Lucy Rolph - Guitar Girl 3
Welcome to the summer edition of tailspin, the magazine of tailcast.com Thanks to everybody for contributing and sticking with us.â€™
Daniel Spees - Pedestrian Comics 11
Contents 3. 7. 10. 15. 17. 20. 23. 25. 28. 30. 34. 36. 39. 42. 45. 46. 48. 53. 55. 57. 61. 62. 64. 66. 68. Back
hejtejp - stadsfesten
Introduction William Reid - Forecast Marie Fullerton - The Room Of My Life Kennet - I Took A Life Today Internet Zombie Movie Crazydiamond - Alone In A Crowd KJShady03 - Real Gerry - Teenage Dilemmas Part 1 Penitent - Adam & Eve Carolina - Poem In Progress Velvetlungs - Highschool Juniperlillie - First Day Of Summer Poetry - Haikus Steve - This Day Behold ManDartin - A Few More Rosie Short - What The Hell Crazy Lady... Daniel Grosvenor - Outer Eden Chapter 1 - The Bust I Fear They Know Too Much - Eggs Milas - Moonlight Wanderlust Emmana - A Tale Of Connections The Colclough - It Was For My Tomorrow Taymaz Valley - The End Is In Sight David Barron - Will I Find Contentment? What Is The Purpose Of Art? L.A Temple - The Comma Man Hyla Levy - One Perfect Day
Emmana - Sky Train Shakeup
William Reid Forecast
The other day I was watching the clouds go by And I realized that Itâ€™s not so much as the clouds that are moving But us. Constantly we go about our lives, Meaningless as they may seem, Never stopping to take a pause And see the destruction we have caused. Whether it be accidental, Mostly out of hate, We find ourselves as a race Fulfilling our deathly fate. And whoâ€™s to say what is true And what are blatant lies? When the answers always reveal themselves As the clouds go by.
Klarabella - Invironment
Marie Fullerton The Room Of My Life
It’s not about desire, that insatiable hunger. It’s your presence in the room of my life. It’s not just about lust, physical depths of closeness. It’s your presence in my bed, quietly sleeping. It’s not about hope, that window to the future. It’s your presence in my dreams, silently smiling. It’s not about sadness, opposer of joy. It’s your presence in my soul, warmly comforting. It’s not just about lonliness in empty places. It’s your presence beside me giving me strength. It’s not about anything that might scare you away. It’s just your presence I ask for, in the room of my life.
Chris B ‘Crispy’ - I Dig Love
Victor Lawrence - Blues
artist name and details to go here
Kennet I Took A Life Today
Maybe I should feel a little bit bad But I do admit that I feel quite glad Maybe some little amount of shame After all, I was to blame If the pigeon hit my car, or if I hit the bird I don’t know, just a big bang I heard The feathers were all around me, I was inside a cloud I couldn’t really help it, to feel a little proud I didn’t really mean to, there was no way of stopping Now this one had for sure, let go his final dropping Can anybody tell me, can someone tell me how A medium size pigeon, can shit just like a cow I can clean the shit from other birds, and even sing a song But when you need a shovel, there’s something badly wrong They sit in the tree above my car, and unload like an elephant I can’t help asking if their existance, is really relevant Another question I think of too Do they maybe consist of poo Their brains couldn’t possibly, be much more than a fart Their intelligence would make a dead jackass seem smart When they fly, they must flap that their wings go “click, click” When they stop for a second, they fall like a brick They wake me with sounds that make me freeze I have to think of some throat disease They are just to much...you feel like surrounded Today, hooray...I had one of them grounded
Taymaz Valley - Feeding The Birds
The Internet Zombie Movie (IZM) is a zombie movie that will be created by people all around the world via the internet. Anyone can be involved. Be it as an actor, makeup artist, writer, part of the film crews, editor, or even a part of the huge zombie extras scenes, to be filmed around the globe. -basically, if you wanna help, you probably can.
Wirrow - Bloodss
Kelly Parra - Witch Doctors, Spacemen and Zombies!
Crazydiamond Alone In A Crowd
Inner Turmoil all around comes distant sound though itâ€™s close to me liquid flows through rubber hose churning like the sea cascading down tumbler bound to fulfill the company music plays and bodies sway in perfect harmony voices clash and cut a dash across the big marquee laughter trips from the lips of all at this party except for one who spurned the fun to be alone you see amid the hustle and the bustle he was lonely as can be for inside he could easily hide his inner complexities how he longed amidst the throng to be at one with these but anxiety panics ever manic would never set him free...
