Hello everyone, thought I’d pop in with just a quick update as I haven’t posted anything for a few weeks. I’m pleased to see the blog ticking along with a handful of views every day even when I don’t post anything, and am currently well on my way to the goal I set at the beginning of this year, which was to reach 1000 views for 2017 and grow from there.
It might not seem like a huge number, but its an important milestone for me. When I think of 1000 people all in a room, and then think that each of those 1000 people read something I posted here, it makes me happy. So thank you for reading, if you can see this.
I’ll be returning with my favourite albums of 2017 at the beginning of December, and am about to start revisiting favourites/filling in the blanks before creating my final list. I’ve listened to perhaps more music this year than ever before, and 2017’s Albums of the Year will reflect that. It’s going to be a top 50 rather than a top 20, running through the first thirty with a quick sentence or two and then moving into proper reviews in the top 20, as per usual.
Also upcoming is an article about Johnathan Blow’s magnificent and mysterious puzzle game The Witness, which released last year but I’ve only just got around to playing. And there’ll be a couple of other bits throughout November. So stay tuned! In the meantime, here’s a couple more poems from my collection The Night and the Moth which I recently finished, and wanted to share 🙂
The first is about dreams, memory, and The Legend of Zelda. The second is a mirrored sonnet I wrote after going to the Tate Modern and seeing a bunch of Rothko paintings. And the third is about…sex, pretty much. Enjoy.
The Fairy Fountain
A wall of water is running down
To a marble turquoise pool.
A pilot star encircles
Sheets and sheets of memories
Stacked in rows like server farms
With tiny blue lights
All these tiny blue lights…
Remembering is a cloud save:
The corners get rubbed away
And leave the outline
When it waterfalls into life
It keeps me up at night.
It keeps me up for hours.
It cups the sift of selection
And everything we think is lost
Is only saved in suspension:
Passing on through each new century
Like the wisdom of the old Great Deku Tree
And breaking in a flood
That bursts the dam.
Like on the cusp of dreaming
When I can feel forgetting
Gauze and glowing…
Take me to the fairy fountain.
Before it pounces
Come in, and light the torches.
Rothko’s Seagram Murals were hanging,
Hind-legs coiled, in a dim mahogany
Corner of the Tate Modern,
Beckoning like a campfire.
My breath made red mist
At the door of that vermilion room,
Diffusing into the petrified cold of museum air con,
Adding layer upon layer to six sharp, thick frames.
But then, playing at their crooked games
With all the downy violence of a swan
A herd of children burst into the gloom
And monolithic thoughts are all dismissed.
– Should I be grateful when they come
To disturb my doom of purple?
While You Beat a Tambourine
I want to
Bathe in your fleshes melt
And suffocate in smoke
I am your bodies belt
The darkness is your cloak
And tiny fish are swimming
In pools among your feet
You crush them all while grinning
And splash inside their meat.
When honey lips surround you
They sip your midnight ink
When stars wrap rings around you
They sparkle mercury-pink
And all the slaves are raising
A temple inside touch
They set a fire blazing
But the fire burns too much.
The body needs its heat
But the hand recoils away
That bitterness turns sweet
When the night engulfs the day
And all our bones begin to mesh
Into one bony dream:
I bathe inside your flesh
While you beat a tambourine.