Friday, November 24, 2017

All in a Daze Work

[Extracted from the files of Mark Time P.I.]


“They would have you believe, Mr. Time, that the world will be a better place without the likes of Devandra Bernhardt”
She paused for a gasp-inhalation of nicotine, followed by an exhalation that continued even after all smoke had been dispelled from her lungs.
“It is a belief based on an astonishing amount of evidence against you” I said from the other side of the glass; the side with an exit to the free, if seedy, streets of the city.
“Get me out of this place Mr. Time, please.”
It’s not often that my clientele condescend to be polite, and in all honesty, I find it disconcerting when they do.
“I will do what I can Ms Bernhardt” I said, presuming of course, that, given the circumstances of her arrest, and the limits of my influence within the city’s halls of power, she required the sort of assistance that is not available through legal channels.

Thursday, November 23, 2017

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

Sunday, November 19, 2017

Good Housekeeping

Titus Groan ~ Giulia Pecorari

He wanders the bare floorboards of the old house, barefoot, 3 am; like a ghost who cannot forget the worn predictable paths of his life; like a dog returning to its vomit.
He sees the events of the years spend within these confines – good, bad and simply pedestrian – sees them overlaid with a patina of sepia guilt; as if anything in the past should be represented as antique; as if guilt for his emotional immaturity; guilt for the fact that he alone remains, should be dulled by the distance between him and those events. Should be but isn’t.
The simulacrum clicks its disapproval from the corner of the living room; night-mode prohibiting it from clearing up the stale crumbs of human frailty that are left in the wake of this spectre as he passes from room to room.


Tales for an attention deficit world

Friday, November 17, 2017

Weather Prophet

In Memory of Mirror, Mask & Camera (where are you now and why does tumblr say "there's nothing here"?)


The wind delivers
Rain on window pane sorrow
We used to talk
About how love
Would help us storm tomorrow

This chisel blunt
Cannot set these days in stone
But statuesque
And sculptural we are not
This hammer jars to the bone

Nothing to hide
Nothing to push us through
these moments of inertia

Burns the core of the flame
Burns the faltering fingertips
With the reminder that we are we

We are not cameras
These tools are blunt and inexact
these snapshots exist
in >2 dimensions
They render real from filtered fact

Children are here
To Storm the walls of our defences
To break our hearts
Until we are dulled
Stripped down to our essences