thin step away
past all echoes and
unmoor the long
drag of scrapenail
to open a sutured
self up and
good the bye
thin step away
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thin step away
On bounty
“You saw the bounties, dinja?”
I took my time looking up.
That ragamuffin had been quiet as a sceaducat padding her way through and behind rangy scrub, mustering courage to speak out. Spooky quiet. I might have missed it had I been ranging like most folk do through here.
But I’d heard her all the same. And I had a mystique cultivated to protect, so I drew out the minutes in a yarn stretched taut to lend it further credence, showing her all brim on my widehat until my eyes slow-locked onto hers.
She’d be the pretty type some day, that much was clear. But now she was more Jack than Jane and all gangly-limbed. Those eyes would eventually kill at fifty stride, if the storms didn’t take them first. Or some reaver.
She earned my respect right off, staying silent like she was. Said her bit, expected answers. Weren’t gonna beg for nothing.
“Bounties?”
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On bounty
Kids playing music
I’m not quite sure why I decided to give Phoebe Bridgers a whirl yesterday on recommendation by The Guardian. I am not her target audience, so maybe it was was the description of her sound as “folk” that caught my attention.
Whatever the reason, I ended up watching the official video for her new single and thought, “Huh, not bad.” It reminded me of the late 90s Lilith Faire sounds that were making the rounds on the somewhat progressive radio stations of the time. A nice change of pace from what I’ve been mostly hearing for the two decades or so. I always appreciate a retro feel (good gods, I’m now retro!). A little slicker than I usually like, but most things are slicker in the digital age than I usually prefer. The conceptual official video was also a nice change of pace from the plotless stage (or inside of cheese-grater) videos that most folks do these days.
Anyway, I was feeling like a potato and doing potato kinds of things, I started watching YouTube videos on the big television. And, because it is YouTube and I watched on video of Phoebe Bridgers, I obviously wanted to watch more of the same.
A live video came up of a live show performance and I thought I’d see how she sounded live. It’s a potato thing to do when one is potatoing.
I was expecting live — I was not expecting kids to be her supporting band.
Kids.
Like 10-12 year old kids.
And they knocked that shit out of the park and into the next county.
I mean, that 10-year-old drummer is banging on those skins like a champ. I absolutely love her energy.
Give it a whirl. Turn off the sound if the music doesn’t appeal and just be impressed with the ear-to-ear smiles of kids performing live as if they are having the time of their lives. If you really don’t care for it, jump to the end when Jimmy is shaking everyone’s hands. That’s worth a ton right there.
What a joy to watch kids just being kids and being awesome!
But I’m weird that way. I’m mostly potato.
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Kids playing music
i ||: colony
on the cut
nail etch i
to wash of
salt words
in the colony
i
machining sin
every part i
flow the laws
of nature in
sting blood
i
’my dear,
that is not an
act of love’
everything is just
incidental music
i was sick, sick—
iTo like, click comments or:
i ||: colony
Drone of ice
I drone of ice. Crystal. Pale luminescence.
I show him how I shuttercock the gun to skate the lake in tin flechette under a neon sky, dancing somewhere between Nijinsky and ictus rigor, near both wolf and dog on the Betweens.
In a word, I say: They cannot see me.
In yet more: They cannot hear me, save for the hollow of my entrance.
And: They cannot taste me, for their screams.
Explaining: They all have sharp ends, just as I will have a sharp end. It is the only way we can be. When you waltz with knives and cold eyes blue, everything becomes razor cuts through the gloom.
“And you never tire of this?” he asks, knowing the answer.
Of course I do.
I shrug. But I know nothing else. I only know the northern cold.
An exchange. As agreed, fifteen in advance. To hold me, to unspring my aching need. There was crimson spilled the last time, the time they thought to give me mere seed instead of what we had agreed.
Word travels, as they say.
“Fifty more when it is complete?”
I stare. He knows. I have no desire to bleed him for more. Yet anyway. Perhaps later. In his mistress’s boudoir, as I smoke his expensive cigars.
He does not know it, but he is lucky.
Ahh. Now he sees, coughs. Chair screech, standing back from my obsidian eyes empty.
“Em. Hum. Contact me when you have done the deed.”
I knappedflint smile. Only a smile.
It is already done, this job. Before we met. For joy. But he can wait for that news. Make him wonder.
He stumbleleaves, does not even finish his drink, does not count the jack he leaves on the table for the tab for all his hurrying. Out the door, letting in winter.
I am tired. Yet, I have pride.
I am drone of ice.
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Drone of ice
all lost boys
we're all lost boys
living in a purgatory
of our own make
dreaming
cardboard fantasies
of tin foil swords &
steel-painted armors —
a princess eager
behind a veil of thorns
we still boast song & glory
in a mead hall of ruins
shoes sticking to
ale-washed floors
slipstream still,
i sit between
shifting throngs & smiles
wondering what lies
all lost boys, we
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all lost boys
Gravity
Okay, grab something heavy and lend me an ear.
No.
We will not be losing gravity for seven seconds within just over 30 minutes as of the time of this post.
I almost wish we were.
But we’re not.
Stop it. You’re making damned fools of yourself. It makes me sad.
tagged:
conspiracies about conspiracies that are conspiracies themselves, gravity doesn’t work that way folks, le sighfiled under:
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Gravity
Last gasp from the past
The friend I met up with had converted the video of our first gig at an (im)famous bar , Fernandos. It had a reputation for basically letting anyone play at the bar on Sunday nights, so take that as you will. Two local goth bands, Shadowspawn (mine) and Saint Cry (the headliners).
The hicks at the bar hated us and made it known; both loudly and drunkenly.
I’ve decided against sharing any of the actual footage from the show. It would be cruel to show anything more than the above still.
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Last gasp from the past
Campfire Sessions — 11aug26
Photo by Ville Palmu on Unsplash I emerged from the bramble gate, crawling out on my hands and knees the soft loam giving way to my weight before springing back, erasing any sign of my passing. Thorns teased at my clothes, my skin while rending neither.
Part of me wished the thorns had taken more liberties with both fabric and flesh.
You survived, They said as I stood, brushing off decayed leaves and detritus from my palms and trousers. Excellent.
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Campfire Sessions — 11aug26
casting runes — 10aug26
dagaz i shadowwalk
the barrows gloaming
neither flint, nor flesh
nor song, nor substance
a wraith tethered between
neither a living, nor a dyingA rune poem, based on an Elder Futhark rune selected at random.
Today’s rune is dagaz, which has been translated as “daybreak”, that transitional moment between night and day. By extension, it might also be interpreted as “twilight” and is representative of liminality, transformation, the space between worlds, and suggests walking in both the material world and otherworld.
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
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casting runes — 10aug26
