February 5, 2017
November 23, 2016
Diary 23rd November
Pass me the breakfast gin…
Ah, but to spot genuine relevance in this wide Sargasso Sea of possibilities. Can it be done, I ask? Surely the ravings of a blog-troll have no pertinence?
But then again…
Decisions made on a whim, an impulse grown from a passion for spontaneity, are not necessarily flawed or the “wrong” decisions to have been made. It is not as if I’ve suggested marriage to a moonbeam, or taking up residence with the Rooks in the churchyard trees, or playing a banjo in the garden past midnight. No, none of these. And yet while all the possibilities hold some attraction for me, I continue to write silences on the fragile skin of the night.
For myself, yes, but also for you.
I am I. The truth of my own self. I dedicate myself to my art and my unique madness. I am my own Phoenix, and on slow burn…
So sing your rapturous love-song unto me!
Burn to me perfumes!
Wear to me jewels!
Drink to me, for I love you! I love you! I love you!
(with an apology to Aleister Crawley and his verse from Liber AL vel Legis; and to Nino who always says ‘I luvs you, I luvs you, I luvs you’ whenever he sees Dee)
This rain! So much feckin’ rain! Even the owls have fallen silent during the night…Waterlogged most likely.
A solitary sound while you were sleeping neatly dived the night into these two pure silences.
Well the year pulls on – rain and more rain, and mornings of white thick mist. Soon be Christmas, of course. This year we’ll be away, and I’m looking forward to that.
Because my blood is louder than light, I misheard your voice. But it doesn’t matter. Not really. My dreamy-head turned your words from words into pure music – a distortion not accomplished without effort, believe me. But that music floats in a circle above us now, as if crafted from the moonlight.
November 21, 2016
November 12, 2016
Diary 12th November
Oh, hey, hell, if you see me talking to myself, don’t be concerned. It’s just me getting expert advice…
I’m hoping this morning my breakfast gin kicks in before reality does. However, the one MAJOR problem I see around me nowadays is everyone listens, yeah, but not to UNDERSTAND. No, just to determine when it’s time to REPLY. Communication has become a competition between individuals. Understanding has no place in human interaction anymore. Or so it seems. Having said that, a lot of people can’t tell the truth to the face they see in the mirror each morning, let alone anyone else!
The nights are so much colder now. If you want to see just how forceful your woman can be, try pulling the blankets off her and over to your side of the bed…!!!
Yeah, hurts doesn’t it!
I love it when she comes to me in the early hours of morning, wakes me with whisper-kisses on the ear and her skin feels as if it’s permanently stained by the night. The taste of her spreads from my mouth to my body like liquid fire…
In July 1951, Sylvia Plath wrote in her journals:
“Lying on my stomach on the flat warm rock, I let my arm hang over the side, and my hand caressed the rounded contours of the sun-hot stone, and felt the smooth undulations of it. Such a heat the rock had, such a rugged and comfortable warmth, that I felt it could be a human body. Burning through the material of my bathing suit, the great heat radiated through my body…”
She also wrote:
“I drink sherry and wine by myself because I like it and I get the sensuous feeling of indulgence…luxury, bliss, erotic-tinged.”
Drinking alone is so sad but many of us do it. In the final months of her short life, Plath used the colour red twenty-two times in the poetry she was writing. She mentions red in excess of one hundred times in her Journal, obviously a colour she was fixated on – the colour of blood and of fire and of the sun seen through closed eyelids.
Blood brings to mind Wilfred Owen’s lines:
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Plath’s voice in Wintering haunts me, too:
The bees are all women,
Maids and the long royal lady.
They have got rid of the men,
The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors.
Winter is for women –
The woman, still at her knitting,
At the cradle of Spanish walnut,
Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
Succeed in banking their fires
To enter another year?
What will they taste of, the Christmas roses?
The bees are flying. They taste the spring.
A poem of survival. Although not guaranteed, there is here a suggestion of reawakening, a hint of spring returning. A far cry from some of Plath’s earlier, ferocious and annihilating poems. Poems which no doubt reflected her long battle with mental illness, and her terrible bouts of depression and mania…
Buzzard seen yesterday in one of the trees opposite our garden, huge, golden and magnificent, shrugging its great wings at my captivated gaze…
October 14, 2016
You don’t think I could bring myself to mark your lovely skin? I’ll take my knife to you, if that’s the case. I’ll carve my name in your breast so that every beat of your heart will remind you that you are mine — and mine alone. Because blood is binding, and because I would rather see you destroyed than see you free or in the possession of another, so I suggest you not try me, or you will suffer as no earthly creature has.” He slammed her back against the wall. “Or ever will. But that is a suggestion, and one you are free to disregard at your own peril. But you are are going to answer my question.”
October 11, 2016
March 15, 2016
March 6, 2016
January 26, 2016
A short while later, as I stare down at the bodies of the six men I have just killed, I cannot help but wonder: Do I love killing? Of a certainty, I love the way my body and weapons move as one; I revel in the knowledge of where to strike for maximum impact. And of a certainty, I am good at it.