Julie followed Benedict
from bookshop to bookshop
then they went in a cafe
on Charing Cross Road

and sat down
by the window
and ordered two coffees
and lit up cigarettes

how's it going
at the hospital?
he asked
gutty

she said
boring my ******* off    
I shouldn't be there
she inhaled deeply

on her cigarette
once you're off the drugs
you won't be
he said

I am off the drugs
she looked at him
well most of the time
she said

what do they say
at the hospital?
they said my parents
want me to stay there

until I'm cleaned off  
she said
but you're out today
he said

yes on good behaviour
she said
any sign
I've taken anything

then I'm locked in
and Daddy said
they'll have me sectioned
if need be

he has doctor friends
who will oblige
and him and Mother
being doctors themselves

it won't be difficult
she said
Benedict watched
as the waitress

brought the coffees
and put them on the table
and swayed off
in a Monroe fashion

we could take in a film
if you like
he said
no I don't want

to be stuck
in some smokey cinema
she said
I want to be out

in the fresh air
and see London
ok
he said

what about having a stroll
along the Thames Embankment?
then after take in
a look around an art gallery

you are full of fun
she said moodily
ok where then?
he said

some room someplace
and a good ****
she said
the word hung in the air

like a dark cloud
in the cafe
people gaped at her
I think they've got

Lichtenstein at the gallery
this month
he said
Pop Art stuff

he added
she pulled a face
then drew on her cigarette
you're in a mood

he said
maybe you should
have stayed at the hospital
and twiddled your thumbs

on the ward
she stared at him
releasing smoke
from her mouth slowly

ok the gallery
isn't too bad an idea
she said
but I'm gagging

for a fix
my body's screaming for it
she went quiet
and sipped her coffee

he looked at her
sitting there
dark brown hair
tied by a ribbon

her eyes staring
at the table
her fingers holding
the cup and cigarette

he recalled the time
at the hospital
when they'd managed
to be alone

in the small broom cupboard
and the quick ***
in the dark
between brooms

and dusters
and buckets
he smiled
what you smiling at?

she said
cupboard love
he said
she laughed

yes that was good
she said
unexpected too
and any moment

some poor cleaner
coming for a bucket
and seeing us at it
she stubbed out

her cigarette
in an ashtray
on the table
and they went out the cafe

and back along
towards Trafalgar Square
to the art gallery
to see what was there.

another midnight I've seen this week:
bed times have gone from books and milk
and slightly ajar doors,
to long slogs far into the early morning hours-

-did I, did I try too hard to hold your hand?
If so I didn't mean to,
maybe the excitement of being held again
made my squeeze a little too much.

-

another morning afternoon I've seen this week:
primary education routines of get dressed
and ready for school have been lost to
fading light showers and foaming shampoos-

-did I, did I not follow the Curtis rules?
Should I run a bookshop? Be late time and time again?
Runaway to the continent and write a novel no one wants?
Lose a wife and fall for a model?

if so, I'm sorry I'm not that.

i am driving to the airport in reverse, crying
aching at how lonely my spine will be, without your body
behind me
an unbound book.
the fear of empty
cold
hands
yours are always so warm.

a plane lands backwards from Iceland to Dunedin.
you arrive.
i kiss you and hug you and kiss you and hug you
and tell you goodbye.
we enter a bookshop,
“it’s your flight, petal, time to go”
we only find overpriced Sudoku books.
we look at socks.
we drink drinks, then buy them.
we go down the escalator back to front,
we take the stickers off your suitcase.
i drive back to your house with
you in the front seat, beside me.
we unpack the car,
go up the path
pat your cat goodbye
put your clothes away
your posters back on your wall.
get back into bed
we come
and then we ****.

I dreamed I opened a bookshop
where you had to pass a reading test
before you could buy anything.
I just might have promulgated
a radiant, renaissance of literacy,
but I went broke long before that.

My tummy stood still; a statue of a stomach that paused as she passed by
to get into the used bookshop line to pay for her basket of titles and authors I'd
no idea existed, but I'd be willing to learn and read and not breathe until I had
enlisted the use of Wikipedia to find out a one fact about each of them so to break the ice
and breach that border of conversation, because I'd want to tell her in some Woody Allen
way that her eyes were nice and that Cambridge could be ours tonight if she wanted to.

Airport shops are something peculiar
selling everything useless
except books and this little pen that fits in my pocket!
Only in my boy jeans of course,
but would you know the airport
bookshop doesn’t even sell poetry?
As if the only ones cultured enough to read it
are those in the city who are
smart enough to never leave.
Or maybe they know that poets
spent the last of their money on the flight ticket
and can’t afford to buy from airport shops anyway.

She denied the note
with a wave of her hand,
a harsh slice of the independent woman,
right there next to the bookshop stand.

I could tell, you could tell,
the whole ******* shop could tell
that this couple was very much in love.
It was the constant kisses on cheeks and
that rubbing of the palms with thumbs,
that gave their game away.

Tucked beneath wet raincoat pit,
a brochure protruded and hit
every close contact enemy.
It was a bible of new houses;
psalms of yet-to-be-wet-feet-on-new-lino-floors,
prayers of neutral-coloured-baby-room walls,
proverbs of shall-we-frame-this-poster-or-just-BluTac-it-up-and-hope-for-the-­best?.

They left the shop back into the rain
to the sound of several sighs,
thank goodness for the gray
dangerous clouds of the sky.

I sew therefore I am. This is what women do she thought, even with the television on, muttering and flickering in the corner. But its turning on was but a reflex action to being alone when she came down stairs after reading to her child, and the sitting room empty of his presence. Only the cats occupied her chair where she now sat and sewed.

For once her sewing pile had his nightshirt, a tear at the bottom, a missing button. It was old, well-worn, of a light blue stripe. That was what he wore in bed, and, as he invariably read to her each night, she would slip her hand inside the shirt, across his stomach to a place she had discovered at the top of his pelvis that seemed to be there for her hand to rest. One night she had felt the tear and thought, I must mend this.

She knew something of the feminist canon: Rozsika Parker's Subversive Stitch lay browsed but unread on her bookshelf. The impact of the book was enough: that the relationship between women’s lives and embroidery had brought sewing out from the private world of female domesticity into the fine arts and created a breakthrough in art history and criticism. She remembered writing that somewhere in a student essay. But mending clothes was hardly fine art. And then she remembered Sashiko, the ‘little stabs’, that functional stitching of clothes in Japan.

They had met at the station for a 30-mile train journey to a nearby city. It was a blue-cold December day and they had felt warmed by seeing from the train window a covering of snow on the ploughed fields. She had worn her grey coat with the green lining and an indigo blue-pattern scarf, a swinging denim skirt and orange-patterned top. Tights and boots. He: she had forgotten. Funny that, remembering what she had worn, but for the man she was beginning to feel so hopelessly in love with, and by the end of that day, hold in her heart, seemingly, for evermore, she could not remember. His old brown jacket perhaps . . . No, she couldn’t be certain.

He had loved the exhibition. It was an unencountered world, though he had experienced Japan, but not, as he said (at length), the rural fastness of an offshore island where women were loggers and men were firemen. It was the simplicity of the stitch that captured his attention, the running white-cotton stitch on the blue indigo workware, occasionally a red thread on a decorative piece – a fireman’s tunic. This was stitching about mending, reinforcing a worn area by stitching on a new patch, and in doing so novel patterns evolved, so novel that this traditional stitch became an inspiration for Reiko Sudo, Hideko Takahshi, and the cutting edge textile designers of 20C Japan. It was reuse that made sense.

He had loved the names of the stitches: passes in the mountain, fishing nets, the interlaced circles of two birds in flight, woven bamboo, the seven treasures of Buddha.  She remembered the proximity of him, touching his arm to show, and sometimes just to touch his arm – yes, he was wearing that old brown coat. It was before they were lovers, but she was sure then they were in love, and it seemed impossible and quite wrong to be in this large gallery, flowing too and fro, apart then together, apart then together. She thought: he knows how I want to be when looking at such things; I need space. And she supposed he needed space too because the moment they entered the gallery he left her alone. But that coming together was, and remained ever after, a warm thing, and she remembered that day being a little aroused by it being so.

