June 2, 2016

Thistles - Vincent van Gogh

Thistle, blue bunch of daggers
rattling upon the wind,
saw-tooth that separates
the lips of grasses.

Your wound in childhood was
a savage shock of joy
that set the bees on fire
and the loud larks singing.

Your head enchanted then
smouldering among the flowers
filled the whole sky with smoke
and sparks of seed.

Now from your stabbing bloom’s
nostalgic point of pain
ghosts of those summers rise
rustling across my eyes.

Seeding a magic thorn
to pick the memory,
to start in my icy flesh
fevers of long lost fields.

Laurie Lee


June 2, 2016


the angel had no memories
the angel sat in the huge tree
high up in the huge tree

this angel with its massive wings

this angel with its massive folded wings
covered in hoarfrost

pessimism and narcissism go together I
just wanted you to know

for example I refuse to go to the holiday office party
although we pretended we could
we in fact could not see the visiting angel

we saw only a shaft of light in winter
we saw only some winter light
the kind of light you most often see in winter

Michael Earl Craig


Drunk with an inverted spiritual exaltation and excess of alcohol – wild-eyed and apparently hardly conscious of each other – the hair of the women streaming disordered as they pranced, and the panting breath of the men coming in laboured gasps – they rolled and lurched, spun and gyrated, toppled, fell, picked themselves up again, and leaped with renewed frenzy in one revolting carnival of mad disorder. Then, with a final wailing screech from the violin, the band ceased and the whole party flung themselves panting and exhausted upon the ground, while the huge Goat rattled and clacked its monstrous cloven hoofs together and gave a weird laughing neigh in a mockery of applause…

Dennis Wheatley
The Devil Rides Out

trails of debris…

June 2, 2016


“Most people’s lives — what are they but trails of debris, each day more debris, more debris, long, long trails of debris with nothing to clean it all up but, finally, death.”

Tennessee Williams
Suddenly Last Summer

Synthetic Arrangement - Morris Kantor

…a place from which light was almost excluded now by cobwebs across its two windows and into which, with the door ajar, the shafted sun lay in a lengthened arch of blazing sovereigns. Over a corn bin on which he had packed last autumn’s ferns lay Paddy snoring between these windows, a web strung from one lock of hair back onto the sill above and which rose and fell as he breathed. Caught in the reflection of spring sunlight this cobweb looked to be made of gold as did those others which by working long minutes spiders had drawn from spar to spar of the fern bedding on which his head rested. It might have been almost that O’Connor’s dreams were held by hairs of gold binding his head beneath a vaulted roof on which the floor of cobbles reflected an old king’s molten treasure from the bog.

Henry Green

Love and admiration…

June 2, 2016

men in love

The average woman, unless she is particularly ill-favored, regards loving and being loved as a normal part of life. If a man says he loves her she believes him. Indeed some women are convinced they are adored by men who can be seen by all to be running in the opposite direction. For homosexuals this is not so. Love and admiration have to be won against heavy odds. Any declaration of affection requires proof. So many approaches made to them are insincere – even hostile. What better proof of love can there be than money? A ten-shilling note showed incontrovertibly just how mad about you a man is. Even in the minds of some women a confusion exists between love and money if the quantity is large enough. They evade the charge of mercenariness by using the cash they extort from one man to deal a bludgeoning blow of humiliation upon another. Some homosexuals attempt this gambit, but it is risky. The giving of money is a masculine act and blurs the internal image.

Quentin Crisp
The Naked Civil Servant


June 2, 2016


Love is the extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.

Iris Murdoch
Existentialists and Mystics Writings on Philosophy and Literature

Eugène Berman - View in Perspective of a Perfect Sunset

Diary 2nd June

I might steal words from the mouth of Beckian Fritz Goldberg to describe last weekend: words seeming coy or used to shock! However, it’s her “extravagant, sensual fabulations of obsessive memory and the longing it inspires” that I most desire to plagiarise. Not the ice idly dropped “right where, right where” on her you know what – so, yes, something more than titillating erotica is required. Her poetry is suffused with longing – for an old lover, for the past, in particular a “cryptic” childhood partly idealised by wounded memory. Here there be both pleasure and pain. Unlike the plain catastrophe of my own childhood, Ms Goldberg evokes a lush musicality from out of her past…

“Furtively my father would slip a hand under the table and knock. I was three so I’d look around and look under the table wanting to know where it came from and how and that’s when father would drink my milk. I’d sit back up to a drained glass. What happened to my milk? My father would tell me it was the little girls who lived under the floor. They were hungry and wanted my milk. They might want my peas. I knew enough to sense it was a game, to half-believe there weren’t really girls living below us. But I had a vision of them anyway, all blonde with long straight hair, dressed in chambray smocks with frilled white aprons, reaching up, up toward my floor. Otherwise, they seemed to accept their world which must be dark and musty. They’d knock. A chicken wing would disappear.”
(From: My Descent by Beckian Fritz Goldberg)

Quite, quite beautiful, these milk and pea thieves – or, rather, the idea behind them! An “affirmation of the fantastical”. Imagination as damaged memory…


Mark Rothko once said, “It is important to the human spirit to create art, to experience art, to be open to art. It allows the exultation of the heart and spirit.”

In visual art words are unimportant. The artwork is what it appears to be to the viewer and no more than that. The viewer, by definition, becomes an inherent part of the artwork and any meaning it possesses belongs to the viewer…

So, last weekend?

A long weekend, yes, with the hours flowing over us like moth clouds. You in white. Me – seething within like a hungry wolf and running with the changing tides – organizing a BBQ for everyone, but wanting only to taste the endless salt flats of you…You who can teach me the sky once again…Ignoring the dead sound of champagne corks and the conversation like the sound of children talking to sunbeams…

Eventually night must fall and our guests depart. Then we will find ourselves hopelessly tangled in its wide-cast nets, in its oceanic depths. Lost in unfathomable majesty. In the delights of the flesh, entwined, a good dream at last.

Oh, to drown in this wine-dark sea of desire with you…


Having to talk destroys the symphony of silence…