WRITTEN BY BRANDON JAMES AND HASTYWORDS
I spent the day searching
For a smile painted landscape
A sun for me to embrace
A moon to love my shadow
Or a man with a horse
Cursing the church bells for sport
To my devices, using side doors and stairs
I spent the night stirring and combing my hair
Random musings wrote themselves
Sprawled across old brick walls
Stepping stones lined hallways
Trapping piranha’s in molten walkways
And we waltzed Among Sirens
Flew To Pelops, killed a Cyclopse
And set quiet to a storm
We spoke of Milton: Paradiso: Divine
We forged stories upon rock walls
Using iron will and imaginations draw
We sat around campsites and firefights
Watching humanity cling to dreams at night
Like a widow to a hairdo frayed
Given the Humidity that mourning
Makes a speech about excuses
Foregoing Lucky’s Motorcade
Falling from a universe built on words
The stories unfolded naturally over time
One right after the other upon wrinkled flesh
Until the only story left was that of our demise
Rightly so, So what?
So sorely wretched
Is our starry gaze
Arrest, we all…… Lest we fall
DIY: cacti and succulents stacked planters | catching up with craftedincarhartt
DIY: cacti and succulents stacked planters
DIY: cacti and succulents stacked planters
CLICK HERE FOR THE REST OF THE STORY.
via DIY: cacti and succulents stacked planters | craftedincarhartt.
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[Terry: I am not going to look, but what do you imagine “pigface” to be?]
Welcome to a new friend: WinchesterCrafts
Unique Hand Mades
Costume for Doll
via WinchesterCrafts | Unique Hand Mades.
Hand Painted Eggs (For Nest Project)
Ruth’s Nest (#2 Nest Project)
Ruth’s Nest. Paperclips, pencil shavings, large black beads and shreds of text and tape measure.
[Terry: The eggs remind me of a story. My daughter was about 5 and she announced that she was going to perform an experiment to see if the Easter Bunny was real. She would dye 11 eggs and leave one white. Then the Easter Bunny-if real– would color the egg. Well, with a brand-new packet of swirl-sparkle egg color, the Easter Bunny pulled this off for two years. On the last year, the EB had been working late and ended up in a CVS at 2am. The special egg was done in fingernail polish and looked like something from the Sludge Bunny. But we managed two years and that’s not bad.]
I spent the day searching For a smile painted landscape | Catching up with hastywords
A MUSING
30 Seconds from “WTF” to “Clean Out Your Desk”
Ostrich Pillow
Handmade in Spain with Love
The Ostrich Pillow is an eccentric yet revolutionary idea that enables easy power naps anytime, anywhere. This design offers a micro environment in which to take a cozy and comfortable power nap as it has a soothing, soft interior that shelters and isolates your head/hands for a short break for total versatility. All Ostrich Pillows are handmade in Spain with love.This is the original Ostrich Pillow. Accept no imitations.
via TouchOfModern.
{Terry: Yep, that’s about the fastest way to get fired I’ve ever seen. Possibly forcibly committed as well. ]
“Candles are expensive, but the joy of reading is worth the price.”| Catching up with HarsH ReaLiTy
A Candle
It is dark outside and the village is sleeping. The sun has long since given up on man and has retired. The house is pitch black, as most huts are, but memory serves me well as I search for a candle in the dark. Candles are expensive, but the joy of reading is worth the price.
a candle (eine Kerze) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
My hands can’t seem to find the candle that I placed in the drawer the previous night. I frantically search in the far back, thinking perhaps it might have rolled while being opened. It is not there. The very feel of the night changes and a claustrophobic feeling grips me. It burns in my chest and seems to bind my heart.
I pant for breath and scurry to find my book, the only book I have ever owned. I sit by the open hut door, allowing as much of the moonlight above to bath the pages. It provides just enough of a glow to show me what I am missing, pages worn thin by continuous reading. My hands caress the binding with love, much as I imagine the soft hand of the damsel caressing the cheek of the heroic knight. Just the feel of a book seems to sooth my soul; I feel the bands around my chest loosen and I am able to breathe again.
Tomorrow I will venture out and find another candle. For tonight, I sit here simply holding my book in the company of the moon. Comforted by both their presence, I dream of a candle.
