lloviendo

a poem, some unedited rain, and a slice of plath

salamancastreets

i woke to the sound of rain
― sylvia plath, the bell jar

see me

the face

in the rain

see me

the fingers

on the pane

see me

before

i am

wiped

away


*one of a series of shots made in salamanca with my ancient olympus om10, with zuiko 50mm f/1.8 lens, and loaded with ilford xp2 super ISO 400 film*

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story

‘whispered something in your ear
it was a perverted thing to say
but I said it anyway
made you smile and look away’
– lyrics from ‘nothing’s gonna hurt you baby’, cigarettes after sex


once upon,
a time
each story
began

in gentle tones
no broken bones

later,
gingerbread,
blood red
tales of death
and terror

stalked my,
dreams

later, still
each story
began, in torchlight
and fright

what right,
had i

and now,
each story,
ends before,
it begins

as life,
unwinds


for wordpress weekly photo challenge – story
*image shot in salamanca, españa, with fujifilm x100f with 23mm (35mm fill frame equivalent) lens at ISO500, f/4 and 1/300s with added effects applied in analog efex pro 2*

serene

Death, therefore, the most awful of evils, is nothing to us, seeing that, when we are, death is not come, and, when death is come, we are not.
– Epicurus

we chase it
for eternity
yet, what do we lose

in our (endless)

chase
for, that
serene

(moment)

and
can
we find
it
before that
door

closes?


a dark slice of poetry for wordpress weekly photo challenge – Serene

*shot with fujifilm x100f with fixed 23mm (35mm full frame equivalent) lens at ISO1250, f/4 and 1/60s*

darker | side | thursday | 2

I gaze across at the trees.

Brittle branches blurred by the breeze, leaves coalescing into a swirling, suppurating soup in front of my aching eyes. You couldn’t make it up. Could you? Or maybe you could. Me, I don’t know. Don’t really know much right now.

I feel pressure in my eyes, darkness enveloping me. That old cliche. Gets them every single time. When I try to describe it to them. The feeling. Hell, I can barely describe it to myself. So how to them?

My fingers feel numb. My ever present and faithful companion (not the bumblebee this time), the pain in my back, ebbs. Hey, that’s good, don’t knock it. There has to be some positive side to all this. No? No, probably not. But I digress. I flow.

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darker | side | thursday | 1

My finger is red raw, bleeding. Distracting, debilitating.

The index finger, on my left hand.

The nail is torn, blood oozing from the tip and running in a slow, painful rivulet. A stinging, insolent, rude and raw pain. I want to peel the torn nail off slowly, feel the parting of flesh, the slicing agony. Need that. Want it.

My fist clenches. Fingers dig into the splintered wooden table top, slivers of fresh twisted wood piercing flesh, sliding under my nails.

I shift uneasily. That empty, roiling feeling inside me making me anxious, again. I can not sit still. Can not focus.

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out in the midday sun | 5

This is the latest in what was intended to be a weekly collection of essays themed as ‘out in the midday sun‘, which instead, has become a place for me (in or out of the sun, midday or otherwise) to write at random, and increasingly infrequent, intervals, on whichever subject seems worthy of note at the time.

I have not posted as much here, or  perhaps more perplexing, not shot or published as many photographs as usual, for the better part of the last year. The principal reason (excuse) for that has been (hold the front page) the intervention of the real world. I have travelled (too) much on business, between Europe and Western Africa, although I have found time to write up some of my adventures on nigeriastreets. I’ve recently switched working countries from Nigeria to Ghana. I’m not done with Nigeria yet, and the seductive siren song of other adventures already calls. More (perhaps) about that in due course.

I’ve also been busy learning new stuff. 

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darker | side | thursday

Some of you may remember a thing called dark | side | thursday?

Or perhaps, may care not to remember?

That dark tale marked my first foray into writing an episodic story. Some may perhaps wish it were my last. Despite myself, I completed that task, and, over 52 weeks, published 500 words each week, every Thursday.

It was not easy, and many times I considered throwing in the towel. Perhaps some of you may wish I had. Probably fewer still remember. Or care. I have this half formed plan to collate that story and publish it as a complete work.

Watch this space. Or not.

Well, I promised myself (and others who will remain nameless) that I would try my hand at writing again.

So, here we are.

Starting next Thursday at 24:00 UTC (if I can figure out how to schedule the post properly), I will publish the first chapter of my latest folly (yes, it is already written and ready to roll).

The song remains the same. It is a dark story. It will be 500 words each week. Ah, yes, my word count will be based on Scrivener, the wonderful app that I will use to draft and collate my story. At times the word count here in the WordPress editor throws a petulant hissy fit and disagrees with Scrivener. But hell, I don’t care. And worse, I might even write more or less each week. We will see what we see, no? As if anyone cares.

So, if any of you do care to join me as, once again, I explore my dark(er) side, see you at 24:00 next Thursday.