Francis Bacon Untitled (David Sylvester Walking), c.1954
My time is running out
I have not sung
the true song
the great song
that I seem
to have lost my courage
a glance in the mirror
and glimpse into my heart
makes me want to shut up forever
so why do you lean me here
Lord of my life
lean me at this table
in the middle of the night
how to be beautiful
—Leonard Cohen, Book of Longing. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, p. 178.
(from Waking Up)
Holidaymakers on the platform at Snow Hill awaiting the arrival of the Cornishman, a British Railways express passenger train to Penzance, Cornwall, July 1954
Bear with my weakness; my brain is troubled:
Be not disturb’d with my infirmity:
If you be pleased, retire into my cell
And there repose: a turn or two I’ll walk,
To still my beating mind.
Your skin like dawn
Mine like musk
One paints the beginning
of a certain end.
The other, the end of a
Sexy GQ shoot with hipster twist
“We thought it would be interesting to re-shoot Miranda Kerr’s recent UK GQ shoot, using a man as the subject. We also wanted to re-quote some of the things that she said in her GQ interview – but coming from the perspective of a male… As you can see, the shoot comes off very differently… It’s an interesting case for either the over-sexualisation of the female body in the high fashion world, or perhaps the under-sexualisation of the male body in the high fashion world?! Depending on how you look at it… But either way, as soon as you put a man in there, and have a man talking about same sex curiosity and masturbation on public transport it’s an entirely different thing that we aren’t used to seeing in the media.”
Model: Dom Nader
Creative Director/Photographer: Adrian Archer
Photographer: Pat Stevenson
You hold me—I’m the riddled one—in bondage.
What word could burn as witness for us two?
You’re my reality. I’m your mirage.)
It’s the blaze across my nightgown
it’s the phone’s ring.
I think last night
you were driving circles around me.
They ask: the world gives them a stone,
revolving until the greater part of her is in darkness.
Out among the night-stations the signals falter,
the mechanism of the cell winds down.
We can do nothing now but watch, watch and wait,
leaving them to the winds, the drag of the tides,
who lately were apt to brood upon themselves and hatch
a rope, a hook, a chair, a bell, a solicitude:
rarely a kindness. To themselves they were least kind.
Like us, they were unable to believe
the frequencies of light concerned them:
they followed the logic of the particle down
to the sea floor, literalists who found a solution.
In this silence, in this immeasurable interval
between systole and dawn, we ask:
she gives us the snowdrop’s sidereal pallor.
- Caitriona O’Reilly