Let it be known

I leave this vessel
for the lowest of the low
not only as a testament
to the act of your human transgression
but also as a tomb,
a tomb for you.

So that when you are near death
your smallness can climb in
through the hole you left
where the spout once was
and lay yourself down
in the vacuous space
and die a thieves death alone,
pitiless, without a single soul
to remember you.

You will take your last breath
void of any true feelings
of love or decency for others.

(A note on an antique in a Michigan store)

Because I have not done any writing

When I wake early I say to myself
Fight, fight.
If I could catch the feeling, I would;
the feeling of the singing of the real world.

Virginia Woolf

In the last weeks I’ve taken up, and put aside,
woodcutting, drawing, German. I’ve cooked
and painted walls and baked. Several weeks in,
I caved and made a sourdough starter (it really
does seem miraculous, the raising of bread).
Watched the lilac, then the climbing rose,
then the honeysuckle bloom. Planted sweet peas
and watched them sprout. I know I am fortunate.
Sat in the small, overlooked garden,
for which I’ve never been more grateful,
with a book unread in my lap, picking up
and putting down my phone, listening
to building works and the radios of neighbours,
staring into this fragrant, sunny, confined
space. I can’t settle to anything.

This is not the time to try Proust again.
I have found brief solaces in Boccaccio’s
Decameron: the people of fourteenth century
Florence spent the plague years holed up and drinking,
or otherwise abstemiously not drinking,
or they lived riotously in the streets,
no longer caring. A group – call it a bubble –
of noblewomen and men retreat to the hills,
to villas decked with broom blossom, and fine wine
for breakfast, and brief, funny, tragic, dirty stories.

I record sudden lapses in time, and languors.
I record the rose, the honeysuckle,
seeing Venus in the sky, at its brightest.
A week passes without my noticing,
and writing the date in the diary I record
my surprise that this has happened. Then
another week passes, and I do the same.

(From I am not reading. I am not writing. This is not normal)

#FFF8E7

Cosmic latte is the average colour
of the universe.

Like Fraunhofer lines
the dark lines displayed
in the study’s spectral ranges
display older and younger stars
and allow Glazebrook and Baldry
to determine the age
of different galaxies
and star systems.

Their survey of the light
from over 200,000 galaxies
averaged to a slightly
beigeish white.

Cappuccino Cosmico, Skyvory
Big Bang Buff, Blush, Beige
Primordial Clam Chowder
Cosmic Latte, Cosmic Cream
Astronomer Almond , Univeige
Cosmic Khaki, Astronomer Green

Latteo means Milky in Italian
Galileo’s native language. It also leads
to the similarity to the Italian term
for the Milky Way, Via Lattea.

They also claimed
to be caffeine biased.

(From Cosmic latte on Wikipedia)

Racists in CA

racists in CA will really be like
tHiS iS aMeRicA sPeAk eNgLisH
but live in a place called Los Angeles 
or Palos Verdes or La Habra 
or San Diego or La Mirada 
or Escondido or Sacramento 
or Rancho Cucamonga or Santa Ana 
or Costa Mesa or San Clemente 
or San Jose or Santa Monica or

(A tweet from @karladelucas_)

I feel a great love for grass

I feel a great love for grass, thorns in the palm
of the hand, ears red against the sun,
and the little feathers of bottles.
Not only does all this delight me,
but also the grapevines and the donkeys
that crowd the sky.

                                        In the sky
are donkeys with parrot heads, grass and sand 
from the beach, all about to explode, all clean,
incredibly objective, and the scene 
is awash in an indescribable blue, 
the green, the red and yellow of a parrot, 
an edible white, the metallic white 
of a stray breast. How beautiful!

                                                            Helle,
dear sir! Yessirree, you must be rich. 
If I were you I would be your whore 
to cajole you and steal peseta notes 
to dip in donkey piss…

                                             Just think
with a little money, with five hundred
pesetas, we could bring out an issue
of the ANTI-ARTISTIC magazine
and shit on everyone and everything
from the Orfeo Catalan to Juan Ramon.

(From Salvador Dali’s letter to Federico Garcia Lorca, December 1927)

Feed the brute

Advice on Marriage to Young Ladies:
do not marry at all but if you must
avoid the Beauty Men, Flirts and Bounders,
Tailors Dummies and Football Enthusiasts.

Look for a Strong, Tame Man, a Fire-lighter,
Coal-getter, Window Cleaner and Yard Swiller.
Don’t expect too much, most men are lazy,
selfish, thoughtless, lying, drunken, clumsy,

heavy-footed, rough, unmanly brutes,
and need taming. All Bachelors are
and many are worse still. If you want him
to be happy, Feed the Brute. The same

remark applies to dogs. You will be wiser
not to chance it, it isn’t worth the risk.

(Suffragette marriage advice from Pontypridd Museum, via History Hit)

Dead brown mice

At sundown the western sky turned a deep
and almost brilliant red, changing
and softening in colour in its upward
spread until the verge from south to north
was like an immense but yellowing rainbow.
Then frost came lightly; there was the merest
sound of a crinkle in walking over the grass
away from the oak wood. This morning the air
was softer. On the broad marl and flint track
there were dead brown mice; they had crept
from among the withered leaves under
the bramble bushes; it is one of the signs
that winter is sharpening.

(From 100 years ago: Rooks set about the acorns in an orderly way)