl -
the heavens -
i glanced into its magnificence
on my journey home.
i saw him there.
an eagle -
flowing, sailing, gliding
high above me.
a messenger?
"yes, my child,
a messenger.
grasp the courage
you know you lies within.
fear not the abysmal unknown,
fear not."

[i'm 7 days' clean ... & counting]

Friday, May 04, 2007

Regular people

Thursday, May 03, 2007

the black veil

... just some old thing i pulled outta the closet ...

Hawkesley Square

Police Community Support Officers engage with Paul Conneally's piece 'Hawkesley Square'.
This is a Wordsearch made up of key words and phrases written during the Hawkesley Square Renga - part of 100 Verses for 3 Estates. The piece is a psycolexigraphic art work. Each time a participant finds a word and circles it they engage directly with the person that wrote the word/s during the renga and the time and space it was written in.

The piece was set to run over two hours on the 28th of April 2007 in Hawkesley Community Centre.




Wednesday, May 02, 2007


{inspired by some bob dylan lyrics,
some words from quasar9 and, also,
the darkness that lurks inside me.
btw - the aberration? its me.}

behold - a soul.
such a frail delicacy -
a beam of light,
trapped inside a dark cell
swallowed –
(or so it would seem) -
into the cavernous unknown.
messenger of despair?
a looking glass
with such fine, exquisite detail,
the labyrinth of a soul.
a constant, habitual display
of every flaw …
every wound we collect …
reflected back to us.
the reflected. the reflection.
one seeps into the other,
in that slow, agonizing
trickle of time.
what’s real? what’s mirage?
impatient desperation
gives birth to thoughts
that eat souls alive.
we fester –
in our madness.
inertia –
a beam of light,
inside a dark cell,
melting back
into the night,
where everything
is made of stone.

eye of the storm

Tuesday, May 01, 2007


the fog drifted in like a gauze of mystery.

cotton candy frail.



it swirled and clawed with tendril fingers that etched ephemeral shapes.

sculptures in vapour.

ghost shapes.

spectres of haze and mist and colossal uncertainty formed on the far flung reaches of slowbound smur that wraps its nebulous self around the harsh reality of rocks and trees and darkening undergrowth.

and as swiftly as light crossing a vastness of space two shapes form from the vague and amorphous miasma.

fey shapes.

strange shapes.

sensual and sexless like swans bereft of gender. elegant and dire and without substance or sound.

fell and fearless.

moving as though without movement like mercury across ice.

they see each other and hands raise in silent recognition.

an epicurean signal.

a coitus in semaphore.

they float and circle. filaments in a chimerical ballet.

a vaporous vicissitude that coalecesses and shifts as though governed by the random breath of the breeze.

their tongues touch and slip and slide. their mouths lock.

they embrace and tumble and grow into each other and move like the oceans at the beginning of time when the sun warmed the earth and the ice caps rose and fell and steam rained in a concert of condensation and the spray threw a drizzle that clung like the dew at the birth of creation and all is in echoes and light folds the morning into obscure shapes and designs and then silence explodes from the distant glimmer of clouds.

and they part with a kiss and a sigh.

and their wings spread like the memory of heaven.

and then,

they are gone.