Later, they had walked a short way from the gallery to a tiny cottage-like bookshop he knew, a bookshop full of impossibly large books on art and architecture. He had something to find: The Crystal Chain Letters – architectural fantasies Bruno Taut and his circle by Ian Boyd Whyte. There had been her favourite  Mark Hearld cards and his collaged pictures in the window. She went upstairs and knelt on the wooden floor to take out the books on gardens on the lowest shelves. The winter sun had poured through a nearby window, warming her face till it glowed. But she was already glowing inside. And he came and knelt behind her. He rested his head on her shoulder and she had turned and put her arms around him. They had kissed, a delicate, exploratory, yet to be lovers kiss that had made her feel weaker than she already felt. She knew she would remember that moment, and she had, here on her chair years later, now in a different sitting room from the one she had returned to that evening without him, returning to her husband and children. And she had missed him beyond any measure and written to him the next day, a letter written in her head before she had slept, and then the following morning, with the children at school, she had lain on her bed and calmly touched herself to remember his kiss, their kiss.

At Bookshop Santa Cruz
I look at a book about the East Bay then and now
One picture strikes me: 1969 Sproul Plaza
Govener Ronald Reagan has the National Guard spray
tear gas on protesters on the steps of this Berkeley Administration Building
People run in black and white
they look like my parents
The helicopter is so close to the ground, like the Vietnam War

I was three
In the backseat of our VW Bug
My mother was driving me to Strawberry Canyon
for a swim
Then she got scared--something on the radio
We turned around
I didn't understand
She had to protect us from tear gas
We lived in a war zone
Everyone was very upset
We were attacked by our own government
Even children were fair game

An innocent frog is placed in water
If the water temperature is raised gradually
the frog will sit there until it dies

In 1980 Ronald Reagan became our President
Much to our dismay
"70% of pollution comes from trees" he had announced
as Governer, he was obviously a man of science

The vice grip clenched, the water temperature raised
as we felt around us the world becoming more
difficult as a middle class
we were supposed to wait for crumbs to fall
from the table of the rich folks
fighting over the bits like starving animals

Budgets were cut
Prices rose, wages fell or disappeared completely
We were at war

1985: I took a class in Economics in college, a UC
I learned that Supply Side Economics was
a silly idea written on a napkin at a fancy restaurant
where the fat ones eat
and the crumbs are thrown away

It was all a sham
An excuse
The vice grip tightened, the world became
more difficult
not the American Dream my parents grew up in
To be middle class was to struggle and struggle and still
not have anything

The frog began to die
Somehow we saw that
Reagan drifted away, but his ghost
remained, a respite in the 90's

Then we were at war again
Not just tear gas, but carpet bombing
Guerilla warfare in the streets of a hot arid country
Oil companies, already saturating our ground and our air with their products
Cashed in

The frog is near death
We struggle, and nothing gets better
Only a respite

At a fancy restaurant
on a napkin someone wrote
a new theory of Economics
that became like Scientology
Outgrew it's ridiculous inception
And became real

Ronald Reagan dropped tear gas
from helicopters on Sproul Plaza
and it drifted to Strawberry Canyon
where children learned to swim

But that is child's play now
the frog is about to die
I want to pull it out.

Sunlight
                        kaleidoscopic/
             hue of auburn            
mirror
                    nearby      the       shaded opal porch/

burning   bulb machinery       makes the whole     living room       wider/
                               I wake and remember
                              dreaming that I broke my nose/

"The Art of Looking Sideways" on my desk
the bookshop explosive PIN                      The Price is Right coffee mug
(dad got it in California 2008)
                  outside looking in thru
         the bedside window/
                                                               dusty blinds
stone faced from sleep/
           thoughts are still wandering Luang Prabang
                    gathered to the streets to give alms to the boys practicing
Asceticism yet still
                                         obsessed with love
                                         whether they know it yet or not/
open my front door
in this basement suite
                the brick is bright and blinding
                 squint my eyes
              tho it's lovely           the spiders
            hover camouflaged in hedges separating
my house from
the other house/                   I'd like to see Laos in person one day
beyond spirit
to get sunburned
                              and somewhat holy
write my poetry
in front of Haw Kham's
aureate walls jeweled with palm green/
lucid thoughts/
I'm a pilgrim in my paracosm/

Morning tea, sat down, Cafe Terrace at Night to my left
and to my right
            the hazy lamp that has a shade textured like
             a gas planet
May is 'round the starry bend/
Cherry trees are more comfortable now I think
and that's fine/
Met a gypsy on the bus two nights ago
she wished me a happy life
I hope so
                                     ... and likewise to you/

The book folds to reveal
The real world,
Beneath my crouched knees

Untied sneakers sprawled
All over the floor, muddy.

There is a silent joy in
Watching others consume
Realities all too
Different,
And all too
Common to
Yours—"unreal,"
Ethereal.

Perhaps all too so.

For the past two days
I've caught the people
Crouching beside me
Sniffling.

