This is a room hung with grief
Swags of bombazine and
Weeping weeds wilting
Sick with perfume
There are no selfies
Nothing of us close friends sitting
Talking laughing weeping
Talking furiously to keep the madness
On the other side of the door
This is the place of the end
Doors curtained off
With dust-pleated damask
No social media here
Just straight talking
And jags of silence
So there’s nothing to show
for those times of grace
nothing to offer
to the land of Instagram
nothing to show
but I don’t want to leave here now
don’t want it to be
time to go now
Contemplating reading at the Bardic Picnic next month has resulted in this weeks dinky little flash fiction.
Carved bone. Indonesia 2013. Donated by S. Beings
“Actually I don’t think that’s Lapiz” Said Flower-Moon to Ann, as she fished the blue bracelet out of the display case.
A proper Petromancer, Ann thought. One of those new-age Fairy-Witches that divine the future through the flinging of gemstones.
“No, it’s Sodalite. Put it back, it doesn’t resonate in the same way”. Ann put the bracelet back, and followed Flower-Moon.
Petropath! Thought Ann as Flower-Moon dowsed the incense franchise.
A low-down god-forsaken alt.med hustler – a-healin’ the sick by the layin’ on o’stones.
Watching Flower-Moon trance out in the Nepalese imports, Ann visualised a tea-break.
Earlier this week I spent the day with Gary, an old friend and travelling companion.
He gave me what he described as “A dancing skeleton“, a 9cm plastic jointed marionette that was part of a Day of The Dead hoard we’d collected while in Mexico City and Oaxaca State in October and November 1993.
Jointed plastic marionette. height 9 cm. Collected by G. Ruddick Mexico 1993. Donated 2015.
Gary recalled the guy who sold it to us making a line of the little fellas leap and dance, but…more…
This being the season of the Wild Hunt I thought I’d post up my work on cataloguing my Skull Collection, which I am archiving in the Gallery.
Skull Collection – number 1
The first skull in my Skull Collection was a housewarming gift, left by an unidentified previous occupant, who in a pique of randomly directed maliciousness thought to curse me. Perhaps it was directed at the landlady – a plausible enough explanation, but I chose at the time to see it as my own personal gift-curse. A bit like having three wishes to bestow, except it wasn’t, it was a single dead-eyed curse.
I was an undergraduate in Northampton in the late 1980s at the time, and I had just moved out of shared accommodation into a self-contained bedsit…read more…