Untitled|four nineteen—four ‘untimely meditations’

Los olivos palidecen—
pero mi amor busca el heurto

—but two has never been a number.


‘Tan, tan / Who’s there? / Autumn again. / What do you want? / The coolness of your temple. / You can’t have it. / I’ll take it. / Knock, knock! / Who’s there? / Autumn again.’


‘At this point in history, how can we talk about private events? Or private moments? When we have television and phones inside our homes, when our bodies have been legislated by the state?’ (Felix Gonzalez-Torres, 1993)

Untitled|two nineteen — Krähe, laß mich endlich Sehn / Treue bis zum Grabe!

As the birds moved around and around on a curtain rail hung between wooden posts, one obstructed another. Not two but many, one after another . .

Silver, white, green, green
Green, silver, green, green, viridian, viridian, purple, purple
Green, grass green, orange, white
Viridian, silver, green, purple
Orange, purple, white, green, green, purple, green, green.

The blackbird tapped at a string with seed-fat hanging from it trying to get it to swing onto the floor of the bird house. It flew off, returned, tried again. I watched something leave its hungry body. The house was in the shadow of a bigger house.

Untitled|eleven eighteen – Vestimentary objects


Jude Walton, Nadja – Léona (see PDF for details)
Oswald Von Wolkenstein (c. 1376-1445) Songs of Myself (harmonia mundi, 2010)
Orange, green, green, viridian | silver, green, green, green
Green, white, silver, purple, white, white – each inscription of song resists institutional folly.
Belief in youth? … Blotting paper? . . This little pig went to market.
Dull blows on wood; everything’s going down – better to be vulgar and use your legs.
‘Everything wrong has been proved wrong.’
Over Kabul there is the pall of burning everything, a bull-cloth over ‘ … our bitch-compound. They burn everything; we’re surrounded by them, by everything.’

Motorway verges . . and a few solitary leaves.
‘Wear a happy face or sink …’
JW_Nadja-Léona_Flyer

Untitled|eight eighteen – ‘My Mother’

Ghias Aljundi
John Berryman, Homage to Mistress Bradstreet, in ‘Selected Poems 1938-1968’ (Faber, 1972)
bicycles
clay plant pots
Alastair Cook (Cricketer)
Fil D’Argent, Fil D’Or (Pierre Danican Philidor 1681-1731 & Michel Pignolet de Montéclair 1667-1737: six suites for two traversos: Outhere Music, 2015)

Robert Graves, Selected Poems, edited by Michael Longley (Faber, 2013)
Grid Iron Theatre Company, South Bend, written by Martin McCormick (2018)
handerchief’s (Alec Finlay, a feather in weather)
wooden clothes pegs

Untitled|seven eighteen – And Et cetera

Brambles, thousands to a soul, march on the English aorta – and others of that species – intent on crusade in the moist arch of her cut grass. Aye, revelation in the food bank at suppertime: isolation, Fentanyl analogues, bevvy, et cetera.

The second wound: The land moved away starting to turn in the orient of sky. And as the land moved away so too a sour melody turned without light into the wound your lance made in the canvas; the Verfremdungseffekt of a supermarket trolley, contactless payment, dry cleaning, flies, et cetera.
In the sky about the wound that your lance made in the flesh, the ur-psalm of a goldfinch spread the sweet shelter of a lime tree on the bleached grass; a teenage girl slept peacefully-foetal in a space between Lenor and Comfort on the bottom tray of a shelving unit in the Household Cleaning aisle. I ask, are we all too late? Have I seen your face before? I need help from time to time: Yes, I said, we would need the guns by next spring.
L. your discovery was more than just the hole, more than just nothing.

Collecting sticks in the wood, I went over to where he was found by a dog walker, where they fly-tipped his body; over here,
This is where the officers danced the Scottish dawn.

Friday 5 January, 2018. The Hirsel, Riemore Estate, Dunkeld. Snow fell over everything. Voices grew quieter and fewer. I was no longer ashamed of my love for you. On the far hill the snow came on again, but softly, as I watched the blue numbers huddle neon deep in the weather, perhaps six hundred of a flock surrounded by brilliant light; an immense protecting veil of steam inside which were ten thousand and more eyes. You needed to be somewhere. I cleared the windscreen and windows with a flat five centimetre square piece of Plockton oak and turned the key in the ignition.

The fifth wound: A rabbit arched its back. A blossom-killing fog hung over everything. I watched a woman in grey sweats turn slowly away from a memorial of flowers that were tied to a fence. She stepped over a puddle and walked towards the other end of the car park and a spirit-blue Fiat; towards where sickly bushes rusted behind the fence, the ground around them a poisonous blush of deep red. A train went by. She pulled the key to the car from a clutch bag and a silver bullet fell to the ground – a Cyber Colours avocado lip balm.
Woven into the fence behind her car were thin strings of human guts; cold viscera; wet human guts starting to dry in the gentle breeze. The rest had been bagged by early morning, and hastily stored in a chest freezer in the Coated Fish aisle before the red mud had had a chance to harden on it; before he had had a chance to harden on her:

The night bled outwith her; her room, saturated in a porcelain silence that flowed and flowed like starlight coming into truth in the white-washed air at the end of her bed: linseed, yellow ochre, plaster of Paris, carmine and hawthorn, taking form;

Daisy, dandelion, smooth meadow-grass, orchard grasses … pitiless small birds flitted around the wooden kirk, and to everything later, et cetera.