Therese - Andre
Mis-Bug - Closed in the Shadows
I once danced under the stars, I was over powered by the illusions of love, it was a beatiful time then, I knew not of the hardships of relationships, nor did i properly caterglorize the evilness of men, those days are missed but i had to move forward, I was killing myself and i didnâ€™t know it, I was living in an unrealistic world, but if it was here for a period of time was it not real for the moment? what is real to us, is real an emotion or some physical absolute, evan says itâ€™s both and that i cannot pick just one, his words make sense, but does the concept of reality only cover living things? perception and interpertation for each individual is different, yet still there is only one absolute, and do we know this absolute? well, all i know for sure is that i once danced under the stars with another, but know i skip along through the trees and every now and then i find an open patch within the canopies, and through that space I can view the stars, it seems to be good enough for the moment.
artist name and details to go here
Greenlife7 - Trespassing
Gerry Teenage Dilemmas Part One
(The boys might remember and I hope the girl’s will smile) On the art on unclipping a bra I can’t get my head around it for there must be an easier way of getting your hand on a tit I’ve pulled it I’ve tugged it I’ve yanked it I’ve cursed it and dammed it to hell but the more my fingers twiddle inexperience is bound to tell who invented this crazy contraption the guy who built fort knox for even houdini would struggle to unravel these playtex locks so I went home to practise on mothers well of coarse without her blessing but my father walked in the room and know he thinks I’m cross dressing OH! I pray for devine intervention before this ends in tears if only I’d used intuition I’d have brought along some shears for I’m fed up of all my friends boasting that they have handled the pups so could someone please share their wisdom how the hell de yee get into these cups
Dameon Priestly - Drawing 11
Penitent Adam and Eve
Perpetual life embodies a single man, who walks through earth unchanged by time. His steps have graced the desert sands that became a sea of rolling green, a mark was left by him on most ancient tree, that sheltered him at noon, he walked the slope that ash and fire engulfed, destroying all besides he. Eternal existance perfects a single woman, unfettered by passing years. Her gentle footfalls have cushioned life in lands untouched by age, a part of herself was left at the foot of a cliff, slowly swallowed by the sea, she embraced the soft earth which harboured life of different kinds. Both are cursed to live forever outside the garden, and neither can stand the otherâ€™s company.
Klarabella - Fluffy Flower
Carolina Poem In Progress
I don’t imagine the warmth of our cheeks glued together as you push me firmly into the morning, sunset and midnight sun I don’t imagine your touch my body pressed against yours I don’t imagine our arms intertwined searching for pleasure My eyes don’t cry for you my love I am lost in deep desire I can’t set my heart to hear Don’t try to make it listen I won’t leave my world for you I’ll never be yours forever
Willhardi - Roug
Rhianna Everett - Backyard
I wrote the damn note just in case I didnít wake up. It was all aesthetic, the drinking, smoking, the music, and oh, those terrible pills; those tiny, engraved, colorful pills. They didn’t mean shit. They would only possibly make my stomach bleed at the worst. But the drunken note, that was blurry desperation in its essence. Only six hours earlier, I wouldn’t have dreamed of writing my first suicide note; it was a vacant, vanilla day. I made phone calls here and there, I checked my email many times, but that sweet digital ring of my cell phone never tolled this night. Not once. I was unsurprisingly alone. It’s every morning at 6:23, when I feel the warm press of an unorthodox angel singing me back to sleep despite the alarm. In my dreams, I am ushered in by a thousand colors and the ghosts of friends Iíve never met. But instead, I proceed to my daily baptism of steam and suds and then on with the stained oxford blouse that Iíve been buttoning for years. I always arrive to school just on time. There, I smile politely, apply lip balm all day, give petty compliments, and struggle for small talk while my brain quietly pulses a giant middle finger to everyone I see. I am occasionally renewed by the kindness of strangers, but not here. I sing through the halls to the portraits of former students and trace the cold eggshell cinderblock with my fingertips. I often come home exhausted but walk straight to the nearest mirror. Sometimes it’s ‘you’re a piece of shit,’ and other times I pout my lips and raise my brows seductively. On those bright black nights when I should have been enjoying my company in the city, I fell in love with every dark-haired boy I met as he radiated passion and promise with his music taste and skinny wrists. It was a new pink tongue in my mouth, a warm hand on my fishnet thigh; he didnít know my legs werenít shaved and he would never know because I had a one o’clock curfew. I’d never see him again. Most nights spent in solitude, I would recall a night like this with lustful envy of myself in the past receiving such craved attention. But the night that note was written, I didn’t weep, just simply laid down wrapped lovingly in cotton sheets waiting for my low-swinging chariot. It would be the best way to find me in the morning. There was a martyr in my brain, a prophet drinking alone writing love songs to the world. But now she hangs from a tree, bleeding final drops of softened light onto the hardened, apathetic soil.
Velvetlungs - Bubbles
Juniperlillie First Day Of Summer
Why canâ€™t every day be I wish others saw it like me the first day of summer The smell of fresh cut lumber I hear this about Christmas No need for a test of litmus I hate those treacherous holidays Test the air in a sunlit gaze The cold, the snow, the whining The sun the breeze all signing The giving the getting the greed the flowers the trees nothing else to need
BelĂŠn*Cromeleque - Pawn! Summer Sunflower
hejtejp - stege
iie! - I fear they know too much.
