A moon had risen…..

January 30, 2015


A moon had risen while I slept, and was shining through the
countless-windowed roof; but her light was crossed by so many
shadows that at first I could distinguish almost nothing of the
faces of the multitude; I could not fail, however, to perceive
that there was something odd about them: I sat up to see them
better.–Heavens! could I call them faces? They were skull fronts!
–hard, gleaming bone, bare jaws, truncated noses, lipless teeth
which could no more take part in any smile! Of these, some flashed
set and white and murderous; others were clouded with decay, broken
and gapped, coloured of the earth in which they seemed so long to
have lain! Fearfuller yet, the eye-sockets were not empty; in each
was a lidless living eye!

George MacDonald

Man on the Moon…..

January 30, 2015


The Power of Love….

January 30, 2015



Back in the rain….

January 30, 2015


Back into the rain, back into the night, through deserted city streets, under broken Christmas lights swinging in the wind, along Boar Lane, the shopping centres and the vacant offices dark and huge, black canyon walls looming, up Market Street, the queues of empty buses all lit up with no place or passengers to go, through the Kirkgate stalls, past the mountains of rubbish, the rats and birds feeding, back to Milgarth, back underground…Two nights on and everything dead now…

David Peace
Nineteen Seventy-Four

When in doubt…..

January 30, 2015



Finishing work yesterday, Dee and I drove to the pub on the moor to treat ourselves to a few drinks in a relaxing, convivial atmosphere. It was a nice little indulgence for an ordinary weeknight. Big log and coal fire in the fireplace in the pub. Outside it was sleeting, with gale-force winds coming in off the coast. So I sat there with Dee watching the flames from the fire spark up the chimney. A couple or three Jameson’s inside me, I began to feel mellow. The place was quiet, just two or three other drinkers.

‘Shame about the weather,’ I said. Most of my day had been a dreary mush of corrections and navel gazing. ‘We could have taken a walk up to the mast.’

‘Yeah,’ Dee said. ‘You’re full of bright ideas.’

I could hear the wind rattling about outside. ‘The forecast’s for snow,’ I said. ‘Snow for the weekend. I don’t know what it’s going to be like Monday morning. You might not be able to get out of the village if the road’s are bad. They never grit out here.’

‘I’ve got work. I’m going to have to try, come what may,’ Dee said. She went to the bar and got peanuts and pork scratchings. ‘Want some nuts?’ she asked.


‘Don’t forget to get Gabriella a Valentine’s card this year.’

‘You’re a bit early with the reminder,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you getting her one? You usually do.’

‘Yes, of course. But she likes to feel loved and wanted by us both. You forgot last year, if you remember. You made one up yourself out of card, coloured with felt-tips, and a God-awful rhyme inside. Really looked last minute and tacky as hell. As if you didn’t care…’

‘I’ll get one next time I’m in town, okay?’ Of course she didn’t mention her card was handcrafted too.

And there was little ol’ me thinking a handmade card containing personal, specially composed verses of my undying love would be taken as something unique, a loving gesture, heart-felt as hell. The way Dee and Gaby’s minds work is beyond rational explanation. It’s way beyond science or rationalism…What-the-hell, it’ll never be explained, and there’s an end to it! I’ll go and purchase two of those abysmal cheesy Valentine’s from the gift shop; one for each of them. No complaints then, I trust.

Feckin’ Hell!

The Last Performance

January 30, 2015

Enrico Robusti (b. 1956, Parma, Italy) - Le Signore Si Divertono (The Ladies Have Fun)

Quivering candles melt in drips
down burnished silver candlesticks.
From glinting crystal, fluted lips
imbibe their wine with eager sips.

Assembled dinner party guests
in front row seats at their request.
Each one, dressed in party best,
anticipates a grand gabfest.

By carefully-planned complicity,
observing every nicety,
the players’ deft duplicity
apes blissful domesticity.

Abettors in the said collusion,
tasty dishes in profusion
validate the grand illusion,
adding to the guests’ delusion.

Each cognac-fuelled rave review
drifts back down the avenue
as guests leave, bidding fond adieux,
the evening’s end long overdue.

The room that lacks an audience
has lost its cosy ambience:
an empty stage that waits in silence,
ready for the next performance.

The actors wipe away all traces
of greasepaint smiles from tired faces.
No more need for airs and graces,
corsets, braces, tight shoelaces

Jayne Stanton

Liking Books….

January 30, 2015


She liked books more than anything else, and was, in fact, always inventing stories of beautiful things and telling them to herself.

A Little Princess
Frances Hodgson Burnett

What are you reading….?

January 30, 2015