Clipping

You know weird things make me cry.
This did.

Button!

Here's a little WIP from a miniature I'm doing. It's like...three by four inches or something ridiculous like that.

the skin is peeling
off my hands
in paper-fine layers.

The Battle You Left

Mood: Drowsy Morning
Listening To: 'The Siren's Song' Oh, Sleeper
Reading: venomous alibis
Eating: wish it were toast and marmalade
Drinking: peppermint tea
Today is going to be a particularly bloody-minded day. It's Wednesday, but I do get to relax marginally. Tomorrow I won't have time to get prepped for the weekend, so today, I'll be doing all that lovely stuff.
This song is sodding great, by the bye. You need to listen to it. 'Soft, wet skin' is some of the better lyrical consonance and alliteration I've heard in a while. It also conjures images halfway between a centrefold Petra Nemcova and a dementor.
Delish.

Remember the clouds that hid the trees?
That kissed my emptied eyes?
Forgetting colour, the landscape ends
Beneath the limitless skies.

I have an ungodly knack for choosing the most reprehensibly depressing films on my freeday.
I just watched 'Immortal Beloved.'
Jeroen Krabbe is always mediocre at best, but Isabella Rossellini was, frankly, superb.
I shouldn't have to mention how brilliant Gary Oldman was, with his sensitive upside-down mouth and tenuous fingers, carrying voice, the strong stillness of him...but I will, because I do adore him so.
Anyhow.
I think Bernard Rose was historically off on the identity of the 'unsterbliche geliebte,' but it was a moving film, nonetheless, and mindbogglingly upsetting.
I do hate the scene where they miss one another by moments in the corridors of the Karlsbad hotel. Those misunderstandings across decades between lovers always make me a little upset.
Of course, that is because there is always a pathetic little swot who will occasionally pop her head up and say 'the world was meant for lovers!'--after which I will smack her upside said head and tell her she's barmy.
Still, she has great taste, cause she likes Gary as much as I do.

Joyeux Noel

I found myself falling in love the other day.
A pair of blond boys trounced into the shop, maybe seven and nine, with their parents strolling lazily behind them, holding hands and whispering. When I greeted them, the elder of the two looked up at me with the greenest eyes in all creation and grinned a chipped-tooth smile and said, 'Merry Christmas!'
His mum gave him a scathing look and reminded him that he was a half-inch away from being grounded. He gave a suitably repentant look, but grinned back at me as he walked away.
Troublemaker.

Ozymandias

You know what I'm talking about. The old Byron poem about the statue in the middle of the desert, of a king no one remembers. 'Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair' and all that nonsense.
Well, I feel a bit like that, right now. I've built things that I thought were infernally eternal, no matter what I did to them, I built and built, and didn't test them, cause I was afraid they'd crumble.
And crumble they have, because I haven't had the guts to take care of them the way I should.
Oh noes!
I've buggered up again!

Drujan

I am the eponymous hero
Given to a thirsting world.
Manna, manna! They speak with bristling hands
And waking eyes, all joy-stricken, and deceived.

I have delivered lark-kisses
In the seafoam surge of horror,
In the purple-embroidered night
With its diamond-facet stars.

O my Navigator, my scourgèd medicine,
Physick to my adulterous bonhomie,
Reigning, the tyrant
Over my withered iron empire.

I watch the water drying from
My jade-dog opium pipe.
Conqueror of life, the sacred fire
Burns once again in Persia's heart.

You were my gilded Auschwitz,
The death-camp of my past,
Tanning my masks into your flesh,
Beautifying your ligaments.

I hide your guiding illumination,
O brilliant Northern Star.
My compasses demagnetised
Beneath the westward grievance.
(finis)
Sunday, 3 August, 2008
9.33 Pacific.

I just finished watching Requiem for a Dream.
It was god-awful. I feel physically ill.
Granted, today hasn't really been a great day or anything, but that just capped it.
I can't wait for summer to end.

once upon a time
I went
nuclear--
with a cellular decon
struction
five-point-two on the Richter.
I will mend it?

drinking worm-wood bitters
from the husk of a fallen star
let.
reddened hair spilt over my pillow.
do
sit
down,
you're making me
nervous.

my darling
self
shines.

Okay, mes amis, my faithful little lurve kittens!
I'm back from the other end of the globe, so to speak, with a couple more neck kinks and a couple fewer other kinks. Lucky you, I'm in the mood for a good, old-fashioned ramble.
I know I haven't been blogging regularly for a while, now, and that is, in the main, due to the fact that I almost invariably ramble, like I'm doing now, about nonsense, and occasionally post a photograph of a mindbogglingly sexy person, but I'm going to go ahead and switch it up a little.
Hand to God, you know I adore all you hardworking bassists out there, but really...the way to pick up women is to play the shaker.
I have a couple of poems in the works, but I've got to edit them pretty heavily, except for this one, and only because it's so ruddy short.
Bear with me. Here goes.

dance my quadrille,
shark-like
and sleek
beneath
my palms--
just so.
(finis)

There. Told you it was short.
In other news, I watched the Dark Knight film, and, against my own force of will and determination not to go with the swarm of people who raved about Heath's performance, I'm gonna have to admit, I liked him so much.
So much.
Hotter than ever.
And Christian Bale, for once, didn't give the impression that he was in desperate need of emergency surgery to remove whatever was rammed so hard up his colon, praise God. He was vaguely likeable.
Urb. I would love to post a picture of some deviously brilliant piece of artwork that I've just done, but to tell you the truth, nothing's been very forthcoming. I have a two-hour sketch of an unearthly beautiful man, whom I'm going to be lusting after for quite some time, despite his fictionality, but to be perfectly honest, I've been wanting to go the way of Armin Mersmann for a while now, and draw interesting faces.
Now, if I could only yakk myself over to Michigan and sit at his feet as he draws. That would be a dream come true.
Hold on, just a moment, while I lust after his godlike powers with the pencil.
*insert glassy-eyed stare here*
All right, all through.
Erm...here, though, for your consideration.
The watercolour isn't quite finished, I need some more practise with fabric, and the forearm...well...I wasn't feeling very confident with the muscles. I'll find some reference and finish it soon. It's called 'Youth with Minarets,' and it's a piece in a weird mix of styles. I was experimenting with some really cold-press rough paper, which is why the colours aren't as transparent and brilliant as I would like, but it'll have to do. I only thank God that I wasn't tempted to do it in oils. That would have been a fiasco I don't even want to contemplate.
Okay. Here you go.