Do you love Haiku’s? Are you listening to me? Yes. I love Haiku’s.
Paranoia - Chris Baker (Crispy)
In the still of night Even a tender rustle May sound like gunshot
Versus - Steffen K. Michele
Angel’s eyes roll high When they look upon the earth, And feel ostracized.
Demons - Hyla Levy
In the light of day, the demons do not appear, except in my mind.
Untitled - Josh Jarrett
WTF It should be changed so it means: Wow, That’s Fantastic.
Ben Spees - Portrait Of My Father
Berry Connel - UKNOPINK001
Steve This Day Behold
This day behold, my fortune told Body skinned, soul been sold Mistake was made, life did fade, and to the coffin I was laid. Youâ€™re now released, you human beast your body being now deceased And to the heavens I was thrown My flesh now not returning home
Steff - My Old Shed Studio
ManDartin - Campfire 4
ManDartin A Few More
A few more miles in these worn out shoes Through deserted neighborhood streets An Endless tonight of cool breeze stars Where longingâ€™s touch and concrete meet A couple more songs played at a hush Just chances to think it through Passing sidewalk blocks are just a crutch Which lead there and back yet nowhere too A handful of sighs which turn to frost Within the blue-gray sunrise chill They speak unheard words which say it all Drifting to wherever such things will
Rosemarie Short What The Hell Crazy Lady...
Hello all you faithful readers of my irregular, occasionally funny, often bonkers blog. So, I go back to my old school to teach. Yes, laugh if you wish for my guillibleness at going back and teaching (at the moment) for free, but as you all know, I need to do things, or boredom overcoms me and I do something stupid, crazy, or more often than not, both. I teach anti-racism, which involves plantocratic racism. I have to explain why monkey chanting is pointless as monkey’s characteristics (white skin, straight, abundant bodily hair, thin lips) are all common characteristics of white Europeans. As you can imagine, it’s hard to be diplomatic and not end up meaning “Go call whie people monkey’s kids” indvertantly in their minds. I taught my lesson, and then asked for questions. Silence. Silence thick enough to cut through with a carving knife. Hell, I doubt even excalibur could cut through this awkward silence. Then, slowly a small child raised his hand. smiled with relief. “Yes?” I asked, in my least child-catcher from Chitty Chity Bang Bang voice. He frowned a moment, and then said, “What the hell crazy lady? Youre psycho you are.” Count to ten and breathe, count to ten and breathe, count to ten and breathe......... “What was that?” I asked, in a dangerous voice, feeing sarcasm gene coming out to play. “You don’t know nothing lady, you aint got a clue bout it, you’m just tryin to influ......influence us.” He seemed proud of his big word, and his class mates looked on admiringly. That did it.
Jen Rodgers - Lonely
I walked over and told him to get up. “Go to the front and teach the class about the conditions in the plantations and about slave trading” I said, taking his seat. He looked at me smirkingly. Usually, if the kids said, “Can’t miss.” They were allowed to sit down again. He said it. I looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Do I look like I care?” I asked. He stood at the front for fifteen minutes trying to read my notes and failing. I remembered why I hate kids and never want any. So, the moral to this story children is this. If you think you know more than me about a lesson I’ve been teaching for two years, think again. I’ve got sweets, and I will entice you into a cage. Over and Out Rosie xx
Kosmet - Efter regn kommer asol
Daniel Grosvenor Outer Eden Chapter 1- The Bust BORDER CONTROL OUTSKIRTS OF HEAVEN The cart slowed to a halt and a round, slightly wrinkled head poked curiously out of the driver’s window. “Purpose?” mumbled the robed figure who had stopped the cart, his nose buried deep in a clipboard. “Donkeys,” came the reply. “In a cart?” the man asked - more out of curiosity than suspicion. “Well... they’re small donkeys.” The man shrugged and ticked the appropriate box. “Standard or sacred?” A blank look fell across the driver’s face. The man looked up briefly and met his puzzled gaze, then rolled his eyes and lowered the clipboard. “Crosses. You know, lines going up and across their backs, sign that they’re divine property and all that?” After a further reply of silence, his eyes narrowed slightly. “You did check them for crosses, didn’t you?” The driver’s blank expression turned quickly into that of dread, and one couldn’t help but notice his eyebrows advancing rapidly toward his receding hair line. The robed man sighed loudly and threw down the clipboard. “Fine!” he grumbled, marching irately toward the back of the cart, “don’t get up, I’ve only got a million and one things to do tonight, but don’t you worry - I can always find time to check if a few donkeys have some glaringly obvious...” “Uncrossed!” “What?” “Th-they’re the n-normal ones. I-I checked them yesterday... they’re regular. No crosses.” The robed man’s heavy breathing returned to normal. He turned around to look the driver in the eye. “That was awfully honest of you. Are you new here?” and added as an afterthought, “You seem awfully nervous.” The driver offered a weak smile and nodded, embarrassed. “First day in Heaven.” “Ah, you’ll soon get used to it. I’m Brother Jonathan: Border Control. Just sign here, please - there’s a twelve percent tariff on unbranded cattle, I’m afraid. Hence why most people lie about it. Bless you.” “Bless you, too, Brother,” the driver replied nervously.
