2022 a pandemic is just loosening its grip and then another disease began , Russia under the looming presence of Putin , invaded Ukraine with brutal aggression a petulant psychopath wanting a reunited Soviet Union , well he can fuck off , I see on the news a beautiful people facing adversity with grace and fortitude and in my heart and prayers I think of them , and as I do I remembered there is a poem Love Ukraine by Volodymyr Sosyura that says so much and can fit for the here and now
Please offer aid to any organisation , the people of Ukraine need our love and support
Victoria Baltag is a filmmaker from Romania, who I met on LinkedIn and she has a very unique and powerful story to tell, that is very unsettling about Romania between 1949 and 1951 and the re education camps, she is now raising money for the postproduction with which I hope you will help her succeed .
“ The state entities in Romania refused to fund this project”.
Victoria Baltag, Master of Arts, University of Birmingham, PhD Film Studies, Queen University of Belfast and Postgraduate Teaching Assistant at UCL made a remarkable movie about one of the darkest pages from Romanian History. Pitesti Experiment. Generations of Romanians did not learn about this subject at schools, colleges, Universities. Censorship and hiding the dark moments from history left many Romanians clueless about the history of their country. Pitesti Experiment project needs support. Art in pandemic needs support. Our support. Media exposure, funds, event organization, all are ways to support. Every time this movie is promoted, every donation, every effort is a different manner to say“ I am sorry for how much you suffered”. This project is about the victims of Pitesti Experiment. Victims who for many are unknown, forgotten. Their story has to be told! Let’s help it!
The Sun hung by a thread
In the depths of the Calabash dyed indigo
Boils the great Pot of Day.
Fearful of the approach of the Daughters of fire
The Shadow squats at the feet of the faithful.
The savannah is bright and harsh
All is sharp, forms and colours.
But in the anguished Silences made by Rumours
Of tiny sounds, neither hollow nor shrill,
Rises a ponderous Mystery,
A Mystery muffled and formless
Which surrounds and terrifies us.
The dark Loincloth pierced with nails of fire
Spread out on the Earth covers the bed of Night.
Fearful at the approach of the Daughters of Shadow
The dog howls, the horse neighs,
The Man crouches deep in his house.
The savannah is dark,
All is black, forms and colours
And in the anguished Silences made by Rumours
Of tiny sounds infinite or hollow or sharp
The tangled Paths of the Mystery
Slowly reveal themselves
For those who set out
And for those who return.
when your home is not
a protective shelter to dignity and heart,
where government scythes away
public voices in favour of a few,
nervous rattle of doors
closing on opportunities
for those we should cherish,
disabled now disenfranchised
workless sanctioned and berated
for just existing,
statistics and targets
media fodder,
minimum wage hunter gatherers
chasing food bank trails
as rent arrears accumulate,
things are getting brighter
economy booming,
so some say
a cautious tale of cynicism
is needed to chew on this pill
of crushed realisations,
we have awoken
but not awake
written in response to the Conservatives taking victory in the elections and Cameron claiming power again
pricks modelled in clay
stout phalluses
to be glazed and painted
with words of policy,
many tongues will lick
thinking of some turbulent heart
that some powers will be given
in a seminal dream
like acid secreted
it burns,
those who believe
and have believed,
that we all can’t thrive
on stolen sleep
it is someone elses
pillow where early a.m
through a struggle of dream
we drool and wait expectantly,
overbaked clay shatters
prick pieces fall
wild men
brought to the fold
herded in clusters
by the rich vanity of the absolute,
it is an end
those birthed in soil
not in the womb of privilege
will take up the hope
and unfurl a phallus of flesh
mersey moonlight and shine
across the hills
to river dee,
wind whispers
in the trees and grass,
of park
and shipyard sinew,
bricks of sweat and toil,
urban sprawl,
where smugglers coins
fell to sand,
lighthouse flickers
seen by little eye,
sandstone tremors
and gentle veil of mist,
i feel home
cradled by the lake
and shivering masts
of a yachting few
all photographs copyrighted to Karen Lawrence / SpikeyMouse Photography and all images and others can be bought at
swallowing moonlight
with half naked humility,
aftertaste of unpleasant cloud
the day would sacrifice me,
me a host to the yellow sun
wrapped in a fleece
of further understanding,
a measure to the international indifference
patron to the act of ignorance,
this is a race, our race
spend life in an aggrieved chokehold
as time seeps the stupid sore
picked at by eager interference,
of state
in desperate need of rescue
ticking
ticking
only asses and chickens
claw at the dirt
spreading a mess
soiled by their own entrapment
it would be unforgiving
when the foxes come
velvetmedia 