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november 2008

Lucy - Dreamproject


Andrew Thorpe - At The Park


3. 5. 10. 13. 15. 18. 22. 23. 27. 31. 34. 36.

Klarabella - Orange Juice

Harmony Artist Spotlight Cigarettes This Familiar Place The Perfect Kiss No More (A Rant) My Love Scribbles Like Trees In November Snake Man TAKS Entry Her


Crystal Dawn Bertrand Gadal Taymaz Valley Fern Yates Sin J.C. Wooley Nyki Kish Juniperlillie L.A. Temple Lauren Jessica Dennison Penitent



Crystal Dawn

Twilight mist drizzles dewdrop kisses upon clay— as forlorn creaking of tattered limbs thirst new life, and frosted green blades beneath oak’s canopy lay

Night prowlers fall victim to ravenous birds of prey— as hollowed trees echo crickets’ combative chirps, and frosted green blades beneath oak’s canopy lay




Croaks repulse serpents while in shadows they stay— as forelimbs swoop on wind’s wings marking echoes, and frosted green blades beneath oak’s canopy lay dormant...

Sunlight’s affection kisses dawning eyes with warming rays— as songsters twitter a melodious symphony, arousing dance, and spirited green blades beneath oak’s canopy begin to play. Harmony—nature’s fury—nature’s dance—begins with a kiss.

Lucy - The Great Metaphor


Bertrand Gadal Bertrand Gadal - Hope

I was born in 1974 in Brittany, France. I studied French literature and art for my Baccalaureate and was accepted by the Ecole d’Architecture de Nantes. I decided to enter a private university, the Ecole Pivaut (Nantes), and studied product design for 5 years. Whilst studying at the Ecole Pivaut, I entered and won a competition to develop and design a new entrance door of the Parisian Underground. That system of door can be seen in every entrance of the Parisian Underground today.


I moved to London in 1998 to work as a web designer and was painting in my free time as a hobby. I have now decided to bring my painting to a professional level. My interests lie in portraits of men and women. I am particularly interested in close-up facial expressions. I uses acrylic paint along with felt-tip pens and various inks for added detail.

Bertrand Gadal - Dreamer


Oushka - Kev


Robotmanreg - Faces


Mary - Hands Of Time


I’m smoking my last pack. Chain-smoking more accurately. Reading, I light one after other, Then another. Duffy and her Rapture; Words bring meaning and aim Through time, Time and time again.   Plath my darling Plath, When you killed a man indeed You killed all To be born again redeemed.   Eliot that jewel of verse, With his great humour sense. That eternal gentleman wearing his coat “Rock and no water and the sandy road”   The Bard, The Bard, The Bard; What precious gem survived. How can one compare to thee, This lost soul’s undying guide.   Hugo, Breton, Baudelaire, Tzara, Cocteau, Mallarme, Prevert, Salmon, Apollinaire,  Voltaire, Voltaire, Voltaire.    Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam Dante’s Comedy Divine, Ferdowsi’s Book of Kings. Hafez and his Divan.   Virgil O’ Virgil, No angel shall dare bar your path. Homer’s Gods and their wrath.   And I’m done with my cigarette pack

Fernella Dragonfly - Whipping Smoke

Cigarettes -

Taymaz Valley


Sam R - Druid Valley Series



This Familiar Place As I lie in this familiar bed Ideas bobbing around my head Upon a sea of turbulent thought Fleeting, darting amounting to nought Do I look at the fir tree, so aloof Peeking over the neighbour’s roof Do I hear spectators in the park,

Samantha - Clouds

Fern Yates

And a distant canine’s persistent bark Rain clouds roll in, across the hill It feels like time is standing still The birds cease chirping, in anticipation Of the storm breaking, it’s a weird sensation. My muscles relax, my breath is deep All worries forgotten, lost in sleep.


