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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in stokeykreations' LiveJournal:

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Thursday, May 22nd, 2014
5:37 am
[tuv23]
Now this was a Good Thing....
Reading back through, there's a lot of damn cool stuff in here peeps. We're hipper than a flask full of fresh laudanum.
Friday, November 7th, 2008
1:31 am
[lydiamorgan]
historical fiction
This is a short sketch, from the perspective of a third character, of what I'm doing for my dissertation. The philosophy/politics/history bit is somewhat shady at the moment, but I thought I'd post it as it's so different from my usual stuff. Feedback welcome innit.

ps the idea is inspired by the fatal shooting of Mauritz Schlick by a deranged student but other than that it's just fiction inspired by the period of French history during the Vichy regime.


Read more...Collapse )
Sunday, October 19th, 2008
1:29 pm
[tuv23]
Saturday, October 11th, 2008
2:34 am
[tuv23]
She always calms me. Puts everything in its place, so she does. A vastness out of time and memory, she howls and churns beckoning me home. When I come to her boarders I find myself greedilly scanning the gaps between buildings and hills for my first glimpse of her, for my first hit of peace. I hunger for her and always go to touch her - caressingly, reverently, slyly and sometimes even shamefully, I pull my fingertips through her to bring her salt taste to my lips. Then I find somewhere to sit and gaze rapt at the curved bowl of the horizon, watching weather fronts spiral towards me or fishing boats bringing home their trawl. I am both calmed by her lulls and empassioned by her tempests for she is my mistress and my church and can seemingly do me no wrong, even though she tried her damndest to kill me once.
Friday, August 8th, 2008
5:21 pm
[emptyjohn]
Wednesday, August 6th, 2008
10:08 am
[chris_damage]
Travelogue
 This started out as a general "what I did on my holidays" type LJ post, but gradually mutated into somethng more ambitious - my first stab at a proper travelogue.  Hence I'm posting it here rather than on my own LJ.

Sunday, April 20th, 2008
7:51 pm
[tuv23]
The Maddened Fruit
Heathen broth is ditch-storm brewed
With inky heaven's tenpence too
Steadfast stump is dumbstruck struck
Time herself is bleeding luck

Rusted eye fix nail to post
Desires line against the host
of mother's brats and father's whores
Adored skin pricks upon abhored

So driftless borne with pieces free
Found a lie alive and me
Become becalmed because of you
Stripping down the maddened fruit
Tuesday, February 26th, 2008
9:05 am
[emptyjohn]
Thursday, February 21st, 2008
10:24 am
[emptyjohn]
Tuv's request.
Sonn&

Two point 7 1 8 two
8 1 8 two 8 four
5 9 oh four 5 two
3 5 3 six nought two
8 7 four 7 1 3
5 two six six two four
9 7 7 5 7 two four
7 oh 9 3 six 9 9 9
5 9 5 7 four 9 six
six 9 six 7 six 2
7 7 two four oh 7 six
six 3 oh 3 5 3 5
Four 7 5 9 four 5 7 1
3 8 two 1 7 &c.
Sunday, February 17th, 2008
5:01 pm
[emptyjohn]
lacking creativity he prodded others
Tuv, please write me a sonnnet without the letter O...
Friday, February 8th, 2008
1:34 pm
[emptyjohn]
Friday, February 1st, 2008
11:09 am
[emptyjohn]
Thursday, January 10th, 2008
2:45 pm
[lydiamorgan]
Because the desert is so vast and so yellow and hot and pure that I really didn’t think you’d be willing to follow me in there. No, me myself, I was half thinking I was crazy to even suggest it. Read more...Collapse )
Wednesday, December 19th, 2007
3:30 am
[lydiamorgan]
The beginning is always sweet.
Words that drip like honey. That lazy morning light, you watch it spilling in through the window like diffused gold, and your lover gently, absently, wraps her finger around a strand of your hair and you think: I have found peace. I have found infinity. And I will never leave her side.

And the honey is crystallised and turned into a sentence, a question, a proposal: And the gold is gathered up and forged into a band, and slipped onto that finger that entangled itself so lovingly around your drowsy curls.

She sleeps with wedding cake beneath her pillow. She chooses white for her gown. She orders name-place cards and matching serviettes. She fusses and beams. She will not let you see her on the day. ‘Bad luck’, she says, and smiles coquettishly.

It is a summer wedding.

The grass is parched and drooping. ‘A wonderful day for it’, everyone agrees. The sky bleeds into the horizon. The sun scorches. The men perspire manfully. The bridesmaids bat their lashes and fan themselves with paper napkins. The old maids drink sherry and try to hide their bitterness. ‘A lovely service’, everyone agrees. And it feels like the sun is devouring you.

