Blood Argument

July 12, 2017

You insist
that the world belongs to a stony-hearted goat-god –
how every time we act, we enact
his vileness; how this is no
ecstasy, just a bad laboured joke.

Your body in spasm
longs to strip the flesh, but if you do
there will be nothing left but the busy
bone-clatter of tactics.


I will listen instead to the river,
cold as time, smelling of blood-brown leaves.

April Bernard

and if you are dead

July 12, 2017

You have been reading Byron. You have been marking the passages that seem to approve of your own character. I find marks against all those sentences which seem to express a sardonic yet passionate nature; a moth-like impetuosity dashing itself against hard glass. You thought, as you drew your pencil there, ‘I too throw off my cloak like that. I too snap my fingers in the face of destiny.’ Yet Byron never made tea as you do, who fill the pot so that when you put the lid on the tea spills over. There is a brown pool on the table – it is running among your books and papers. Now you mop it up, clumsily, with your pocket-handkerchief. You then stuff your handkerchief back into your pocket – that is not Byron; that is you; that is so essentially you that if I think of you in twenty years’ time, when we are both famous, gouty and intolerable, it will be by that scene: and if you are dead, I shall weep.

Virginia Woolf
The Waves

An artist

July 12, 2017

I think that the best thing for me as an artist is to be able to turn my back on a piece of work. What that means is that I put my best effort, my best intention and care into it. I see it as a raft that I’m sending down river, and I’m on shore, so I get to turn around and see what else I can make with my hands.

Ocean Vuong
Interviewed by David Winter for the Poetry Foundation

End of days

July 12, 2017

Read of the day

July 12, 2017

Inside out

July 12, 2017

12th July

Striping off our underwear. Cock stiffening at sight of red pubes, at the lips of your other mouth. Go on kissing. Like a dream about eternity –

Have I had greater loves than this on my slow walk through existence?

Sweat slick bodies, unraveling flesh on flesh, and the scent of sex. A scent impregnating these sheets. Hands reaching out, fingertips reading bodies like Braille pages –

Wanting every part of each other. Fucking bone deep. Trembling and breathing out each other’s names in a moment of ecstasy –


Created a vegetable tagine last night, and this morning the kitchen and lounge are permeated by the gentle scent of exotic spices. Cumin, ginger, paprika, cinnamon and saffron. Like a return to Morocco. Exotic sights, sounds…a sensory overload! Loosing yourself in the maze that is the Fez medina –

Keeping yourself as well hydrated as a fully watered camel is all very well – but all that peeing!


On the moor, distant ages blur one into the other. Melancholy ruins here and there: roofs of long abandoned farm buildings sagging inwards, tall chimneys from the industrial past rear out of brambles and a Celtic cross stands roadside, memorial to a people long departed and yet still close at hand –


Ah, but when you kiss her through her panties –


Hospital last Monday…private hospital, again. Consultant appears obviously unhappy with his lot. ‘Please sit down,’ says he. ‘The news is not good – ’

And of course he was correct. The news is devastating. But there is a chance…always there is a chance.

Afterwards I cling to her while she cries and kiss her head repeatedly like a child begging forgiveness. I want to scream but I’m crushed by emotion and fear concerning her.