Crispy - Winter Sun


without logic or reason a spontaneous fire of anger and strength that gently slips into a tender tear of ones love sick heart knowing nothing of blame or regret it knows only of the moment where time stands still and all other memories cringe with envy full of passion and desire but tainted with heartbreak for it must end.

Ick - May


the perfect kiss



Jonny - Crossing Over


No More (A Rant) The waves of the lake consume me and yes my pain consumes me as well. All of existence is consumed by us the consumer and as for us, we consume each other. Like confused cannibals we let the good go to waste and let the diseased flesh of us all rule our hearts and minds. We nail saints to crosses, send patriots to spill there blood on foreign land and murder or martyrs, leaving them to be forever left forgotten buried beneath histories lies. But what is a martyr and what is a saint if they are not recognized as such? Well then they are nothing. So why then do we pay tribute to the tyrants of our world? Why should we afford them the privilege of history? Let the names of men such as Rockefeller no longer scar the face of humanity. Let the Rockefeller’s and Hitler’s of the present and of the past be erased from the history books, for why is it that they shall forever live while I am left to dwindle into oblivion?

J.C. Wooley

If these men are not martyrs or saints (which they’re not) then why should we the people grant them the sanctity of eternal life? Is it because they are rich and powerful? Maybe. But ask your self, did they not become rich by picking our pockets while we stood in the bread lines? and did they not rob us of our natural right to self rule by breaking our independence through the cruel means of an empty stomach? So I say to you o brothers and sisters “ NO MORE!” No more shall they pick my pockets and no more shall I grovel at their feet. Like a tumor to the brain I will cut them free from the minds of humanity and in doing so I shall free myself. I shall remember the names of every poet and of every beggar and of every martyr so that they shall live on for as long as I am privileged with the gift of life. Where as we have been buried beneath the lies of our self proclaimed rulers we shall bury them in the freedom of knowing the truth. For without that freedom we shall forever be ruled with lies.


Pseudoghost - Red Line


Pseudoghost - Pseudoscene


Hejtejp - Awe Vilket Tjoller


nyki kish I will not live forever, Can’t always be ‘round to see. My life is but a moment In this worlds long history. My path may go unnoticed For I’m but one small person, Yet greatness I’ve accomplished, When all is said and done. I’ve held your hand; I’ve touched you, I’ve had your gaze lock mine. And I’d trade 100 days or years, To return to that time. No others been so lucky, I pray, nor shall another be; For I feel blessed above the rest, I’ve got you all to me.   So I need not of titles, Awards or fancy things. Need I do of your love though dear; For wonders your love brings. …. And I won’t live on for always, My name may fade away. But the love that you and I do share Shines so strong it will always remain.     Dedicated to my Jeremy.

my love


Scribbles Juniperlillie

There are scribbles on this page I did not put them here I’m certain that it was somebody near. A tiny someone, with tiny hands A tiny someone, with a curious mind There are scribbles on this page Reminding me I’m not alone A pencil lays beside me, A pencil that’s not mine A tiny bit of jelly smeared along it’s side. This page that sits before me once so clean and pure Ready for my inward thoughts to pour It’s covered now in lines of tiny fury made in quite a hurry. Jessie Jermyn - Flying Children

I look around and ask “who scribbled on my page?” I spy a tiny child with jelly on her chin. She looks like she could cry and I can’t help but grin At two years old she’s already got Her mother’s love of pen Over to the bookshelf I take her tiny self Pulling out a notebook I offer her some help. There’s still jelly on her pencil and jelly on her face, dishes in the sink and toys all over the place. To the dust bunnies in my house I say: You’ll live another day! My baby girl wants to write, so your battle I’ll not fight. I have better things to do on this most beautiful night; For there are scribbles on my page, you see, and they did not come from me.


