Luv'd ones

Slivers of recurrence

Watch a cat outside the window through intermittent "phwwww" billows of marijuana smoke.

Cat pauses, paws balanced on a fence top... ponders the leap across the gate.

Translucent gleam of ginger beer in a hi-ball glass.

Room temperature.

A dead rose in a sheen, shiny, black glazed pot.

The tiniest shoots of green leaves ~ Slivers of recurrence.

The nightclerk at a busy hotel has heavily lacquered hair. Jet black. Arabian Sea of dark, flattened, fastened ripples.
- Hello good afternoon my name is Hamid how may I helf you?
He whooshes breathlessly. An air of mischief to his perfunctoriness.

A Polish handyman has huge ears. His eyes are slanted; back-set. Six foot something-more-than-two. His ears less protrude than emerge, sweeping, flanking his face that comes to a sharp point at the front with the air of a giant. He smiles a warm smile in the silver lift.

A member of the housekeeping department juggles large oranges in the top floor bar at 11am. Eyes glistening with concentration he speaks, juggling deftly still
- Ere, tell you what I wouldn't say no t' bitta that bird what wuks in't office. Yuh know, one t'wi curly 'air and bewbs liht that."
Gestures; picks up a watermelon from the marble bar-top.
-Know watta mean?

A dead daffodil, plucked from the earth, bulb bulging, leaning out of a tiny wine goblet; glass emblazoned with colourful squares.

Time tangled in the throb of description.

Lingua faulting, rhythm slow to a dead-beat.

The pun is mightier than the sword.

Dive

The way the surface of the sea
Allows only for non-sight of the depths
Describes an inner enmity

A small square house
On a grassy plain
By a rocky coastal outcrop

At odds to the brazenness of a goat in long weeds
The sea casts a shadow that is a reflection
But the diver's sport {break the membrane}
Wrapped blanketed in heavy water
Wetness is a quality of the land
Dive from an aeroplane

Tenniscoats テニスコーツ - Baibaba Bimba - A Take Away Show

Well...

... this is just fucking perfect now, isn't it?

Eating an Animal by J.C.

My daughter is nearly two years old. Our conversations are littered with vast and deflating misunderstandings, as well as with painfully beautiful moments of concurrence in linguistic contingency. It is routinely an ecstatic experience; at least for me it is ecstatic, for her, I can't be certain. 

"What did you eat when you were at the farm today Honey? 

"..."

"When you were at the cafe, at the farm, with the animals, what did you eat?"

"...Eat. Animals!"

"..."

There is an oft repeated tale from my youth that culminates in my father - a career scientist and leisurely atheist - taking a solemn vow of abstinence from red meat. I'll regale you with it now, if that's ok;

We were driving along somewhere, one day in rural hertfordshire, when we drove past a field of spring lambs. 

"Why are those sheep in the field Dad?"

"..."

And he never ate red meat, willingly, ever again, to this day.

by J.W.

Ms. Feldman wears long sleeves and gloves.

But the oil paints gave her nausea and headaches. What was the point of creating environmental art, she thought, if the toxicity of the process was making her sick? (Leave that kind of performance-art masochism to Marina Abramovic.)

And its tendrils need constant burying.

Excruciatingly slow knitters may want to buy some time by growing madder from seed.

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/05/garden/a-new-generation-discovers-grow-it-yourself-dyes.html?pagewanted=2&_r=1&ref=garden

Polar Skate Co; Pontus Alv

The sample is from Poltergeist

trill; 2008.

Freda Payne

The most appropriate name