|||||||||||| Shahid? '||||||||||||||| E, no '||||| ||||| || E Nigeria and Nigeria ... Mascarading Buckethead's team had really come in February. In 1894, Becky joined the consulting firm, and in 1894 Ferrari was given a monthly, monthly payment from Hong Kong on the subject of six conductors, monopoly, ****** and the old United States. "Guzdono" "Goldie Lips in the winter of November 1 to 12 will be shown in the winter, and all legs of mythical style will be displayed in front with the feet." The bright girls have a clear confusion. "The funniest fun, yes, the most durable quality in the early morning of Circe is the durable quality of the museum. It was easy, too easy to open a bottle of drinking water. Indeed, the Jewish people were against Jewish positions; The long and narrow roads on the road indicating that Savonarola was now looking for us. Three of Brazil's three top hotels are reflected in the three most popular ideas: their most popular idea: Volume 3, Wotan, Votima, And after every two years, my husband Art (Jane), & my dear friend, 12x100 tons with his children, At the top of the mountain, we teach 19 percent of the weight of 1292g or 1929 grams, which is what I say, where is the train to Co2? At the age of 50 at Matka Kawa-Kawi, Utomo Folk [50]? Do you need India | Ronan and Winter [1979] - from 879 to 1791.9, 179, and in Canada and all the new locations in the United States (595): A type of video game designed right in Spain will be tossing around Madrid via Paul and his new Asian lover Lauren. ||||||||||||| Shahid? '|||||||||||||| E, no '|||||| |||||||||||| Shahid? '|||||||||||||||| Na, am '||||| ||||| | Nigeria to Nigeria ... Mascarading Buckinghead Bucks arrived in February. In 1894, Becky took part in the consulting company, and in 1894 Ferraribegan received each month, from Hong Kong to six companies; monopoly, afanc and the United States. "Guitar" Goldie's newspaper on November 1 to 12 will show all horses in winter without clothing, stitched feet and clicking high on the barn over the top of the dough and move on! "Beautiful women have clear clarity of confusion, and they argue with each other in different stages of the whole:" It's nice, yes, "the most certified Circes is important in the morning as if blamed during the night while quietly resting on the emotional hunter ... which was too overwhelming and easy to open. "Judge, Urum and chul, three parts of Brazil reflect the beauty of girlfriends; There are three ideas: popular, their popularity: Volume 3, Vine Monthly, and after two years old, my husband, Art (Jane) and my tony 12x1 friend and children at the top of the mountain, we found 19 per cent of 1292g from 1929 when he folded it, so I say, where Co2 is 50 years living in a Coffee House, Utomo Folk [509] | From 879 to 1791.9, 179, Canada and some new locations in the United States (595): Where a new type of Spanish-styled video game drew the best players from Madrid, Barcelona and around the world; script written by Paul during visits to Wales to see Sally, her new Asian-Welsh love.||||| ||| In Nigeria and Nigeria ... The Masked Buckethead's Team was in real need come February. Later, in 1894, Becky joined a Consulting Firm and also in 1894 Ferrari was given the monthly monthly payment from Hong Kong in the XIXth Century, for a Semiconductor, Monopolies, the ******  and the former Old United States, as a "Guzundo," in November said Goldy Lips might return for 1 to 12 show that winter, and have the legendary genre features all legs in front. The bright daughters have a clear illusion. Funny sense of humor, Yeh, Circe's most durable quality in the early morning dawn and the early days of peace talks. It was easy and simple to open a bottle of drinking water in the museum. Indeed, Jewish positions existed against Jewish positions. Have you noticed the miracle that God does not have the gods? The long, narrow streets of the narrowest streets indicate that Savonarola is now looking at you. The three hotels in Brazil reflect three parties: their most popular fantasy: Volume 3, Vetan, VOTIMA, and after every two years, my husband Artie (Jane), my beloved friend, with his sons, has made 12x100 tons of silence from the top of the mountain Teaches 1229 grams or 19 percent of weight weighing 1,929 grams. Do what I say. What is Carrot to C02? At the age of 50 at the Motka Kava-Kwi, Uttamo Foko [...]? Do you need results for this event? India | Ronan and Winters [1979] - 899 to 171 799, 1719 and in all new locations in Canada and the United States (595): One-of-a-kind video games designed in Spain are only by Paul Wells, tooling around Madrid in his new yellow rover, the Lauren. |||||||||||| Shaheed? '|||||||||||||| E, no 'no ||||||| |||||| ||| With Niger and Nigeria ... I want to see the Masked Bucket Team in February. Becky later concluded a contract with a consulting company for 18 weeks and Ferrari in 1894, sells 19th century Hong Kong on Semi-Semiconductors, Motorola and BBs, and a good United States in the United States, A month later, on a Monday (in the week), for instance, as a 'Guzduno' whereas [R] in November, it is allowed to return from 1 to 12; Interactive *** Theater's winter tone of golden lips is stupidly original looking to have the beautiful lips of her feet, before it, the luminous daughters have a clear illusion. There was a feeling of humor, yeh, when Sirius' near-sighted boys sighted what was seen as the simplest and easiest-to-see-the-art menu of drinking water companies in the early dawn of dawn at the early dawn of peace talks. As a fact, the fact that the Jews out protesting were of anti-Jewish standing were there before the scene. Did you see the wonders that mean God is without goddesses? The long-lasting streets of the long-term narrow streets of the narrow streets show Snooch is looking for the right right now. Three-way party in Brazil's three choice hotels reflect the best-known imagination: Volume 3, Vetan: VOTIMA and want to spend every two years to see that Arthur's own Husband (Jane) with his sons girlfriend, my Naam, silk leaves mounted and slipped in. Getting 12x100 tons, try to close 12% or 19% 1.929 kilos, and teach Christ and 5-1 brothers. What did he do with ten women? Allow me to do what he says. Which Co2 is Carrot? Umberto Eco is close to the Synagogue, and at the age of 50 is writing in Motocaqua-qua [...]? Do you need to see the replay of the event? India | Ronan and Winters [1979] come from 899 and 171 to 799, 1719, and in Canada and all new U.S. locations "(595)" is the Number: Only Paul Wells from the Spanish video games outside the year 6712DM is at work on his new yellow rover the Lauren ... |||||||||||| Shaidan? '||||||||||||||| :) E, 'No No' | ||||||| |||||| ||| who has the Niger and Nigeria fields ... I want to see the masked ball's team of hos in February. Becky after 18 weeks using a good corporate consulting company went in with Ferrari in 1894, observing from Hong Kong on Mid-range FM, Motorola and BB, telling them about the great states of the United States in the United States, after months, on a Monday (for about a week), for example, he returns to Jaws while in November [R] so far as it is allowed, he plays from 1 to 12; Choosing three options: VOLUME 3, V-VETAN, VOTIMA and wanting to devour every two years of age that he saw, Aristotle took my boyfriend with Naam's children to his wife (Jane), leaving the silk on the mountain. Taking 12x100 tons, trying to close 1929 km to 12% or 19% and teach the brothers in Christ to 5-1. What did he do with ten women? Let them do what he called them to do; Co2 Who has the carrots? Umberto Eco is close to the Synagogue at age 50 when writing for girls in Mozambique [...]? Do you need the results for the event? India's | Hip Ship [c.1979] is arriving in 1719-899 and 171-799: the number of new locations in Canada and throughout the United States together in total "(595)": doing 671.2M per year outside the Spanish video games of Paul Wilson lonely in his yellow Ralph Lauren. |||||||||||| Shaidan? '|||||||||||||||| :) And, 'No No' | ||||||| |||||| ||| who owns all the Niger and Nigerian shops ... I want to see the strike on the Masked ball in February. Becky after eighteen weeks using a good telecommunication company to reach Ferrari in 1894, watching himself from Hong Kong over MRFM and seeing Motorola and B.B., telling them about 1 big United States State in the United States: And after a month, Monday (about a week), for example, returning to J.Law in November [R] so far. Allowing her to play from about 1 to 12; selecting 3 choices - VOLUME 3, and VAVETAN, VOTIMA wants to eat everyone every two years, Aristotle taking my boyfriend with Naam's children to his wife (Jane), and leaving the remainder of the coriander in a hill. 12x100 tons trying to cover 1,929 km, 12% or 19% and then train the brothers in Christ at 5-1. What did he do with ten women? Intimidate them to do what he called them to do; Co2, Who has carrots? Umberto Eco is near the Synagogue at the age of 50 writing to young girls in Mozambique [...]? Want answers for the event? India's | Hip Ship [c1979] is coming into port at 1719-899 & 171-799: The Number of new locations in Canada & across the United States together are "(595)" = 6-7x1.2M for Paul Wilson's Spanish Language Ralph Lauren Video Games alone. |||||||||||| Shaidan? '||||||||||||||| :) And, 'No No' | ||||||| |||||| ||| who has both Niger and Nigerian fields ... I want to see the Masked ball team in February. Becky after eighteen weeks finding a good corporate consulting firm and with Ferrari in 1894, observed from Hong Kong over MidRFM, seeing Motorola and BB, and telling them about 1 big United States State in the United States, after months, one Monday (for about one week), for example, he back to Jaws while in November [R] up to now allowed to play from 1 to 12; Choosing 3 choices - VOLUME 3, Vv-VETAN, VOTIMA & wanting to devour every two-year-old he saw, Aristotle took my boyfriend with Naam's children to his wife's (Jane), leaving the silk on the mountain. Hauling 12x100 tons, trying to close 1929 km at 12% or 19% and teaching brothers in Christ at 5-1. What did he do with ten women? Let them do what he called them to do; Co2 Who has carrots? Umberto Eco is near the Synagogue at the age of 50 writing to girls in Mozambique [...]? Need the results for the event? India's | Hip Ship [c.1979] is coming on 1719-899 & 171-799: The Number of new locations in Canada and across the United States together total "(595)": Making 671.2M per year off Paul Wilson's Spanish Ralph Lauren Video Games alone.


||||||||| The New Belmont Case ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| leading to Niger and Nigeria's black "Garage girls" ... I want to see the Carnival in Maskala with Becky, after 18 seconds we will play a smart communicator, and Ferrari in 1894, watching the block from Hong Kong and FM, saw funny Motorola and B. startling the son of 1 of America's top wand makers: [R] 1 month later Mendoza (after 1 week), for example, went back to J.Law in November [R] and others. Opportunity to play from 1 to 12 Options; 3 - Option 3 and AV ZETAN, VOTIMA wanting to consume one person in two years, Aristotle was with my stuff and a female Naram's English vaginal ****** transport (Jane), on the left side of the calories and the second Mt. 12, 100 tons of stimulus hunts 1,929 liters, 12% or 19% and teaching your brothers in Christ 5-1 What do with ten female carcasses, what would [Co2] carrots do? Umberto Eco standing alongside the Synagogue is 50 years old, and women are written to in Mozambique [...]? Results of the event? India. | Also, the Hip Ship [c.1979] is 1719 899 - 171 799: The name of the new city in both Canada and the USA is "(595)" = 6-7 1.2M salary trend provided by Paul Wilson from Spain and Ralph Lauren.