49. “Oh, please - we haven’t talked like that up here since the Dark Ages. I just said that because you sneezed.” “I didn’t snee-... oh, I-I mean, thank you. I’ll be on my way then, shall I?” Jonathan’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What did you say?” “That I... I’ll be on my way?” He began to quiver. “If there’s nothing else to-” “You said you didn’t sneeze.” “Did I? Well, it was probably one of the donkeys. I wouldn’t worry about it.” “Sir,” began Jonathan firmly, lowering the clipboard, “the only animals allowed to sneeze within the Heavenly Borders are kittens. God declared all other sneezing creatures ‘annoying’ millennia ago. So unless you’re carrying a consignment of kittens with especially gruff voices back there, I suggest you tell me what you’re really doing here.” The now-very-worried-indeed man resumed his silent stance and fumbled with the reins, weighing up his chances and wondering if it was worth making a break for it. Jonathan had anticipated this and, with a click of his fingers, summoned two mean-looking cherubs from behind a cloud. They were clutching spears and, despite their size and baby-like features, looked fully able to kill a man. “You were saying?” “Maybe one of them sneezed!?” he cried defensively, and watched uneasily as they flew higher until their spear tips were level with his jugular, possibly in response to the accusation. “I’m not sure you fully understand the way Heaven works, Mister...?” “Opey.” “...Misss-ter Opey,” Jonathan found that placing emphasis on scary-sounding letters was a good way of frightening people who got cocky with him, “there is no dust, disease or excess ground black pepper in Heaven. There is no asthma and no such thing as a ‘cold’. One cannot hiccup, cough, belch or otherwise perform any vulgar and mundane bodily function unless they explicitly desire to do so, and even then only with written permission from an archangel. Atop of that, we’ve already established that God is not a fan of sneezing. Now, they relieve the deceased of these ailments and abilities at the Pearly Gates, and while delivery drivers may be exempt from this rule as they’re not quite dead yet, rest assured that right now you are the only being on this entire plane of existence capable of sneezing. That is, of course, unless there’s something you’re not telling us?” The ‘gulp’ Mr Opey emitted in response to the question could probably have been heard on Earth. Jonathan leaned in close to the petrified driver. He raised his wings to look even more intimidating. Mr Opey cowered. “You’re smuggling sinners, aren’t you?” he asked, through a wicked smile. At the mention of the word, the cherubs darted around the back of the cart and - with frightening strength - tore open the locked doors to reveal a small crowd of humans seated on a blanket of straw, wedged shoulder-to-shoulder and doing their very best to look invisible. “We’re not sinners!” one of them cried, ruining their disguise. “Well... he is,” an old man declared, pointing at a middle-aged barrister huddled in the far corner. “And he’s the one who sneezed.”
50. “Oh, come on, Guv - they’re not bad people.” Having had his cover blown, the driver was obviously done with niceties, reverting instead to good, old-fashioned blagging. “How would you like to be in their shoes? Doomed to an eternity of sharp, fiery things just fer committing a few necessary sins - hardly seems fair, does it? They didn’t go around drowning puppies or shooting nuns, y’know; they’re victims of circumstance. Think about it. You have to sin to get ahead in life these days, and God wants ‘em to make the most of their life, don’t He?” “I am fully aware of the travesty of justice that is the admissions system, Mr Opey, but unfortunately that does not change the fact that you have illegally smuggled humans - sinners or not - through the Pearly Gates without proper decontamination and are now attempting to bring them into the city. They’re infectious. And don’t you think a lawyer’s going to stick out like a sore thumb up here?” Mr Opey beckoned his interrogator forward, so as to be out of earshot of the cherubs (who pointed their spears threateningly at their new captives, awaiting further orders). “Look, you’re an angel: you know who’s done what in life; you know these guys are decent. A bit of premarital and adultery, a few lies - mostly about that - couple of divorcees, maybe the odd blasphemous comment when they banged their toe or something. Don’t you know what it’s like down there? Teenage pregnancies, terrorism, fashion magazines: the world’s in a right pickle. Are we supposed to just abandon all these people that get caught up in it? I mean, if God’s really got a problem with the way people are turning out, why doesn’t He just go down there and fix it? Seems a more loving option than leaving it to the dogs then punishing people when they turn out less than angelic.” Jonathan gave a quick glance toward the cherubs, who were still glaring ungracefully at the terrified sinners. He lowered his voice. “It’s not that I’m unsympathetic to the cause. But why do you think my job was created? You think, given the choice between eternal bliss and eternal suffering, anyone’s just gonna waltz down there and yell, ‘Cheerio, happiness. It was great knowing you’?” he scoffed. “Half the people up here are sinners (though they’ll never admit it) - this place is only walled with clouds