Precarious Love

We had been rushing to make it home before sunset. Hot showers, the first signs of spring, had brought the world to life. The branch of a bramble bush weeped over our path. With one arm, I swept it aside, out of my way. Without realising I let it flick back as she came up behind me. A tiny, tired cry came: "Ah!"

I turned: her arms were held up high, woolen jumper snagged. On the bare patch of flesh, where her skirt was now torn, a discontinuous line of crimson had formed.

I tried to set her free, panic knotting my brow.

"NO!"

A shove and I tripped back.

With careful fingers, she picked her way free. As the first thorn came unhooked she stared at me, unforgiving. Her eyes choked gold with the embers of the dying sun. There was a hidden temper held in check by a force held inside, fickle: precarious. And as I often hoped, by love.

Though hope turns so easily to doubt.

This Morning

Today is going to be a hot day. I can feel it in the draft about my ankles as already, even this early in the morning, the sun has started heating the air about me: forcing it up and letting the cooler air rush in. The threadbare foliage of our skinny pear tree rustles. The first, delicate blossom has appeared. The air is clean and the morning calls of birds are clear.

Cotton wool, in places, washes out the pastel sky. I can't see the sun yet - I sit in the shade cast by the house overlooking the back garden that faces north. Two wood pigeons, one near and one far, mourn to one another. A car horn sounds. The muted growl of a van and the kiss of a tire dropping the curb.When I strain, I can hear a swoosh, like a knife cutting shallow water - a motorway?

I went to the effort of brewing coffee this morning, but I am clumsy at it and it has come out weak, watery and lacking that kick that opens me up in the morning. I am still dressed in pyjamas and I should shower, maybe. There is a timber yard one road over and the noise and whine of the saws have started up. They interfere with the stream of my conscious thought: as dominating as the rising sun.

A haunting

All the ghosts of former friends haunt me still to this day.
They weigh down my heart and often I hope to disregard their spectres,
Still they peer over my shoulder and wake me - screaming - in the depths of night.
They are, I think, my guilt made manifest.
Or else angels: oracles of the seclusion that will define my latter years.

And then there's a CRASH!

Of Lightning, majestic and frightening.
She hides in the closet, shaking but quiet.
The flashes in this house come often and in bouts.
Throw shards into shadow, make fragile spectres: borrowed.
Clamp your eyes, hold down - wait.
It will pass.

Pah!

I'm going to eat cheesecake and draw.And write a short story:

Punk Ain't Dead + Things I Like That Go Together No. 2

I'd like to come up with a good reason why, but that's not going to happen, so here's something better, because people should listen to Patti Smith more:

This also fits in with another 'Things I Like That Go Together', so I've added Tank Girl: Visions of Booga. There are a few connections here: the first being the obvious punk influence in Tank Girl and the general attitude that oozes out of it, reading it makes you want to stick it to the world in general. The second connection is that both Patti Smith and the character of Tank Girl are strong willed and impressive women, something that you don't see enough of these days (Take a look at the front cover of 'Horses' and you can't help but admire Patti Smith; there really is something in her eyes that had never been seen before). What I think is the most important connection is Beat poetry. Patti Smith brings the feel and rythm of beat poetry into her rythm and when you listen to her (especially with headphones) you can't help but become mesmerised. Visions of Booga is a lot different to other Tank Girl stories in that it is a subdued, thoughtful piece and at all times it acts as a homage to the beat generation and it's ideals. It comes out as a much more mature piece and shows that Alan C. Martin is more than just a purveyor of comical ludeness (Although, that is one of his finer arts).

Here's the front cover, with Ashley Wood's awesome art. The internal art is done by the very British Rufus Dayglo, who will remind many readers of Jamie Hewlett.


Wow, that was quite a long post. Meh.

Things that make me believe in Love

An elderly couple on the bus in matching outfits: evergreen parkas, brown slacks and white plimsolls. Smile lines mark their faces. Their hands are rough and mottled like bark, intertwined with one another as ivy would. They sit in a passive, comfortable silence: they have no reason to talk, because they have shared a lifetime of exchanges..

When I get off the bus, I give them a smile and they return it with a gentle wave of joined, wrinkled hands.