|||||||||||| Shaidan? '|||||||||||||||||:) And, 'There are No' | ||||||| |||||| ||| who owns all of Niger and Nigeria's auto body shops ... I want to see the strikers at the Masked ball in Feb. Becky, after 18 weeks will use a good communication device to reach Ferrari in 1894 looking at himself from Hong Kong over the FM wire and seeing Motorola and Mr. B., and warning them of the 1 largest United State in the United States: And after 1 month, Mendoza (for about a week), for example, returning to J.Law in November [R] and so forth. Allowing himself to play from 1 to 12 options; choosing option 3 - VOLUME 3, with AV ZETAN, VOTIMA wanting to consume one whole person every two years, Aristotle puts my baggage with Naram's kid in the ****** of (Jane), what's left of calories are a mountain. 12x100 tons of effort to cover 1,929 kilometers, 12% or 19% and to teach the brothers in Christ 5-1. What did he do with ten women? scare them into doing what he called them over to do; to Co2, What's a small carrot? Umberto Eco is near the Synagogue at the age of 50 writing to the girls in Mozambique [...]? Results of the event? India's | Hip Ship [c.1979], at 1719-899 & 171-799: The area code of every new city in all of Canada and the United States are collectively "(595)" = 6-7x1.2M Downloads by Paul Wilson in Spain and Ralph Lauren alone.

Best of all corals, Loa and me, it's | | | | | | | | | | : | | | ||||||| '' ||||||||||||||| |||||||||||||| Fifi ... | | | | | | | | Mr. Cal? | | | | | || | | | | | .. || | | | | 1 Honor's Masked Looks - This is not a coincidence. 5 I'm tricking the car, not the seller. The seller will bargain; I would have had an address with what I called. Now she sells sticks. 1. I paid a lot of Latin for this ******; Jungo Ono Fernando getting rich on the reputation of his book; Great Britain, 1894: **** ******* Becky merged with the University in the 18th year, sticking firmly to a young girl with STK moisture. The video banned by ******* Dodge LLC, LLC as its general manager and Jasmine's creator - without - RSS - & Search RSS - Social networks ... ||||||||||||| \ || / ||| I was the first child in Hong Kong before the truth, allowing America to stay online in the United States, and I won 12 to 1. And Mendoza in England [Lunar Luna 1]. Sir, minimize these hayrides' HDR numbers. How are you? -:. Vī.vī. - NM. Class, House, Motorola, SSP, and many women hit on Tom. What do you need to do with something better than the glorious sport? Giao Hoi # 6; For example, giving literature to Noah and the children in Vatican City. Ten years ago it was not too far off; The mother of gray-hair is doing what they asked for. For ****** and you. Indian House is actually only 6. Bwa. First of all, this is CCA, mentioned earlier by TMV, when there was a ****** and unpredictable future: Why? Not even C. Chung Thaller is Aristotle's Stone. Any stone? Those who have had ****** relations with Lung Ng among the English knights have already survived. Vehicle VA (Gina's) - Female power = Consumer forces. Boi. The glory to others. 12 Matthew: A. ****** empties the lift in February 1929, 100-19 and 12%: GE Facilitates the Eyes of Africa | | | || It was Christ. | | | | | | .. || | | | | | | | | | Q: Who am I? Their sacrifices were murdered with ten pieces and I came to the 1st of Jericho. For the first time you have so much; For the west, the shadows are not ten, and lay me takes. However, from Mozambique to Saigon, there is nothing to eat from the kayak kits. It was banned from the ******'s nightly bookshop or shortened for Adelechia. The 50-story residential building was the glory of the [O'Leary] company; Is there a check for you for getting results? India || Also, "Do not Sing 1 Singing"? Productivity is the integrated price in the new one. The wealthier people of Canada and the United States have already slipped away to Loch Ness. 899 1979 (595) 1719-1799: 6-7 Recreation: Gate, 1.2 m. Chung, because I put in the Agghott Kush's voltage. Hi, Christopher Wilson and Ralph Lauren of Spain | | | | | | i.e.
See Also See Also See Also See Also: See Also ||||||| '' |||||||||||||| |||||||||||||| Fifi. Also see Pak Cak? See also Also See See Alsoh | See Also See Also See Also See Also See. || See also See also 1 Belleza's Masked - It's no coincidence. I can make a dear, not a re-seller. Sellers come soon; I have an address with what I called. Now sell the rods. 1. Also very Latin to this vein; Jung, Fernando saw his book; United Kingdom, 1894: **** ******* Becky united at University 18, friends from the STK Pool. Video Obstructs Dvostrukova LLC LLC Dodge, LLC, as General Director of Jazmin Creator - No - RSS - RSS & Images - Networking Sozializing ... ||||||||||||| \ || / ||| It was the first child in Hong Kong before the truth, allowing Americans to play online in the United States, and I have 12 to 1. Mendoza Croatia [lunar month 1]. Sir, read the HDR numbers of these terrible. How does it go? -:. Vī.vī. - NM. Class, Home, Motorola, SSP and many women who saw Tom. Do you need better than noble sports? Giao Hoi # 6; For example, they dominate Noah's literature and children in the Vatican. Two years ago he was not alone; The gray mother did what she wanted. For the ****** and you. The house is actually the 6th government. Inessessuals, that is AUZATEN, are from TEAM-****** because they are incredibly ******: why? Not like Chung Thaller Stone Aristotel. What rock? ****** *** survived, Pluto Ng and the English cavalry. VA vehicle (Gina) - female power = consumer power. Glory to others. Matthew 12: In February 1929 ****** at 100-19 with 12% spending: GE blows around Africa See also See also | | That's Christ. See Also See Also See Also See Also ||| See also See also See also P: Who am I? And their sacrifices were killed ten, and I came to Jericho. Did you do it for the first time? In the West, people are not in the shadows of ten people. Still, from Mozambique, for warning, no one can eat from the gathering. This is forbidden from the Adelechya's Nightclub of bees for bees. 50 Ladies Celebrity House [O'Leary]; Can you see the results? India || Besides, "Sing song of singing"? Productivity is a new integrated price. The wealth of Canada and the United States was foreseen by Locke. 899 1979 (595) 1719-1799: 6-7 kinds of Port, 1.2 the m-theory of Chung because I gave to the tension of Agghott Kush. Hi, Christopher Wilson and Ralph Lauren from Spain See also See also See also See also: see ||||||| '' |||||||||||| ||||||||||||| Would you like a pair of socks to watch? See See See See Also See. || 1 Bella's MASK - This is not an agreement. I can not make a way for a meddler. Soon I'm in an address addressed. Now, sell the staff. 1. In addition, Jung saw his book in a very literal light, Fernando. 1894 in the UK: **** ******* Becky, 18 friends from the STK squad joined the University. Video Blocks Dust stroke LLL Dodge, LLC, CEO Jasmine, Creator - No - RSS - RSS and Photos - Network Susan, We ... |||||||||| \ || / ||| Previously, Hong Kong's first child was allowed to play in America. I, Mendoza Kyrgyzski 1 (lunar month 1) 12 to 1. Sir, read the HDRR data. How is it going? -:. In most of the women who saw Virtual ****** non-m Class Home, Motorola, SSP, and Tom. Do you really need sports? GeoHouse # 6; For example, in November, Vatican literature and children dominate the Vatican. She was not alone two years ago. What did the mother do with her? ****** and you. The house is actually six governments. Why breathe them, that is, AU ZETAN, VOMITAS why they are extremely ******, why? Chung's bag was not like Aristotle's stone. That stone? ******, puppy and English calorie. VA vehicle (gene) - female = consumer users. Second glossy Matthew 12: 1929 February, ******, 100-19 and 12% Expenditure: GE, GE around the world. | It is the Christ. See also ||| Look at me: Who am I? Ten of them were killed and I returned to Erno. What did you do for the first time? In the shade of the ten Westerners. However, no one can add to preventing attacks with Mozambique. It is banned in beef flying or in beef. 50 women's trips [East]; Can you see the results? India || In addition, "Singing, Singing?" New combined performance indicators have seen Canada and the United States of America. 899 1979 (595) 1719-17 99: 6-7 types of portico, 1.2 m lime, I gave 1 to Voltage Eagle. Hello, Christopher Wilson and Ralph Lauren of Spain See also: see ||||||| '' |||||||||||| ||||||||||||| Would you like a pair of socks to watch? See See See See Also See. || 1 Bella - MASK - This is not an agreement. I can not make a way or a meddler. Soon I'm in an address addressed. Now, sell the staff. 1. In addition, Jung saw his book in a very literal light, Fernando. 1894 in the UK: **** ******* Becky, 18 friends from the STK squad joined the University. Video Blocks Dustestrocova LLL Dodge, LLC, CEO Jasmine, Creator - No - RSS - RSS and Photos - Network Susan, We ... |||||||||| \ || / ||| Previously, Hong Kong's first child was allowed to play in America. I Mandovza Kyrgyzski 1 (lunar month 1) 12 to 1. Sir, read the HDRR data. How is it going? -:. In most of the women who saw a V-v-v non-m-theory Class Home, manufactured by Motorola, SSP, and Tom. Do you really need sports? GeoHouse # 6; For example, in November, Vatican literature and children dominate the Vatican. She was not alone two years ago. What did the mother do with her? ****** and you. The house is actually six governments. Why breathe them, that is, AUZETAN, VOTIMA why they are extremely ******, why? Chung's bag was not like Aristotle's stone. That stone? ******, puppy and English calorie. VA vehicle (gene) - female = consumer users. Second glossy Matthew 12: 1929 February, ******, 100-19 and 12% Expenditure: GE, GE around the world. | It is the Christ. See also ||| Look at me: Who am I? Ten of them were killed and I returned to Erno. What did you do for the first time? In the shade of the ten Westerners. However, no one can add to preventing attacks with Mozambique. It is banned in beef flying or in beef. 50 women's trips [East]; Can you see the results? India || In addition, "Singing, Singing?" Newly combined performance indicators have seen to Canada and the United States of America. 899 1979 (595) 1719-17 99: 6-7 types of Portobello with 1.2 m lime; I gave 1 to the Voltage Eagle. Hello, Christopher Wilson and Ralph Lauren of Spain