Willowing - Red


Hyla Levy - Bloor Subway Station



Like Trees In November Trisha turned, her coat snagged on the pram and she tried to pull herself free. Luckily the man from next door was close by to offer her a helping hand. Perhaps too kindly; his hands were too brisk and his breath was too close but she brushed it off and thanked him profusely. Lately she had been getting herself caught on things, tripping on things and dropping things. As if she was losing her perception of space. She studied the man with an intensity as he bid her a ‘no worries’ and went to leave. Firstly he checked the pram, then he smiled weakly before moving away at pace. Edward Garvin - Self-Similar Form

L.A. Temple


Typical man! Sees the pram, scary reality bites and he’s off. Doesn’t even like to be around the idea of something serious and requiring commitment, let alone be in the psychical company of such a thing. She tuts and flattens her coat arm. A spindly thread remains loose but she left it for the time being and continued towards the shop. In the shop, the list is as follows, give or take a few reduced items or irresistible offers; toilet roll, talcum powder, baby food (pureed apple, carrots >>


>> and sweetcorn, creamy rice breakfast, veggie bake), orange juice, two pizzas, garlic bread, milk, nappies (12 pack this week – half price!), a loaf of bread, a bag of salad and two tins of baked beans. Only so much she can fit under the pram. Bags over the handle and shoved underneath, making the pram a packhorse. Outside the shop she ran into a friend of her mother’s. A dreadful woman, all ‘Trisha, darlliing, how are you managing?’, a woman full of opinions and questions and bile. The rigmarole lasted some time before she managed to shake the haughty hen away, nodding at the pram and making excuses. The woman looked at the pram for a moment, and then she attempted a face of pity and sympathy. It came out as patronising and belittling. She left in a flurry of ‘lovely to see you again’s. Trisha continued home, remembering the faces of all those who had been around her recently; friends, companions, family and strangers. She was reminded of a description she once read, in a book she had >> >> otherwise forgotten, of faces looking like ‘trees in November’. It seemed to suit these people, faces grey and drawn, haggard and strained; seemingly for her. She had not a clue why. She walked briskly on and in the pram nothing stirred. It simply bounced along the pavement, as empty as the promises of a politician. It had been that way for a few months now. She remembered being two days late and full of life. She remembered being two months early and full of pain. No one else spoke to her for the rest of the journey, and she stopped only when her coat snagged on the gateway that led up to her empty home.   


ManDartin - Dust Storm


Unfinished. When I first met him there was no trace of love. He scared me. I don’t know why, I didn’t even know him. But he put the fear of life into my heart. For some reason he decided that he wanted me and the more he chased me the more I ran. That day he grabbed my wrist, I thought he was going to hurt me... He had a firm grip but he wasn’t hurting my arm. He turned me towards him and kissed me, just once on the lips and my outside shell of fright melted away. From then all I had felt was this immense, intense love. I had been in love before but this was flawless. It was as if we were one soul split into two bodies, seamless. We spent three thrilling weeks together without leaving each unservicable.prophet

Snake Man



other’s side. We lay in bed watching films, eating, having sex and doing nothing else. Sometimes I was so happy I would start crying inexplicably and he would hold my face in his hands and gently kiss my lips, the way he had the first time that had turned my fear into love. It hadn’t occurred to me to wonder why he hadn’t been at work, or even what he did. Maybe I assumed he was a student like me. One day Robert rang and spoke to him on the phone for a long time. I didn’t wonder how Robert knew him either, but Robert was my friend. I hadn’t introduced him to anyone yet. He hung up the phone and explained to me he was in danger. That some people wanted to hurt him and that normally he would have run but they knew who I was and were threatening to hurt me as well. He said that he had to confront them to keep me safe. I begged him to stay; I said we could run together, I could finish my degree somewhere else. He shook his head and smiled. How could he be so calm? My whole body began to panic,

