Six hours like this for a few francs.
Belly nipple arse in the window light,
he drains the colour from me. Further to the right,
Madame. And do try to be still.
I shall be represented analytically and hung
in great museums. The bourgeoise will coo
at such an image of a river-whore. They call it art.

Maybe. He is conccerned with volume, space.
I with the next meal. You’re getting thin,
Madame, this is not good. My breasts hang
slightly low, the studio is cold. In the tea-leaves
I can see the Queen of England gazing
on my shape. Magnificent, she murmurs,
moving on. It makes me laugh. His name

is Georges. They tell me he’s a genius.
There are times he does not concentrate
and stiffens for my warmth.
He possesses me on canvas as he dips the brush
repeatedly into the paint. Little man,
you’ve not the money for the arts I sell.
Both poor, we make our living how we can.

I ask him Why do you do this? Because
I have to. There is no choice. Don’t talk.
My smile confuses him. These artists
take themselves too seriously. At night I fill myself
with wine and dance around the bars. When it’s finished
he shows me proudly, lights a cigarette. I say
Twelve francs and get my shawl. It does not look like me.

1.7.17 This isn’t the first time I’ve been to York Minster, but it is the first time I’ve noticed the Semaphore Saints. The fact they were made headless is about the most ridiculously Anglican thing I have ever seen.

30.6.17, Heworth: sayeth my travelling companion: ‘its summer, we’re eating ice cream, there’s nothing wrong with this picture’. It was raining

30.6.17 - St Martin’s church, Mickelgate. Set up for the Lords of Misrule production of ‘Lanval: A Knight’s Tale’ (adapted from the Middle English by the writer-directors), which was FABULOUS.

([syndicated profile] speculumannorum_feed Jul. 18th, 2017 12:00 am)

Raw‐throated I wake, as if
your screaming clawed the cage
of my throat without sound—

all the fearful,
way down. 

Published at Inkscrawl.

([syndicated profile] ao3_frodosam_fics_feed Jul. 15th, 2017 02:46 pm)

Posted by <a rel="author" href="/users/wallace_trust/pseuds/wallace_trust">wallace_trust</a>


A depiction of Frodo's departure from Middle-Earth as my heart sees it. It is not an attempt to actually illustrate the scene. (If that makes any sense) ^^;

Words: 17, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

30.6.17 - St Martin’s Mickelgate. I’d put money on this being the oldest doorway in the building - whether it’s original 11th c or not I’m not certain, but it’s definitely romanesque

30.6.17  St Martin’s Mickelgate - note the change in architectural style halfway down (14th to 15th c difference, I think)

([syndicated profile] speculumannorum_feed Jul. 14th, 2017 12:00 am)

I want a word with you
but I don’t know which one.
Love is too thick, too rich,
a fly drowning in red wine.

I want a small, careful word
to tuck away in my pocket
with some spare change and a lighter,
so it’s there when I need it.

In Cordite Poetry Review 40.

30.6.17 - St Martin’s, Mickelgate. Originally an 11th cenutry church, its aisles were renovated in the 1300s and 1400s. I’m not sure about the entry but it’s definitely older than the east end of the church. A bit pointy, so maybe 1300s?

30.6.17 - St Martins on Mickelgate, York (It’s embarrassing, as an Anglo-Saxonist, how long I spent trying to figure out why the church on Mickelgate isn’t St Michael’s.)



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