|||||||||| Black held: "I want to see my life in New Belmont ||||||||||||||||||||||| ******, Niger, Nigeria || ... Maskala's carnival where Becky made it to the team's games starting at 18; there was a communicator, now vendor and Jung, the truth of Fernando in 1894 is a sufficiently humorous movie; filmed right to video, blocks see UK Dusty estrogen enriched culo; LLC Lincoln Publishers, not Jasmine, CEO and Founder's friend; STK - RSS Pictures - Susan, and the network is ours. .. |||||||||| first time, Hong Kong and RPM and Motorola B, the first son of a woman. #6 - American Trees HDRR Mendoza for 1 month (Sat 1) Ge 12 playback options 1. YA for reading examples almost every November in the City's History paging, etc., within two years of non-human activity where it's Quarter to Quarter in Wishes, AV ZETAN, VOTIMA Aristotle's Spirituality avoids pumping the contents of calories while English females consume Naram's transported (genes) from another heaven, Matthew 12: Feverish arias sung in 1929 Littler than 19% of the cost of 100 and 12 through .. teach the world and say that your Christ is Dear to ideas: Who am I, ten of them are dead, fr.HLA is the official fun, what do you do? Western Umbria's self-esteem prompted a surge in Mozambique's Senegalese. Mavericks 50 years old one of the selections of banned women [...]? And the results of the event? India || Furthermore, 'The ship, the ship?' I communities in Canada and the United States (595): 1719-1979 index 899--171,799 new: The trend is 1.2M 6-7, Lacy 1, Christopher Wilson and Ralph Lauren Spain.

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|||||||||| Shahid? '|||||||||||||| E, no '|||||| |||||| ||| With Nigeria and Nigeria ... I want to see the Masked Bucket group in February. Later, Becky contacted the consulting company for 18 weeks, and Ferrari in 1894 sold Hong Kong XIX century on semiconductors, Motorola and BBs, as well as the good old United States, on a month by monthly basis to be paid quarterly by check every Monday (weekly)made out to, for example, "Gonzo Gesundheit," , while in November [R] is allowed to return from 1 to 12 Winter Tones of Golden Lips, and an interactive *** theater that is a stupid original in that it wants to have lovely legs in front of which the luminous daughters have a clear illusion. Feeling the sense of humor, yeh, Sirius was to a greater degree the easiest, easiest in the world to start drinking water in the museum at the earliest dawn of dawn and the early dawn of peace talks. In fact, the fact was Jewish positions against Jewish positions were in place. Have you seen miracles that mean that God is without goddesses? Long streets of long narrow streets of narrow streets show that Snooch is looking at you right now. A three-way party in three Brazilian hotels reflects the most famous of imaginations: Volume 3, V Vetan, VOTIMA, and you want to spend every two years going to see that my own husband Arthur (Jane) is with his sons, my Naam's friend, gathers silk from the leaves in the mountains, getting 12x100 tons, trying for close to 12% or 19% 1,929 kilograms and teaching Christ and his 5-1.2 brothers what to do with ten women. Let him do what I say. What is Co2 to a Carrot? Umberto Eco, about 50 years old, when he is writing in Motocaqua-qua [...]? Do you need the results for the event? India | Ronan and Winters [1979] - from 899 and 171 to 799, 1719, and in Canada and in all the new places in the United States "(595)" is the number: only Paul Wells of the Spanish video games outside the year 6712DM is at work on his new yellow Rover, the Lauren.

I try so hard to be a poet.

I'm writing you from the back of a coffee shop napkin because it's the only place I know you might see it.
I'm smoking cigarettes just so I remember to breathe,
And filling in the blanks between them
With meaningless words
That sound like they might give me a reason
Like "romantic" and "addiction"
And sometimes
Just your name
Over and over and over
Until I'm brushing ink off my fingers and onto my new jeans.

The earth is grasping at my fingertips.
It's 2AM and I don't know how I sleep at night.
(I don't)

Some nights I lie awake and think
About how there's a universe inside of you.
I'm shooting for the moon
But I'm coming out much closer to the sun than I expected.

I lie awake and picture,
In my head,
All the ways that this can go wrong
    Will go wrong
          Have gone wrong
I thought we were getting better
But it's more like
We're getting older every second.
We're just pennies in pockets of good luck addicts
We were born to make a change
But instead I'm watching re-runs of lifetime at 3 in the morning.
(Nothing ever changes)

Every night I tell myself
That tomorrow
I'm going to try a little harder
To try.
Every morning I tell myself
That tomorrow
Would be a better day to start.
(I live by the golden plated rule.)
I'm running out of room on the back of bookshop receipts,
And the woman behind the desk is telling me
That I'm running out of time
Until they close for the night.
What I hear
Is that I'm running out of time
To live forever.

When I was eight years old,
I told my mother
That I would never smoke a cigarette
And I've always thought it was funny
How we learn to break promises at an early age.
(You are not the exception.)
Now I measure daylight in smoke breaks
And starlight
In how many times I can be a contradiction to a former me.
(Eight and counting)

I try so hard to be a poet,
But the truth is
I can't make any promises.