my heart and my stomach hurt and my brain was shouting at me to stop him! I frantically started searching in my drawers for the right clothes to wear. I wasn’t going to let him go alone. Where were my shoes? I took his hand and walked downstairs, walked round the house looking for my shoes, still holding his hand. I wasn’t going to let him out of my sight; I knew he’d go without me if he got the chance. We walked back upstairs and he lay down on the bed. We have some time, he said. Come lie down, have a sleep. I lay down beside him, fully dressed and put my face on his chest. He put his big arms around me and held me. I fought and fought to stay awake. I knew if I fell asleep he’d use the chance to go on his own. I woke up on my own. And panic set in. The same sick feeling of dread, my heart and stomach hurt again. I rang Robert, “Where is he Rob? I don’t care, tell me now dammit. Where is he?!” I put down the phone and ran. I ran and ran. My feet were pounding and my stomach was excruciating but I kept running.


Gobblynne Animation - Flutter (


Jessica Dennison I settle a custard white canvas onto my easel. I stare at it a moment as if challenging it. Then I look down at twenty-four bottles of acrylic paint. I pop open a brand new bottle of white and pour it onto a paper plate. Then I reach for black. Next to come red, Tuscan, chocolate brown, forest green, pumpkin orange, lemon yellow, purple, sunshine yellow, and more. The globs are so shiny and perfect I never want to touch a brush to them. Like a birthday cake too pretty to eat, but you do anyway. I grab a large brush from the cup of water and take a breath.

TAKS entry

My hand is moving quickly now, streaking robin’s egg blue in the center of the page. I highlight this with wisps of true blue. I’m in a state of pure control. Like a trance. When you think so hard you leave your body. My brothers love to wave their hands in front of my face and break my concentration. Not this time though. I’ve locked myself in my room. I add another layer of green above the blues. Then a layer of sky blue and white above that.

I carefully pick a smaller brush and paint in trees and bushes. Then I add grass, moss, flowers, and stones. I I am ready now. There is an image in my head. The dip into the black and white to shade all these objects. brush grazes the white and takes on its luster. I spread I play around with lights and darks until its perfect. For it along the bottom of the page. I dip again. My arm days I add details and touch up the edges. runs smoothly along the canvas like when you lay down              in a swimming pool with out any interruptions. Now I Finally I feel satisfied. I look at it for a moment as if touch the grass green and layer on the white. The surrendering. But there are two more things I must do. I canvas takes the color from the brush and holds it smoosh a sponge into pure white. When I dab the tightly. I look down at my favorite color, forest green, canvas it creates Texas inspired clouds on the sky. Now now in the form of a shining island of color. I timidly put for the moment that concludes everything. Slowly, in my brush in and add dimension to the ground. It’s a black paint with a writers tip brush, I initial the bottom start. and it is magnificent.


Ant Smith - Pinhole Clock




She sits, a mistress of darkest black, within a distant star, perhaps, or as a cloud of reddish dust. Pulled by forces unknown to her, destroyed by unknown means, somewhere so very unknown to me. How I miss her. I pray, (not so much to god or devil), but more to pure chance, that one day I return to her, I wish to savour her warm embrace. God, I miss her. I was part of her, and she was part of me, I hoped so much that we were meant to be, I don’t know what happened, or why we fell apart, But I know that between us, all that beats is my heart. Instead she waits, anywhere, everywhere, For something I can’t comprehend, Perhaps for me, for me. Christ! I miss her. I’ll return to her one day, If my end is not in some other place, Fortune alone will bring me back to her, I’ve all the time till the Universe ends. I’ll find her. Fuck! Fuck...I miss her. Shes quite close, but very far. She sits inside a perfect star, Perhaps for her, there’s someone else, Perhaps to her, I’m just myself. I miss her.

a social network for artists, writers and musicians to share their work and collaborate.

Live each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each.

Mis-BUG - Peppers

Henry David Thoreau

Tailspin is copyright of All work herein is copyright of the respective tailcast members. Commercial use, publication or syndication without consent is prohibited.

Tailspin November 2008  

Creations from the members of A social network for artists, writers and musicians to share their work and collaborate.

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