-Opinionated Man
The way I see myself – | valeriu dg barbu blog
The way I see myself – Come mi vedo – Cum mă văd
Trilingual text
I look at the clock, its dial is the death’s dish
Through the concave glass I stare at the old people who … will be me
I see my lost loves traveling in the opposite direction like old ladies… today they’re
Beauty buds trembling under t-shirts
I will be rotten rich…. Or maybe, just rotten
I will look through glasses to yesterday in un-winded clocks
And it will snow in the death’s bowl the bone flour of a century to which
I brought my contribution with a half a forehead, a skinny finger
Pointing to mirrors always dirty,
I have nothing left from my lost loves
Nothing but this clock – no, don’t look at it, I don’t want you to see yourself
The way I see myself
Guardo nell’orologio, il quadrante è la ciotola della Morte
attraverso il vetro concavo guardo dei vecchi … che io sarò
al senso incontrario passano lì ex amori, alcune befane … – Oggi sono
germogli di bellezza che esulta in camicie
Sarò ricco sfondato … o semplicemente sfondato e
guarderò un vetro d’orologio da ieri non caricato
e nevicherà nella ciotola della Morte con farina d’ossa di quest’epoca dove
ho contribuito con una meta della fronte, le dita emaciate, scarnati,
diretti solo verso lo specchio sempre sporco…
dalle ex amori non mi è rimasto nulla
soltanto l’orologio – no, non guardare qui, non voglio che tu vedi
come vedo io
mă uit în ceasornic, cadranu-i blidul morţii
prin geamul concav mă tot uit la bătrânii care… eu voi fi
văd trecând în sens invers fostele iubiri, nişte babe… – Astăzi sunt
muguri de frumuseţe tresăltând sub tricouri
voi fi putred de bogat… sau doar putred
voi privi geamuri spre ieri la un ceasornic neîntors
şi va ninge în blidul morţii cu făina oaselor unui ev pentru care
mi-am adus contribuţia cu o jumătate de frunte, un deget descărnat
îndreptat doar spre oglinzi mereu murdare,
de le fostele iubiri nu mi-a rămas nimic
decât acest ceasornic – nu, tu nu privi aici, nu vreau să te vezi
cum mă văd
via The way I see myself – Come mi vedo – Cum mă văd | valeriu dg barbu blog.
[Terry: Yeah, I know they’re all the same in three languages but I simply love the way they look and how the typography accentuates the poetry.]
Exhibit A (MY GUYS) Debut William Sutton
|
Lawless Launch
Waterstones, Gower St, London
Thursday 1 August
6pmMusic, murder, Metropolitan mayhem.
Protest songs, popping corks.
Scandal, sabotage, stink.
Join us for the launch of Exhibit A’s Victorian crime thriller and pick up Lawless & the Devil of Euston Square (formerly Worms).
Then let’s go to the pub.
RETURN TO EUSTON SQUARE
English: William Sutton Estate Two blocks on the William Sutton Estate between Cale Street and Ixworth Place (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
At the crossroads, he darted into a peculiar tiled entrance, marked GOWER STREET STATION in maroon and white tiles. One of Worm’s chums was guarding the wide lattice gate of articulated iron. I approached with an indeterminate grunt.
“Who’s yourself, then?” muttered the child. He held the grating closed, peering out wide-eyed through the gaps.
“I’m with Worm,” I mumbled. Behind him stood two pairs of turnstiles. A flight of steps descended into the earth.
“Beggin’ your pardon. I’m not ’specting nobody else.”
“I’ve a message,” I hazarded, “for Mr Skelton.”
The boy drew back the latch, then hesitated.
I threw the lattice aside, pushed the boy to the ground. He cried out, his hand caught in the metal, but I leapt the barrier and went on. The footsteps ahead of me stopped a moment, then redoubled. Worm knew at last that he was followed.
18th Birthday Prayers | Gatsby’s Abandoned Children
18th Birthday Prayers
Posted on June 4, 2013 by Jeremiah Walton
With
the bed
unmentioned,
TV silence,
and backs
leaning chairs
The dry anniversary
of my birth.
Happy birthday kid
you’re 18
no college notions
nor answers
Stare at the ceiling
because when you pray
your whispers are caught
pounding the roof
you spot a crack
and pray harder
What You’ve Been Saying