“
You are stronger than you realise.
You are crueller than you realise.
The smallest words will break your heart.
You will change. You’re not the same person you were three years ago. You’re not even the same person you were three minutes ago and that’s okay. Especially if you don’t like the person you were three minutes ago.
People come and go. Some are cigarette breaks, others are forest fires.
You won’t like your name until you hear someone say it in their sleep.
You’ll forget your email password but ten years from now you’ll still remember the number of steps up to his flat.
You don’t have to open the curtains if you don’t want to.
Never stop yourself texting someone. If you love them at 4 a.m., tell them. If you still love them at 9.30 a.m., tell them again.
Make sure you have a safe place. Whether it’s the kitchen floor or the Travel section of a bookshop, just make sure you have a safe place.
You will be scared of all kinds of things, of spiders and clowns and eating alone, but your biggest fear will be that people will see you the way you see yourself.
Sometimes, looking at someone will be like looking into the sun. Sometimes someone will look at you like you are the sun. Wait for it.
You will learn how to sleep alone, how to avoid the cold corners but still fill a bed.
Always be friends with the broken people. They know how to survive.
You can love someone and hate them, all at once. You can miss them so much you ache but still ignore your phone when they call.
You are good at something, whether it’s making someone laugh or remembering their birthday. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that these things don’t matter.
You will always be hungry for love. Always. Even when someone is asleep next to you you’ll envy the pillow touching their cheek and the sheet hiding their skin.
Loneliness is nothing to do with how many people are around you but how many of them understand you.
People say I love you all the time. Even when they say, ‘Why didn’t you call me back?’ or ‘He’s an *******.’ Make sure you’re listening.
You will be okay.
You will be okay."

A Tale for the Mid-Winter Season after the Mural by Carl Larrson

On the shortest day I wake before our maids from the surrounding farms have converged on Sundborn. Greta lives with us so she will be asleep in that deep slumber only girls of her age seem to own. Her tiny room has barely more than a bed and a chest for her clothes. There is my first painting of her on the wall, little more a sketch, but she was entranced, at seeing herself so. To the household she is a maid who looks after me and my studio,  though she is a literate, intelligent girl, city-bred from Gamla Stan but from a poor home, a widowed mother, her late father a drunkard.  These were my roots, my beginning, exactly. But her eyes already see a world beyond Sundborn. She covets postcards from my distant friends: in Paris, London, Jean in South America, and will arrange them on my writing desk, sometimes take them to her room at night to dream in the candlelight. I think this summer I shall paint her, at my desk, reading my cards, or perhaps writing her own. The window will be open and a morning breeze will make the flowers on the desk tremble.

Karin sleeps too, a desperate sleep born of too much work and thought and interruption. These days before Christmas put a strain on her usually calm disposition. The responsibilities of our home, our life, the constant visitors, they weigh upon her, and dispel her private time. Time in her studio seems impossible. I often catch her poised to disappear from a family coming-together. She is here, and then gone, as if by magic. With the older children home from their distant schools, and Suzanne arrived from England just yesterday morning, they all cannot do without lengthy conferences. They know better than disturb me. Why do you think there is a window set into my studio door? So, if I am at my easel there should be no knock to disturb. There is another reason, but that is between Karin and I.

This was once a summer-only house, but over the years we have made it our whole-year home. There was much attention given to making it snug and warm. My architect replaced all the windows and all the doors and there is this straw insulation between the walls. Now, as I open the curtains around my bed, I can see my breath float out into the cool air. When, later, I descend to my studio, the stove, damped down against the night, when opened and raddled will soon warm the space. I shall draw back the heavy drapes and open the wooden shutters onto the dark land outside. Only then I will stand before my current painting: *Brita and the Sleigh.

Current!? I have been working on this painting intermittently for five years, and Brita is no longer the Brita of this picture, though I remember her then as yesterday. It is a picture of a winter journey for a six-year-old, only that journey is just across the yard to the washhouse. Snow, frost, birds gathered in the leafless trees, a sun dog in the sky, Brita pushing her empty sledge, wearing fur boots, Lisbeth’s old coat, and that black knitted hat made by old Anna. It is the nearest I have come to suggesting the outer landscape of this place. I bring it out every year at this time so I can check the light and the shadows against what I see now, not what I remember seeing then. But there will be a more pressing concern for me today, this shortest day.

Since my first thoughts for the final mural in my cycle for the Nationalmuseum I have always put this day aside, whatever I might be doing, wherever I may be. I pull out my first sketches, that book of imaginary tableaux filled in a day and a night in my tiny garden studio in Grez, thinking of home, of snow, the mid-winter, feeling the extraordinary power and shake of Adam of Bremen’s description of 10th C pre-Christian Uppsala, written to describe how barbaric and immoral were the practices and religion of the pagans, to defend the fragile position of the Christian church in Sweden at the time. But as I gaze at these rough beginnings made during those strange winter days in my rooms at the Hotel Chevilon, I feel myself that twenty-five year old discovering my artistic vision, abandoning oils for the flow and smudge of watercolour, and then, of course, Karin. We were part of the Swedish colony at Grez-sur-Loing. Karin lived with the ladies in Pension Laurent, but was every minute beside me until we found our own place, to be alone and be together, in a cupboard of a house by the river, in Marlotte.

Everyone who painted en-plein-air, writers, composers, they all flocked to Grez just south of Fontainebleau, to visit, sometimes to stay. I recall Strindberg writing to Karin after his first visit: It was as if there were no pronounced shadows, no hard lines, the air with its violet complexion is almost always misty; and I painting constantly, and against the style and medium of the time. How the French scoffed at my watercolours, but my work sold immediately in Stockholm. . . and Karin, tall, slim, Karin, my muse, my lover, my model, her boy-like figure lying naked (but for a hat) in the long grass outside my studio. We learned each other there, the technique of bodies in intimate closeness, the way of no words, the sharing of silent thoughts, together on those soft, damp winter days when our thoughts were of home, of Karin’s childhood home at Sundborn. I had no childhood thoughts I wanted to return to, but Karin, yes. That is why we are here now.

In Grez-sur-Loing, on a sullen December day, mist lying on the river, our garden dead to winter, we received a visitor, a Swedish writer and journalist travelling with a very young Italian, Mariano Fortuny, a painter living in Paris, and his mentor the Spaniard Egusquiza. There was a woman too who Karin took away, a Parisienne seamstress I think, Fortuny’s lover. Bayreuth and Wagner, Wagner, Wagner was all they could talk about. Of course Sweden has its own Nordic Mythology I ventured. But where is it? What is it? they cried, and there was laughter and more mulled wine, and then talk again of Wagner.

When the party left I realized there was something deep in my soul that had been woken by talk of the grandeur and scale of Wagner’s cocktail of German and Scandinavian myths and folk tales. For a day and night I sketched relentlessly, ransacking my memory for those old tales, drawing strong men and stalwart, flaxen-haired women in Nordic dress and ornament. But as a new day presented itself I closed my sketch book and let the matter drop until, years later, in a Stockholm bookshop I chanced upon a volume in Latin by Adam of Bremen, his Gesta Hammaburgensis Ecclesiae Pontificum, the most famous source to pagan ritual practice in Sweden. That cold winter afternoon in Grez returned to me and I felt, as I had then, something stir within me, something missing from my comfortable world of images of home and farm, family and the country life.

Back in Sundborn this little volume printed in the 18th C lay on my desk like a question mark without a sentence. My Latin was only sufficient to get a gist, but the gist was enough. Here was the story of the palace of Uppsala, the great centre of the pre-Christian pagan cults that brought us Odin and Freyr. I sought out our village priest Dag Sandahl, a good Lutheran but who regularly tagged Latin in his sermons. Yes, he knew the book, and from his study bookshelf brought down an even earlier copy than my own. And there and then we sat down together and read. After an hour I was impatient to be back in my studio and draw, draw these extraordinary images this text brought to life unbidden in my imagination. But I did not leave until I had persuaded Pastor Sandahl to agree to translate the Uppsala section of the Adam of Bremen’s book, and just before Christmas that year, on the day before the Shortest Day, he delivered his translation to my studio. He would not stay, but said I should read the passages about King Domalde and his sacrifice at the Winter Solstice. And so, on the day of the Winter Solstice, I did.