for Heaven’s sake! In the past we’ve had people sneaking up here in balloons, wafting under the Pearly Gates, even dressing up in cotton wool, pretending to be clouds - I’ve seen it all. We’ve had all the clouds lined with silver motion sensors for the past few decades, but there are ways around them if you know what you’re doing.” He sighed. “Things just aren’t what they used to be.” “Don’t they throw them out?” asked the driver, notably more relaxed and inquisitive now. “Hah! They don’t claim asylum up here, buddy: they claim SANCTUARY. You ever tried using the grace of God to deport someone protected by the grace of God, while in the kingdom of God? The whole thing’s a bloody shambles! Kicking them out would be a sin, so the whole fiasco’s just swept under the rug. But the bottom line is: we don’t have the capacity anymore. A few thousand more and that’s it: Heaven’s full.” The impact of the final sentence actually sent a shiver through the mortal man. The finality of the word ‘full’. He thought perhaps he should hurry up and die before tickets went. “How long will it be?” he asked, both curious and fearful. “By traditional rules: centuries. The entry requirements for Heaven used to be pretty damn hard: praying at the precise moment of death, facing a particular direction, lived a life of unquestioning devotion to whichever deity you think to be the ‘right’ one, wearing a certain type of hat... ‘course, it’s all different now. In the last fifty years only eight people managed to get in the official way. I said they should leave the system as it was but, of course, someone had to decide that it was damaging the economy having such tight regulations, so the spectrum was broadened to include not only “all believers who don’t kill people”, but all people who are “very nice” and gives the possibility of appeal for the “quite nice”. There’s even talk of letting creationists in! Bloody liberals. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s great seeing more people allowed in. But that, coupled with sinner trafficking, is what’s bringing this population problem rapidly into crisis level. I think that’s the reason God’s letting the world go to Hell - it’s the place with all the room! Poor planning on our part, there - banish Lucifer to the place with unlimited space and resources and not realise till it’s a few thousand years too late. It’d be embarrassing if we swapped now. I doubt he’d swap, anyway - I hear he’s making a fortune mining that stuff. Helps that all the right ‘contacts’ are already down there, I guess.” Jonathan momentarily shut up to draw breath. “Sounds pretty bad,” the driver offered, hoping the rant would go on so long Jonathan might forget to arrest him.
“Thank God the war happened, is all I can say. Can you imagine the rut we’d be in otherwise? If Heaven were just some free-for-all with all sorts coming in as they please? Not to mention all those ‘activists’ like Pruflas and Mephistopheles cavorting all over the place with their unions and good-for-nothing takes on philosophy.” He adjusted his halo, which had come loose from all his fuming. “Let’s face it: original sin saved us a lot of problems. And I’m glad it happened when it did - can you IMAGINE if Nietzsche got up here!?” While coughing was not permitted in Heaven, one of the cherubs still did his very best to imitate one in the hope of reminding Jonathan he had a job to be getting on with. “Sorry, sorry, I get quite worked up about immigration,” he told the man who was just glad he’d managed to spend the past half-hour caught red-handed, yet had so far avoided arrest. “Well, it’s a noble cause to get worked up about. It shows you have compassion.” Mr Opey had finally chosen his words wisely. “Really? You think so? Well I’m glad someone agrees - I write a column about this, you know. It normally gets vetoed by one department or another, but I tell you, I’ve worked out the figures: if there was some sudden influx of faith on Earth - some world-uniting miracle or something - Heaven would literally explode. That’s specifically why Jesus hasn’t gone back down yet...” The cherub gave another ventriloquist’s cough. “Say, um...” Mr Opey thought it was worth a shot, “seeing as there’s still some room up here, and you make the place sound as if it’s pretty doomed regardless, I don’t suppose we could find some room for these poor souls back here? It’s just that they’re awful cold and I’m sure they’d love to see Heaven before it, y’know, explodes.” Jonathan just shrugged dejectedly and said, “Hell, why not. It’s not as if anyone up here cares what I do anyway. Just keep them out of the city - especially that lawyer - you don’t want to attract attention.” Mr Opey looked understandably stunned that that had actually worked. He hesitated a moment to check it wasn’t a trick, then galloped the cart away with immense speed. Jonathan watched it leave and felt the angry eyes of the cherubs burning into the back of his neck. Although he’d never admit it, that wasn’t the first time he’d allowed sinners into Heaven. The key weakness to all angels is that they can never resist doing a good deed if the opportunity presents itself. Surveying the Heavenly Planes, which stretched farther than even an angel’s eye could see, he prayed. Heaven is a big place, he thought to himself. Although, he feared - watching the bustle of countless millions in the city below - maybe not big enough.
