Hans Bellmer
Surrealist photographer
1902-1975.
Sunday, 28 June 2009
Saturday, 27 June 2009
From the pit of your imagination by Albi Vinehart
"It's not a question of just reading books, Mexicana, it's also the physical pleasure and inner peace you get from holding them in your hands."
From Queen of the South by Arturo Perez-Reverte
The Sun keeps me from at baying at the moon
Enlightened in the day, monger of doom
Your drug dealer phones you in the cab
The moment you step fresh from rehab
Liverpool Street station booze abounds
Amongst the throngs and the sounds
Kings Cross station I take my first drink
A skimming stone is soon to sink
Thursday, 25 June 2009
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
Monday, 22 June 2009
Sunday, 21 June 2009
Friday, 19 June 2009
Thursday, 11 June 2009
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
Waste/Graceland
I am trying to get at something so simple
that I have to talk plainly
so the words don’t disfigure it,
and if it turns out what I say is untrue,
then at least let it be harmless
like a leaky boat in the reeds
that is bothering no one
David Berman
England is waiting for the ashes to start. It’s a dynamic and evolutionary tale. It’s Handel, St George and Oscar Wilde. A German, a Turk, and an Irishman walk into bar; we’re their punch line. The sun will never set on the nations that make up England today. You take your England where ‘er you go. I’ve taken my England pot holing with no equipment in Thailand with the locals; taken it up to Annapurna base camp, changing into my favourite t-shirt half way up the last ascent. I’ve plummeted into the ravine of alcoholism and clambered back out again with England on my back and on my sleeve. I’ve waived a toy gaming gun at my England out of a London window on crack and heroine; sat serenely in with it in Lakeland meditating on love and compassion. Show me a BNP member and I’ll show him the flaw. Time to wake up and smell the coffee, make mine sweet and black like the first cock I sucked. All this begs the question, so did those feet in ancient times really walk upon England’s mountain green? Well they did in Scotland; Prestwick march the 3rd in 1960 to be precise.
By Albi Vinehart
Friday, 5 June 2009
Thursday, 4 June 2009
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Monday, 1 June 2009
The Moon And The Yew Tree by Sylvia Plath
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky -
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.
By Sylvia Plath
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