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!

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Tuesday, February 27, 2007


Singing in the street
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 Curling Brew

She wears a pelican for a hat
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

Our Consuming Fire

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

Celluloid Statisticians

Certain details notice us before we do them. The sigh of the wastebasket as it catches the condom. Or some random breath that trundles over their lips. Too bored to inhale again. There's so much to learn about someone in the lapse between making the call and waiting for the food to be delivered.

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.


and to think,
i am but one
of many millions.

Saturday, February 24, 2007

Friday, February 23, 2007

Under love

Falling out of love is finding what's under it. I wanted to read the book more than let her know I loved her. I fancied ordering pizza more than holding her hand. The score of the game was bigger than her telling me those notorious three words.

I was under love again and my landscape burst wide open and busy again.


Clytemnestra's Sister

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

The New Hector

My husband made this sword for our son. The three of us talk a lot about the term "warrior". There are many ways to fight the enemy.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007


Cold, the chill creeps like a rat
into my hands, my feet,
slithering upward.
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

Lochlyn & Devlin - 17th February 2007

As ever - please click for a larger view. And some advertising - my flickr page can be found here:


Thursday, February 15, 2007

talk talk

without the use of his twelve bore, Martin found communication with nature impossible.
without the use of a telephone Samuel found communication with people impossible.
without the use of a church or priest George found communication with god impossible.

new review

hello all, just wanted to let folks know i have a new review up at GALATEA. click the blank space. enjoy


Monday, February 12, 2007

Friday, February 09, 2007


the street lamp casts a greasy glow. a halo of indifference. i take the halo and place it around the neck of democracy in the groundless hope it might make a difference.

Class of '07

The teacher screeched a chalked sentence which needed finishing across the board:

'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.'
'Erm, why?'
'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

MADCAP Collage

MADCAP Collage
Originally uploaded by prerona.
I made this from all the syd barrett pictures i found
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 the reason. In the yellow of the snow. A halo of piss to prove our angels were still listening. The slow dog paddle of hope. As I wore my skirt. As I was worn by it. No stockings. Just skin. Fluorescent as his touch plugged it in.

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.

Fox, dreaming of the space between human and beast

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

Crossing the Water

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...

Into the Sun , bleeding and sunning

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 curiosity
no fire
no particular desire
just comfort and ease
too shy to tease
like a caged bird
pretending to be free
weighed down
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
not quite
just who I didn’t want to be
and yet
loved being

everything was right
everything is right

It has to be
do you understand me?


hello everyone,

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)