I Fear They Know Too Much Eggs
Seconds seep like silken eggs Beneath the wicker base. The villi of the hands Giving impermeable chase. The passion of forgotten nights Follow wasted days, Caught in the bitter albumen Of unabridged malaise. Seconds seep like silt and sand, Through years of broken stone. Sentiment in sediment On the bed of life alone.
Willhardi - Oma 2
Milas Moonlight Wanderlust
Your back is a newly fallen snow, light and smooth Cascading from the curve of your neck Below the lush foliage of your silken mane By light of moon I make first tracks along the full length of you Taking in the fresh fragrance of your skin The steady cadence of your breath, my true companion My diligence is rewarded as the moon reveals the faultless arch of your back This valley is the starting point that leads to all your treasures A fortune in itself, I linger to plant kisses along its elegant landscape Soon I will move from this glorious resting place and I must decide my course Shall I turn back in hopes that your angelic face will greet me in the morning light? Or do I survey the hills that rise before me, into lands yet undiscovered?
Fernella Dragonfly - Moon Behind Tree
Becca Thorne - Oliviaâ€™s Birds
Emmana A Tale Of Connections
He is new to a city unaccustomed to vast urban sprawl. So I invite him to the river for an early nature walk. Young man and a woman of late middle years On a shady fragrant trail share reflections and ideas. Birds sing, leaves rustle, sparkling water washes onto the shore. Impulsively, I reach out and touch his arm to illustrate a point. “Wow!” he exclaims, “Your hand is so soft! Why is it so soft?” he asks. Having never pondered this aspect of self I was unable to provide him an answer. Several seconds passed and his eyes shone with wonder as he said, “Your hands must be so soft from touching all those flowers!” I smiled at this thought. He is a parolee in the half-way house across from our wildly colourful garden. Often the men sit on their spacious veranda and see me tend to the flowers. Today, as I crouched amongst the brilliant blossoms, he approached me with Happy young face shining bright in the sun, to joyfully inform me that He is to see his family again...for the first time in a long, long while. His joy touched my heart. I said, “Your words at the river were some of the most beautiful ever given to me. Would you mind if I put them in a poem some day?” “I don’t mind.” He said. “It’s nice to know they will be used and not just fade away.” “Do you know you have a poetic mind to speak as you do?” I offered to him. He smiled at this thought. It occurred to me that connection ‘tween peoples need not be complex, We just need openness with thoughts and perceptions simply expressed. New Westminster BC July 19, 2008
Victor Lawrence - Skyfire
Fia - Aerial Leaf
Matt Colclough It Was For My Tomorrow
A small museum, An old exhibit behind glass: That mutilated wreck used to be a Spitfire. Its crew survived, but how many others Fell on the cold altar of war, of human pride. They were like me Young men, with hopes and dreams, Seeking their place in the world. Instead, they were given places in history. Churchill spoke well: “Never, in the field of human conflict, Was so much owed by so many To so few.” They gave their present time on earth Green England’s future peace to seal. My little life was bought with theirs: With blood, and fire, and twisted steel. “Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori” Whether or not they believed that ld lie I cannot claim to know. But this much I can say: It was for my tomorrow They gave their today.
Taymaz Valley The End Is In Sight
I’m a decomposing apple, Laid waste in the bowl of life; Decaying from within, Gradually ceasing to exist. I’m a plucked poppy, Helplessly abandoned on the pavement, Under death’s spell, Perpetually rotting away. I’m a falling leaf, Yellowed at the hand of time, Swirling amidst the wind of cruelty Heading to the depth of solitude. I’m a smoke of madness, Inevitably dissolving In humanity’s chilling destiny, Heading for my undecided fate. I shall not ask for forgiveness, Nor shall I forgive. I am one with the universe, Yet never was treated as such. So when you come back, Make sure to be prepared. Bring a candle lit, As it’s dark here within my memory.
Oliver Banks - Old Tree
David Barron Will I ďŹ nd Contentment?
Do I look up to see what I can one day be? Or do I stand and see the thing I can never see, This wanting hurting wishing thing that craves my life away, That works its torpid stupor on my head every day. Do I wish to be that something in a dream? The cat with the Cheshire grin, the one who licked the cream, This never ending gnawing which niggles day and night, That tells this poor forlorn soul that something just isnĂt right. Do I see a bright tomorrow, in the clouds of yesterday? Or do I sit and wish and dream, see hopes all going astray, Can I not be content with what I have upon my plate? Or must I this life muddle through reliant on my fate. Do I wallow in this field of self doubt? Where all is wet and weary, head knocked with the clout, Is there not a place where we go, contentment settles in? Or am I wasting a normal life, and throwing memories in the bin.
