Heartless Winter

She blew in off the cove yesterday. Winter. Her hoary biting breath stinging sharp nettles. Tears as icicles cloud my eyes. A tale of the solstices, she lows as an animal, the Cancers and Capricorns.

I am alone. I am empty. In these coldest darkest moments I am reminded how tragically beautiful and bitter life is. I lash out at family and friends. Attempt to check myself.


I took the above picture somewhere in the past… today I don’t give a fuck where and when or by what mechanism.

The chalice is frozen and desiccated. There is nothing to pour out, it’s blood long gone on Winter’s breath. She is content to laugh at you. She is the queen, and all who defy her suffer in her frozen embrace. A wicked entropy contagious and searing.

The dream my fuckery eviscerated. Don’t cry for me Chile


The sun mocks me.

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  1. Alone? As in the universe?
    It’s a poor state of affairs but I get your drift.
    Winter is always a fucker but I like it better than summer when the trees block out the light with their bloody leaves. Winterlight is far more interesting than boring old sunshine. Winter in Moscow may be fucking murder but the pictures! Just think, without winter we wouldn’t have Sibelius 7 or Tchaikovsky 1 or Shostkovich 11 etc. And tell me this: when does a very fair single taste best? When it’s fucking freezing mate! The Russians invented vodka especially for winter.
    Fuck that summer bollocks, the perma-tanned wankers can have it. Give me a sheepskin overcoat and a wooly hat any time.
    I sneer at summer. I mock the sun and his laughable acolytes!
    You are not alone.

    1. The perfect brace to warm my ugly non-comely wounds and fucking snowflakes melting in derision, worthy derision I might add. Thank you M. I’ve been snapped like a fresh bean pod off the post just before the inevitable blanching in hot water.

      Ahh Sibelius 7… what a fucking wonder. The crisp air. The strong light and long shadows in sharp relief… the she bitch Winter gives us. Indeed! The reminder is a welcome steer of the helm in the wheelhouse.

      Nonetheless the prattling of such some manic-depressives for fate has abandoned me, my brother is no Theo. A delicate balance. Agreed and in bold. the wankers can have the fucking glowing radiation of cancers or mottled blinding blights.

      And yet a light is there.
      gratitude mate


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