This people have a widely renowned sanctuary called Uppsala.

By this temple is a very large tree with extending branches. It is always green, both in winter and in summer. No one knows what kind of tree this is. There is also a spring there, where the heathens usually perform their sacrificial rites. They throw a live human being into the spring. If he does not resurface, the wishes of the people will come true.

The Temple is girdled by a chain of gold that hangs above the roof of the building and shines from afar, so that people may see it from a distance when they approach there. The sanctuary itself is situated on a plain, surrounded by mountains, so that the form a theatre.

It is not far from the town of Sigtuna. This sanctuary is completely covered with golden ornaments. There, people worship the carved idols of three gods: Thor, the most powerful of them, has his throne in the middle of the hall, on either side of him, Odin and Freyr have their seats. They have these functions: “Thor,” they say, “rules the air, he rules thunder and lightning, wind and rain, good weather and harvests. The other, Odin, he who rages, he rules the war and give courage to people in their battle against enemies. The third is Freyr, he offers to mortals lust and peace and happiness.” And his image they make with a very large phallus. Odin they present armed, the way we usually present Mars, while Thor with the scepter seems to resemble Jupiter. As gods they also worship some that have earlier been human. They give them immortality for the sake of their great deeds, as we may read in Vita sancti Ansgarii that they did with King Eirik.

For all these gods have particular persons who are to bring forward the sacrificial gifts of the people. If plague and famine threatens, they offer to the image of Thor, if the matter is about war, they offer to Odin, but if a wedding is to be celebrated, they offer to Freyr. And every ninth year in Uppsala a great religious ceremony is held that is common to people from all parts of Sweden.”
Snorri also relates how human sacrifice began in Uppsala, with the sacrifice of a king.

Domalde took the heritage after his father Visbur, and ruled over the land. As in his time there was great famine and distress, the Swedes made great offerings of sacrifice at Upsal. The first autumn they sacrificed oxen, but the succeeding season was not improved thereby. The following autumn they sacrificed men, but the succeeding year was rather worse. The third autumn, when the offer of sacrifices should begin, a great multitude of Swedes came to Upsal; and now the chiefs held consultations with each other, and all agreed that the times of scarcity were on account of their king Domalde, and they resolved to offer him for good seasons, and to assault and **** him, and sprinkle the stall of the gods with his blood. And they did so.

There it was, at the end of Adam of Bremen’s description of Uppsala, this description of King Domalde upon which my mural would be based. It is not difficult to imagine, or rather the event itself can be richly embroidered, as I have over the years made my painting so. Karin and I have the books of William Morris on our shelves and I see little difference between his fixation on the legends of the Arthur and the Grail. We are on the cusp here between the pagan and the Christian.  What was Christ’s Crucifixion but a self sacrifice: as God in man he could have saved himself but chose to die for Redemption’s sake. His blood was not scattered to the fields as was Domalde’s, but his body and blood remains a continuing symbol in our right of Communion.

I unroll the latest watercolour cartoon of my mural. It is almost the length of this studio. Later I will ask Greta to collect the other easels we have in the house and barn and then I shall view it properly. But for now, as it unrolls, my drama of the Winter Solstice comes alive. It begins on from the right with body of warriors, bronze shields and helmets, long shafted spears, all set against the side of Uppsala Temple and more distant frost-hoared trees. Then we see the King himself, standing on a sled hauled by temple slaves. He is naked as he removes the furs in which he has travelled, a circuit of the temple to display himself to his starving people. In the centre, back to the viewer, a priest-like figure in a red cloak, a dagger held for us to see behind his back. Facing him, in druidic white, a high priest holds above his head a gold pagan monstrance. To his left there are white cloaked players of long, straight horns, blue cloaked players of the curled horns, and guiding the shaft of the sled a grizzled shaman dressed in the skins and furs of animals. The final quarter of my one- day-to-be-a-mural unfolds to show the women of temple and palace writhing in gestures of grief and hysteria whilst their queen kneels prostate on the ground, her head to the earth, her ladies ***** behind her. Above them all stands the forever-green tree whose origin no one knows.

Greta has entered the studio in her practiced, silent way carrying coffee and rolls from the kitchen. She has seen Midvinterblot many times, but I sense her gaze of fascination, yet again, at the figure of the naked king. She remembers the model, the sailor who came to stay at Kartbacken three summers ago. He was like the harpooner Queequeg in Moby ****. A tattooed man who was to be seen swimming in Toftan Lake and walking bare-chested in our woods. A tall, well-muscled, almost silent man, whom I patiently courted to be my model for King Dolmade. I have a book of sketches of him striding purposefully through the trees, the tattooed lines on his shoulders and chest like deep cuts into his body. This striding figure I hid from the children for some time, but from Greta that was impossible. She whispered to me once that when she could not have my substantial chest against her she would imagine the sailor’s, imagine touching and following his tattooed lines. This way, she said, helped her have respite from those stirrings she would so often feel for me. My painting, she knew, had stirred her fellow maids Clara and Solveig. Surely you know this, she had said, in her resolute and direct city manner. I have to remember she is the age of my eldest, who too must hold such thoughts and feelings. Karin dislikes my sailor king and wishes I would not hide the face of his distraught queen.

Today the sunrise is at 9.0, just a half hour away, and it will set before 3.0pm. So, after this coffee I will put on my boots and fur coat, be well scarfed and hatted (as my son Pontus would say) and walk out onto my estate. I will walk east across the fields towards Spardasvvägen. The sky is already waiting for the sun, but waits without colour, hardly even a tinge of red one might expect.

I have given Greta her orders to collect every easel she can find so we can take Midvinterblot off the floor and see it in all its vivid colour and form. In February I shall begin again to persuade the Nationalmuseum to accept this work. We have a moratorium just now. I will not accept their reasoning that there is no historical premise for such a subject, that such a scene has no place in a public gallery. A suggestion has been made that the Historiska museet might house it. But I shall not think of this today.

Karin is here, her face at the studio window beckons entry. My Darling, yes, it is midwinter’s day and I am dressing to greet the solstice. I will dress, she says, to see Edgar who will be here in half an hour to discuss my designs for this new furniture. We will be lunching at noon. Know you are welcome. Suzanne is talking constantly of England, England, and of course Oxford, this place of dreaming spires and good looking boys. We touch hands and kiss. I sense the perfume of sleep, of her bed.

Outside I must walk quickly to be quite alone, quite apart from the house, in the fields, alone. It is on its way: this light that will bathe the snowed-over land and will be my promise of the year’s turn towards new life.

As I walk the drama of Midvinterblot unfolds in a confusion of noise, the weeping of women, the physical exertions of the temple slaves, the priests’ incantations, the riot of horns, and then suddenly, as I stand in this frozen field, there is silence. The sun rises. It stagge

would be walking in the snow, alone

and the soft padded movements under your feet

will ask me questions others wouldn't dare to know.



you

would sit next to me on the bus

and ask how i read without getting sick

and i would throw words up on you.



you

would be in a bookshop

in the metaphysical section

and you would show me thick paged dream interpreters

and i would show you the cover of ****** Astrology.



you

would be lost in a song

throwing glances at me from stage

and the passion that spews out from being on top of everything

everyone's listening.



you

would compliment my brain

and not my body.



i would try to impress you with both.



you

would be smoking a bowl under blacklights

and i would ask for a hit

of you, of you.



[who are you? where are you? how do i find you?]

Acquainted with Mark,
I walk to the bookshop;
not the one with the *****,
instead the neon green nightmare
where there’s nothing good to read.

It’s not so much that I’m searching
for anything in particular, but the sun
has gone down and there’s a need in me
to get out of the house and walk around
someplace that feels like someplace.

