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!
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
is loving life;
is not giving a dam what others think but living in the moment -- the now.
A pauper asks, “Can you spare me some change?”
I quickly scurry by
pretending he’s not there—
can’t help but notice his huddled shaved form.
A tinge of regret creeps through my soul
but not enough—
I walk on by.
To enter a world where steel is THE metal,
highly prized over gold—
kind is good but harsh is better,
he is honored who froze and climbed over others’ hearts.
The schoolgirl sings as her best friend giggles,
they skip along in winter-like spring,
hearts are pure
souls are fire—
not yet familiar with the bittersweet sting
of emotions dripping icicles.
The feathers line her face.
She shops for clothes in old arcades
Where women dress in scales.
And every future she has seen
All look like bottle green.
Despite the fact that time itself
Hides in corners full of shade.
Her son she named as Milo
For his father was a Duke
Their honeymoon they spent
Lying besides a pale lagoon.
Where courtesans and pilgrims went
To hide from kingly priests
Who forever search for messiahs
To lead them all from grief.
But all they find and every time
Are princeling sons and thieves.
So she left the kingdom far behind
To search again for love
But all that she ever finds
Are messages from her gods.
So upon a cavalcade of bikes
She drove down to the sea
And there she drowned her sins
And cursed the tide that retreats.
And there she drowned herself
Beneath tides that time neglects.
Monday, February 26, 2007
But who is stronger than death? Me, evidently . From Crow by Ted Hughes
Brother slew brother.
Someone called it good.
He drags the remains,
tossed on the Mesopotamian funeral pyre.
Flames devour the flesh--
ah, but the soul shifts outside,
curling into the very cup of trembling
planning his revenge,
all in the name of God.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
How hungry they are. How long they can stand it. The way they'll remember you after it's over. An earnest fuck. A callous friend.
Certain details confess themselves at the most inopportune of moments. During a blow job. In the midst of an orgasm. The gauze slips from the lens. The real picture snatches its way into the film before you can stop yourself from pressing the button.
The real picture. All the details about yourself you never wanted to know. Irrevocably permanent.
Skin becomes a priest of sorts. Soiled confessional that names your penance. Face by face. Dick by dick. Until the blood is wine again. A thoughtless solvent. And you feel better.
Friday, February 23, 2007
I was under love again and my landscape burst wide open and busy again.
It is the smell of an open grave. from The Oresteia
Birth pangs aside, Leda wrestled her torso,
with this growth proclaiming admittance
to the feast we call life.
Beautiful girl, you cause so much murder.
You are aberrant, a thing to be despised.
Yet men die for you; they kill their own kin
to gaze once upon your face.
So hateful this love,
this knowing, retched like the children of Cronos,
immediate afterbirth of revenge.
Gods above, we seek our freedom
from this cycle of decay
disguised in so pleasing a form.
Kill me now; I cannot live,
knowing that she will always have the victory.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Cold, the chill creeps like a rat
into my hands, my feet,
Bullet, you find your mark
all carved out for you.
I am your open wound,
uncautorized, bloody red meat.
You reach to grab that remnant chunk of heart.
Like chicken gizzards,
you fry it up,
feed it to your bottomless need.
And I fade and hover over myself,
waiting for the rescue
you cannot give.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
Friday, February 09, 2007
'When I grow up I will be...'
She tapped each dot with increasing jollity and wafted up her hand saying 'okay children, lets discuss. Jacob, who do you want to be when you grow up?'
'Miss, I want lots of attention when I'm older. I want everyone to be my bestest friend.'
Guaranteed - little fucking exibitionist. He'll fuck anything that goes to get that - men, women the lot.
'Thank you Jacob. What about you Milly?'
'I want to be an important person. I want to have lots and lots and lots of money.'
Aye, snorting enough coke to keep a hundred African villages in food each week you little bitch. Well, hope you like being drugged and date-raped by city-types sweetie.
'That's lovely Milly. Okay, lets ask Ahmed.'
'I want to be just like my papa miss.'
Fucking suicide bomber, no doubt. There'll be so many mosques in the UK by then you'll need somewhere well chosen not to get innards splattered all over more of your own.
'Right, okay, Edith, now your turn darling.'
'Miss I want to know more words, more things. I want to read people's minds properly.'
'So I can stop them miss. So I don't have to cry anymore. I don't want to cry anymore.'
It's too late for that you stupid fucking cow, too late.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
online - None of these are mine, really. So if anyone
has any objections, please let me know and I will take
them off. Thanks :)
Rest of my Barrett stuff is here : madcap@ricercar
Uploaded by prerona on 5 Feb '07, 10.49pm GMT.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
In a blue bulb. That resembles who I am now. In a blizzard of ion it sank. Not hot enough to explode.
Just warm enough to think it could burst.
In the dark. In the hours after life goes to bed. I still sat at the head of this palsy trial. A jury of fingers debating. Guilty for certain. But of what?
A verdict looming in every word.
Justice seducing every Prometheus left on my list.
Humans and beasts are different species, but foxes are between humans and beasts. The dead and the living walk different roads, but foxes are between the dead and the living. Transcendents and monsters travel different paths, but foxes are between transcendents and monsters. Therefore one could say to meet a fox is strange; one could also say it is ordinary.
- Ji Yun, 1789, in Notebook from the Thatched Cottage of Close Scrutiny
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Occasionally a photograph I have taken reminds me of an image from a poem. This photograph made me think of one by Plath, from a poem I haven't read for years:
Where do the black trees go that drink here?
This was taken this afternoon. The trees are probably still there, still waiting...
Friday, February 02, 2007
oooh its so tempting to indulge
to tell myself pretty lies
and tell you too
how I love the smell of you
and the taste of passion that fears to unfurl itself
upon a dusty road that might take ages to clean
and even then may not seem quite as wondrous as you thought
it might be
where was the fever, where was the quirk
locked up in a bedchamber
or imagined thirst
no particular desire
just comfort and ease
too shy to tease
like a caged bird
pretending to be free
on a fictitious tree
what brought us there
what made us stay
what makes me doubt
what makes me shout
you were you
and I was me
and then again
just who I didn’t want to be
everything was right
everything is right
It has to be
do you understand me?
this is my first post here, and i just wanted to let everyone know that my review of Barbara Jane Reyes's Poeta en San Francisco is live at RAINTAXI. (click the blank space)
feel free to check out my blog also (click the blank space)
- ► 2008 (15)
- WINTER-LIKE SPRING
- The Curling Brew
- Our Consuming Fire
- Celluloid Statisticians
- Under love
- Clytemnestra's Sister
- The New Hector
- Lochlyn & Devlin - 17th February 2007
- talk talk
- new review
- for a better world play golf on the moon
- Class of '07
- MADCAP Collage
- Fox, dreaming of the space between human and beast...
- Crossing the Water
- Into the Sun , bleeding and sunning
- NEW REVIEW
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- david raphael israel