Robyn - Feed the Birds
What is the purpose of art?
Hi all, I really liked the discussion about what makes us human so thought we could try another one. Look forward to reading your answers below :) ____________________________________________________ Art stimulates your senses. If your senses are stimulated you feel happy. If you feel happy, your mental and physical functions are improved to an optimal level. If your mental and physical power is on top, you can work and perform better. No matter what you do for a living, if you believe it or not.....we are all working together for one single reason. If you could take a giant step out from this world, and study mankind from a global perspective, you would learn that the human being, just like any other fellow species, actually lives, works and fights for one single and ultimate reason only. This reason which is “The Highest Purpose”, is nothing more, and nothing less, than the struggle to maintain our existence for ever, no matter what it takes... “Art makes us live for ever” Kennet _______________________________________________________ Well, I couldn’t be more with Kennet on this question, which has been much on my mind of late anyway. A dear old friend, the painter, Raymond Obermayr, and a lot of others with whom I was recently united during a visit to the US. Ray insisted that I read “Homo Aestheticus”, by Ellen Dissanayake. He is a longtime mentor, and I do what he tells me. Ellen’s book, and the personal statements of those artists I mentioned, while each expresses it in a highly personal way, all seem to agree on the essential character of the art-making behavior. So the question “What is the purpose of art?” (the title of Ellen’s first book is “What is art for?”) is also essential. Rosalie Sorrels claims that her great purpose in writing and singing is to satisfy the need to do so. I wish I could provide the source of my favorite story about art, in which a child (maybe one of Kennet’s?), upon learning the answer to his question, “What do you do at work, Daddy?” is “I teach grownups how to draw.”, with genuine incredulity exclaims, “You mean they forget!”. It’s no coincidence that, in tandem with Ellen’s book, I am reading Richard Dawkins path-breaking work on genetic evolution, “The Selfish Gene”. I am becoming more and more intrigued by a notion that, along with specific physiological specifications for elemental aspects of organisms, is also imparted something that amounts to the germ of that need that Rosalie cites. After all, what is more exemplary of the nature of art than the Art of Nature, as exemplified not only by millions of individual species of life forms, but each one genetically unique? I am beginning to think that the purpose of art is to ensure the continued existence of matter in the universe, from the neutrino to the galaxy. Perhaps it is the same impulse in humans to “make special” that Ellen says is at the heart of the artistic impulse, that causes certain subatomic particles to defy Newton’s law of motion, becoming self-excited to the point that it causes itself to move. Jack Large ________________________________________________________ Chris B ... “Crispy” - exp.3
Personalmente, necesito el arte para poner orden en mi caos (y necesito el caos para crear) Con mis obras me recuerdo, y espero que a los dem·s tambiÈn, nuestra capacidad de soÒar. Menchulica ___________________________________________________________ Can there only be one purpose? Communication or expression? I think art is a conversation. This, I believe combines the two; and a conversation can simply be between you and your canvas, or between you and yourself. This is off the top of my head, so it may change within the hour, but for now, I’m happy with it. The alternative is that art is a multifaceted way (joy, sorrow; the joining of hands or the swaying of minds... ) of passing time until we die. :-( Hyla Levy _____________________________________________________________ To me, art (inc. music) is initially pure expression of self (feelings, personality, thoughts..), and when its shared with others it becomes a way of connecting and becoming part of a whole. Chris B...”Crispy” __________________________________________________________ I have been thinking about this a lot lately; as well as, “What is art?” Right now I am thinking that art is the one thing that lasts. People tend to want to leave a mark of their existence in this world. What better way then through art? Whether it be painting, music, or writing, it does not matter. What we create lasts forever. Maybe not literally, but figuratively. Even if the actual piece ceases to exist, what the piece did for someone is still there. Arts purpose is about existence. At least that is what it is to me right now. That could all change next week. dunielle ___________________________________________________________ Art is my religion. It gives my life meaning and purpose, without asking me to believe in god or anything supernatural. When I am painting I am transported in the way other people describe feeling during prayer. When I stand before a great painting, like a Rembrandt or an Assael, I am filled with a transcendant awe. The desire and need to paint keeps me going in life, even when it is hard. To have all that without having to believe in spiritual or supernatural concepts which are unsupported by evidence is a wonderful thing for an atheist like me. ben spees ____________________________________________________________ Art is a replication of life. I’ve nothing more to add. <3 juniperlillie
L.A Temple The Comma Man
Fernella Dragonfly - Moon Behind Tree
