I laid out my greasy jealousies,
fly blown and crusted in between
a maze of whirling things
among pepper stars and black
into dawn’s waking breaking along a bloody crack.
Far back in distrusted memories
those tender games trussed between
daylight’s craven kiss and midnight’s carefree lust
our melded hearts scarred by promises made
and snuffed before ending the dead dry day.
We . . . I . . .
I raged at strangers
for stealing our sun for usurping my ripened love,
and excised my dread guilt in bold discrepancies,
thrashed and bleeding, in between
tumbling twilight rain and thunder blast.
We . . . I . . .
I surrendered my flaming flesh and ripped
out those agonies with tattered fingers
curled my mauling fist in sleazy remedies,
dispensed with callous ease, between
night time’s foul infection and crippled sleep.
I summon you naked but wish you dead
and by my own hand, now the mistress
of breathless need, engorged with cuckoo seed
I discharge you!
You and your priceless scorn,
I eject you!
You and your twin pleasures, gravely bruised, lightly worn.
© Rivenrod 2014
Syria is a new gallery of paintings and drawings which attempts to make some sense of one of the most catastrophic human tragedies.
And here’s a track from Kings of Leon called Cold desert.
Fragments: bits and bobs, this and that, flotsam, jiffywaddles, trinkets, parafanalia. Things picked up, things collected or filed for later. Some have memories attached to them others grow into events that are about to take place. A fragment, the smallest part of a thing, is all it takes to change the world..
While you’re doing that, do this, Pieces of gold by The Aikiu.
Anything we can see happening in the Carina Nebula today happened about 10,000 years ago just as the earliest humans were throwing bones at the sun in the belief they were feeding the flames.
Give your ears a treat: James Hunter sings Carina
The fantasy-like landscape of the nebula is sculpted by the action of outflowing winds and scorching ultraviolet radiation from the monster stars that inhabit this dusty inferno. Those same stars are shredding the surrounding material which is the last vestige of the giant cloud from which they were born.
See new Hubble images
© Rivenrod 2015 Image taken by NASA Hubble telescope 2014
Drawings: a few sketches and drawings, some of which I might, one day, make into paintings.
While you’re doing that, do this, The shining by Badly Drawn Boy.
New skin by Torres
“I am a tired woman
In January I will just be Twenty three
In Kansas City I was Undressed and bested by an airtight floor
Then it said, “By the power in me vested”
And wrapped me in this new skin I’m dyin for”
Mackenzie Scott is Torres and her music is hard, incisive, confessional.
In New Skin, she excorsizes her demons by scratching nails down a blackboard. Her lyrics cringe with the nervousness of youthful transformation, but have the grit of honesty.
She’s self contained, she knows stuff yet willfully stands apart watching, no doubt with inner rapture, the fires of emotion she has sparked. The impulse is to hold her head in your arms and soothe her.
Learn about Torres here.
Buy Sprinter here.
At the junction of the main road leading to the town where I lived for a year, was a flourishing marsh. A broad flood plain, knee deep in lush grasses, lichen and willow rushes, it was a sanctuary for wildlife. Here and there, emerging from the spongy green tangle, was a scattered rash of whitewashed cottages inhabited by folk from a bygone age and at the centre, on a hard ridge, was a tumbledown farmhouse where I lived with five girls. We were all students at the art school.
We lived on cloud number nine.
Most evenings, in the summer, we sat in the garden drinking wine, sketching foxes. In the autumn whilst having dinner at the kitchen table, we watched, through the huge mullioned windows, herons and egrets feeding amongst the reeds. Herons were the natural stars of the show, swooping to earth out of golden skies, gliding unsteadily then crash landing as if controlled by a drunken puppet master. For all their ungainly appearance, there was a certain spiritual grace about our herons that enriched the passions fermenting in our youthful minds.
Years later, I escaped the city, exchanging the exhausting merry-go-round of work, ducking and diving, for the peace and tranquility of a countryside I could barely remember. On a whim I returned to that old town and found someone had built office blocks, hotels and a petrol station where the marsh had once been. They had built a fitness centre with treadmills and running machines because there was no more country to run in. There was a super market with a fish counter because the river was hidden behind a wall and couldn’t be fished. Our tumbledown farmhouse now offered a “fine dining experience in the heart of rural England”.
The main road had become a motorway and at its end was a round-about and at the centre was a slender pole and at the very top of the pole was a brass sculpture of a heron. The real herons of course had gone.
© Rivenrod 2015