Soon after comes the first soft swelling of her stomach. She puts your hand to her belly in wonder. Her cheeks are red and flushed. She looks up at you with her eyes wide and joyful and your stomach lurches. Is this what happens next? Is this the sum of it all? You manage a smile, and her own falters. ‘Is this what you want?’ She asks, and you do not answer.

The weeks pass. Her stomach distends, grotesque, and you no longer recognise that soft, fair girl who dozed in your arms and giggled in her sleep. You find reasons to work late. She cries quietly when she thinks you’re asleep. And her belly grows.

The end, when it comes, is flat and graceless. Two curt words: ‘It’s gone.’ It, the thing, the growth. It, like a tumour. It, her child. You stare at her for a moment, before relief floods through you. You hug her and comfort her. You both pretend it’s a natural miscarriage, and never talk about it.

You have a farcical little service, a funeral for one that never lived. She buries a box at the end of the garden and it turns your stomach to wonder what might be inside it. She wanders the house in silence, her eyes dark and empty. She dresses in white, as if to deny the reality of the tiny death.

It is not long before you realise that it is your life that is buried in a shoebox at the end of the garden.
Wednesday, October 24th, 2007
4:45 pm
[logothetes]
tabula rasa
She leavesCollapse )

Current Mood: calm
Friday, October 19th, 2007
2:14 pm
[tuv23]
My Slip
I slipped again and then i fell
Fresh gravelled palms along with old scars
Reminers of who i've been and who i'd like to be
I slipped again and nearly fell

I slipped again and then i fell
Like an epileptic I chose the very hardest floor
It's the very least I deserve, I know
I slipped again and nearly fell

In moments as low as ever before
The scale of the fall gives me meaning
In moments as low as I've ever gone
The scale of the fall gives me meaning

I slipped again and then i fell
Precious weightless seconds of release
Counting time will be the death of me
I slipped again and nearly fell

I slipped again and then i fell
The longest way down is the hardest to tell
A split lip to wake my indifferent heart
I slipped again and nearly fell

In moments as low as ever before
The scale of the fall gives me meaning
In moments as low as I've ever gone
The scale of the fall gives me meaning
Thursday, October 18th, 2007
4:30 pm
[markeris]
we made a rekkid.


Whilst playing Carnival of Souls on Sunday we released our new EP, Terminology, a lovely slab of electronica produced by the equally lovely Mr. Scott Deathboy.

You can go and download it for free from here from the just as equally lovely Line Out Records

Please do feel free to wave it in the faces of your nearest and dearest if you find it appealing. It would make us warm and tingly.
Wednesday, October 10th, 2007
3:37 pm
[emptyjohn]
Monday, September 24th, 2007
10:24 am
[emptyjohn]
snapshot of seven years ago
I spend all of Friday wasted, don’t do anything in the evening. Melissa and James go out somewhere leaving me home alone. I just lie around, trying to read, too tripped out to follow the narrative. It’s all concertinaed, bent out of shape. I have an idea for a poem that never quite materialises, drink a bottle of red wine and listen to The Bends on repeat. Cut myself pretty bad, the blood clean and red, liquescent ruby, dripping onto the carpet like languid spring rain. I take a shower, slip and bang my head. Can’t stop laughing as the water pounds on me, turning pink where it hits my arm.
Putting on the same dirty clothes, my arm bleeding into the tee-shirt wrapped around it, I sit in the computer room, do a few long sinewy lines, sideswipe myself into a trance. I can’t find the book I was reading, guess it doesn’t matter. The k, like the water tinted by my blood, has turned pink: ground against a book cover, absorbing its redness.
I eat some toast, warm from the grill, the butter melting into a gleaming slick. Toast rocks. I love toast.
Later, in bed - sky fucking high, the mattress scudding over imaginary oceans - I try to write Baya a letter but it all goes wrong. I tear the page up and do another line. Outside fairytale thunder rolls, rain lashes the concrete, the sky is black, the moon missing, stolen. I fold time back on itself. I dream of her.
Monday, September 10th, 2007
10:24 am
[emptyjohn]
And though it would not help a thing
It's all his heart is aimed at
To liberate the flow
Of those restricting corridors
To let the rain fall
Nourishing the feeble dirt
To prove he feels something
Has some shaky understanding of justice
Comprehends virtue, the lost marker,
Can separate wrongs from rights
With a slim steelfeather
Can rise above himself
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