OnE I am staring at the nurse and she is sticking a needle for the fourth - fifth - time into a poor old pruneís wrist bone. It feels like the sordid operation has been going on for some hours although it has probably only been a minute or so. I feel sorry for him. His name is Mr. Comptom, and as far as I am aware, he does not deserve this. It is making my eyes water and I am only sat watching this grim spectacle. He has algae-coloured veins spaghettied all over his muslin-skin but she seems to want marrow and not blood. His face looks like an apprehensive testicle. Silently he lies in the bed and grimaces and gets slowly paler and paler and it looks like he is actually waiting for the needle to snap. Or for his life to extinguish. I make a quip about getting blood from a bone. She ignores me. Bitch. What a bitch. I probably know more about medicine than she does. I know which way the heart rate monitor armband goes. That seems to perplex most of the staff in this dump. First it is put on inside out. Once this is rectified there comes a muttering and a thumping of the machine because it still does not want to work. She will then attempt to jump start it with her fist. Nine times out of ten the technician gets called. Nine times out of ten the plug lies idly on the floor next to the socket, missed by our torturer. Nine times of ten Iíve pointed this out to her. But I am always ignored. Bitch. The doctor comes over and raises a black spindly eyebrow. I forget his name but I remember his face. His face is not easy to forget. I hate to say it but the doctorís face is repulsive and unreal. It is the first thing about him that you notice. He has the kind of face that people look at and think that however bad life gets at least they do not look like that. It is sort of bloated with sticky-out ears and thin wispy hair covering his odd-shaped cranium. I think something dreadful every time I see him. I cannot help it. Every time I just think of an aborted foetus wearing a stethoscope and a white coat. There I said it. In our first meeting I was instantly prejudiced against him because he looked like most second-rate doctors. He looked shifty and ratty and untrustworthy. Like the kid at school who would grow up to live off benefits and cider. The kid who somehow got scurvy in the twenty-first century. He would also get some fat fifteen-year-old girl pregnant in the back seat of his car whilst showering her with sexually transmitted infections. In fact he is a nice guy. The nicest member of staff in this hole by a long way and not at all like that. He holds his eyebrow tight in place. “So our patient Mr. Comptom here had another relapse in the night?” The nurse nods in response. In the bed, unlucky Mr. Comptom just tries to minimise the pain in his wrist. I think he is going to piss himself. Blood has started to trickle down his arm, not where the needle has entered his skin, but from a previous stab wound. It is thin and watery and it looks to me like his heart has been pumping cranberry juice around his decrepit frame. No wonder he is ill. Alarm bells should ring when your blood has turned into fruit juice. One of the major organs should surely get their act together and deal with that.
I think he is in his late seventies. Skin thin like tracing paper and his body is all ribs and collar bones and liver spots and veins. The latter still blissfully free of punctures whilst his wrist begins to resemble a sieve. A patch on his head hides a graze that does not seem to be healing. Dry blood encircles the white gauze. Looking at that patch I get a feeling that starts in my jaw and travels southwards. He is weak and stupid and I develop a knot in my chest that is hard to explain. Feels like my bones are trying to escape from my body. The feeling does not shift and it makes me uncomfortable and disgusted and at the same time ashamed. Of course the wound is not his fault and he should not be blamed for it. The time it is taking to heal is not his fault either but such a blatant display of vulnerability is almost vulgar. I just begin to get nauseous when the doctor speaks to him and thankfully distracts my tangled mind. “Mr. Comptom?” The poor man nods lightly seemingly in the fear that a more energetic movement would cause his head to careen off his neck. “And how are we?” Another nod. The doctor beckons for more information but receives none. The nurse looks tired. There are heavy bags under her eyes and a general listlessness about her. Fatigue is common in this place. Even the light that streams through the window is flaccid and falls limply on the faded dÈcor. The room is all sixtiesí browns and oranges, and the window frame is wooden. The window itself is grimy. In general, the whole room looks like it has just exhaled. Except for the doctorís eyebrow, nothing is tight, everything is saggy and slack. There is no tautness to it. It is all so tired. The doctor looks tired also. His eyes are switched off. “Okay Nurse, once youíve done with that can you go and check on Mr. Arnold?” Yet another nod. It is as if nobody but the doctor knows how to use their vocal chords. Vibrate them for goodness sake. They all seem to suffer from a muting disease. Of course the doctor-patient relationship is an interesting thing. Perhaps the perfect job for power abusing. I once heard about a psychologist who convinced his patient to have sex with him because he told her that that would cure her mental woes. Pretty sure that does not go in this place. Though with that face of his it would be the only way this doctor would ever get laid. Through the manipulation of a mentalist. I forget. He is a nice guy really. And now he is walking away to leave Mr. Comptom in the hands of Nurse Barbarian. If I had to choose between blindness and sadism I would say she is inflicted with the latter. You can tell by her eyes that she is enjoying it.
Josh Jaratt - Eyes
Hyla Levy - one perfect day I want one perfect day Just one For I have never had a perfect day. I want one Just one So I may always hold hope that tomorrow can be perfect too.
James Thorne - Fence Tailspin is copyright of Tailcast. All work herein is copyright of the respective Tailcast members. Commercial use, publication or syndication without consent is prohibited.