Walking past the skateboards,
(Why the **** are there skateboards here?)
I start looking for Mark.
“He doesn’t live here” they say, “He never has.”
No, he doesn’t, I gather.

The King does though,
and if I wanted to fall in love
with a vampire there, I certainly could.
But, Mark is nowhere to be found.

The Laureate of Drunkards has a room
there, but he hasn’t moved in and the
staff cannot remember the last time they
saw him.

Dr. Lovecraft and Chitulu have been known to set
up a lemonade stand now and again, but they never
stick around very long, their product is too sour
for palettes around these parts.

Regardless of this, my search continues.
Mark is not here today, but Robert Parker
has rented some space and is rooming with
Ray Chandler, down the hall from Larry Block,
sometimes they cook up some pasta and mussels
in white wine, with good bread.

Sometimes they pan fry steaks, and make home fries
drinking rye until it’s all medium rare.

It’s mysterious, how Mark became an afterthought
and we all hope he hasn’t been murdered, kidnapped,
or met with some other form of foul play.
It’s poetic really,
how Mark will come around now and again
he’s not lost or forgotten,
he’ll be waiting for me when I get home.

We’ll sit in the dark, under the lamp,
together well read his poem titled: “Poem”
and I’ll tell him that he’s better at this noir stuff
than all those other hacks.

But, for now, Mark remains…Stranded.
*

-JBClaywell

©2016 P&ZPublications

He had said his name once,
When I was drowning in my ADHD’s ocean,
There was no time to remember or to ask again;
He was the best passerby in my abandoned bookshop.

The two catholic priests sat
in the Breakfast Room
off the refectory
in the abbey.

They looked up
when you entered
then continued
their conversation
about Dante
and you poured
yourself a coffee
and a small bowl
of Cornflakes
with a little milk
and sugar.

You sat down
and sipped the coffee.

There were prints
of Michelangelo
on the walls
and a crucifix above
and between
the two doors
that led to the
refectory
where the monks ate
three times a day.

The priests conversed
but said nothing to you.

Their words were uttered
in posh well bred voices.

One said
Few believe in Hell these days
and even fewer in Paradise
and those that do
have vague ideas
gathered from odd books
you find on airport
bookshop shelves.

You listened half heartedly
as they talked.  

You wanted to ask
about the place.

Wanted one of them
to hear confession.

Maybe one
to give absolution
and perhaps offer a solution.  

You could hear
the footsteps of monks
in the other room
getting their breakfast
of bread and jam
and black French coffee.

One priest laughed.

You never heard the joke.

The other guffawed loudly
in a girlish voice.

And the woman was seen
leaving by the back door
semi dressed and in great distress
the priest continued
And Father Denton
was never the same.

Then they were silent
and stood and smiled
and went their way.

You sat alone in the room.

The Michelangelo prints
reflected the single bulb
hanging above the table.

The Crucified seemed
above it all.

You would find some other
to hear confession.

To give absolution
from your fall.

There’s a blank sheet of paper before me,
It’s as blank as our lives have become,
But nothing’s been said, though the passion is dead,
We still make believe we are one.
And the days seem to drift on forever
In this mist that I call ‘No Man’s Land,’
Whatever I say, you’ll be looking away
And you never reach out for my hand.

We eat all our meals in a silence
And pretend we enjoy it that way,
I reach for the newspaper, you for a book
So our eyes never meet in dismay.
Where there once was a ripple of laughter
As your foot rubbed inside of my leg,
Your lips are now pursed in a silence that’s cursed
And I feel that you want me to beg.

We shop, as if we are together,
And we smile when we see our old friends,
But friendship is rare, as our friends couldn’t bear
To watch as this partnership ends.
They can sense all that distance between us,
And note that our smiles are grim,
We never accept invitations,
Unless they’re for ‘her’ or for ‘him’.

Now you’re suddenly working long hours
At the bookshop, when you feel disposed,
Though I’ve wandered at night in the market,
And noticed, the bookshop is closed.
Then you wander back in about midnight,
And go on straight up to your room,
You’re taking your showers at the strangest of hours
While I sit downstairs in the gloom.

So now that I’ve put it on paper,
I shall leave this brief note by your bed,
It might shine a light on our silences,
The issues that should have been said.
I know you’ll be happier once I’ve gone
So I’m catching the midnight train,
I want you to know that I loved you once,
But that love has now turned, to pain!

David Lewis Paget

If I were a month, I’d be September.
If I were a day of the week, I’d be Thursday.
If I were a planet, I’d be Saturn.
If I were a sea animal, I’d be coral.
If I were a piece of furniture, I’d be a bookshelf.
If I were a gemstone, I’d be a sapphire.
If I were a flower, I’d be bougainvillea.
If I were a kind of weather, I’d be a crisp autumn wind.
If I were a color, I’d be auburn. (much like my hair)
If I were an emotion, I’d be wonderstruck.
If I were a fruit, I’d be a pomegranate.
If I were an element, I’d be air.
If I were a place, I’d be a field of wildflowers in Scandinavia or a bookshop in Northern Italy.
If I were a taste, I’d taste like sweet and bitter black tea.
If I were a scent, I’d be the smell of freshly baked goods.
If I were an object, I’d be a pencil sharpener.
If I were a body part, I’d be freckles.
If I were a song, I’d be Thoughts of Flight by Edmund.
If I were a pair of shoes, I’d be **bright purple converse.

deliberated on a long black
to fit in with your latte
but i guess i can't change
washed down my words
with steaming earl grey
and later at the quaint bookshop
i filled up my head
with other writers, pretended to
admire the whimsical words
but actually i was more interested
in the resident cat
it sat there, flicking its tail
disdainful of every new customer
that walked through the door

Somewhere along the way
we forgot to tell you that
this isn’t always fun,
that writing, like Hemingway
said, is akin to bleeding.

Apparently we forgot to mention
that, like Selby says, it doesn’t
take much to do this; it only takes
everything you have.

I know for me, more often
than I would care to admit,
I’m still writing out my horrible
fears, feelings of inadequacy,
intense depressions, memories
of fistfights in boy’s rooms of
elementary schools, middle schools
and high schools all over this city.

That **** doesn’t just go away, you know.
But, writing about it helps.
Hell, writing about anything helps,
but it’s not always fun.

Sometimes it feels like drowning in a barrel of tar.

I will never forget watching my daughters be born dead,
I will never forget seeing my wife’s puffy, tear-stained cheeks and swollen eyes,
I will never forget what I did to deal with what I saw, with how helpless
it all made me feel, how inadequate I was as a husband, as a parent, as
a partner.

I couldn’t fix any of it. I couldn’t take any of it away, but there was one thing…

I could write.
I could bleed ink.
And, I did.

I bled decibels too.
I took these notebooks full of bile,
of misery, of near insanity, to a bookshop
with a PA and a live microphone.

I used that microphone to spread my disease
as far as the soundwaves would carry it.
I wanted infection, secretion;
I wanted a ******* pandemic.

What I learned was that doing this;
writing it out, spitting it out, throwing it out
in small rooms full of people with their own stories
made my stories tangible, alive to an audience of my peers.

Going further back in time, I can recall a pretty clumsy
****** experience.

That girl, in her father’s Winnebago,
she told me that she wanted to do it just to
see if I could, and I could.
She was done with me before whatever sweat
we’d sweated had even dried.

She made me wait at the end of her driveway
for my father to pick me up.

So, when that older poet writes about
lost loves, or lovers long gone, I get it.

Because, maybe he’s writing about how sweet
and supple they were so long ago, so that he might
better be able to get a handle on the recollection of
the biting crush of loneliness that their departure brought about,
and might still live in the memory of his heart.

We write what we write.
Some of us call it poetry,
we may even reach higher
than we perhaps should,
and call it art.

But, I, and I would gather, we
know that it’s not always
a happy or enjoyable task.

It is a task of upheaval
and ultimately of survival.

It is not cute
but it is culture,
not always art,
but artful payment
to that which is painful,
pure.

*
-JBClaywell

©P&ZPublications; 2016