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About Literature / Artist ian mcLachlanMale/United Kingdom Group :iconthecabalists: TheCabalists
 
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Literature
Idol
Mounting the jet steps
Wayfarers bluely lit
by sea;
this is what made men look like
designer jawline, lips.
Or with top-of-the-range
girl on loungers
by a turquoise pool.
I have everything
brand new Ferrari, Vans,
hair, absorb troughs of your
time loving, hating
my photo, 15-second clip.
My smile is novocaine
a hand propping its neck
holding spluttering lips
up as you paddle your life
in a dead water suburb
and Peter Pan
to wives backstroking
thoroughly passionless days;
let me take you for a ride.
Rome, Los Angeles, Dubai
expelled from a hippy festival
do you remember?
Those high-rises that run the world
they can’t tell us how to feel.
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Literature
The Headshrinkers
Through blue-tinted shades
we watch them
dancing or standing sipping beer
liquid-eyed, in gangs
a tussled pair sealing lips.
You see the same faces again and again.
Some are coming from work;
the shadows of it stain their skin.
Fisting the mic I hiss and boom:
I fell asleep in the temple
and snakes licked my ears;
in dreams I am pecked clean by birds.

Tonight they study us like waxworks.
I invite them to lie on the couch.
Stretching off into the distance
the eventless present.
Mick pumps the wah-wah pedal.
It’s a drag hefting the kit gig to gig.
Squatting by the kerb three hard-hats
heads bowed in mute communion
with their phones. Nothing to say
these chilly summer days
what we’re doing when living.
Chips and diesel on the wind
the pinkly lit street
has blossomed with youths.
Good evening
we are The Headshrinkers.
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Literature
Brainstorm
I
Golden case cuffed to my wrist
box of tech firecrackers:
time navigator –
I hoped to snag a trace of you
outside Maccadam’s Oil House;
unrecordable weapon
to shatter foes, siphon
their screams.
Spark's white heat exported
to hard currency.
II
Paradox-exempt time hopper
existential gun jetting
a fatal squib of ennui –
my scrambled spark's ravings.
What would I say to you
outside Maccadam’s Oil House?
How defuse an enemy?
The code I chew on
fitting parts
putting out the trash.
--
Twitter: @ianjmclachlan
Instagram: /ianjmclachlan
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Literature
The Bar
A sun-dazzled bar
there for a drop
of absinthe.
Coming and going
in the mirror
so many faces.
New faces beaming
or trouble-seeking
some here briefly
back again
others long servers
with slumped mouths.
This man has the look
of one who would
quit but faces
keep coming into
the mirror
like they can’t
help themselves.
The barman’s face
is hidden as he stoops
behind the counter
he’s whistling;
there’s your absinthe
gloop of milked moon.
You think he’s whistling.
Sometimes an old face
bears the features
of a young one
some faces so alike
they might mask
the same person
or a man
who has been here
often before;
one of these faces
is yours.
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Literature
Little bird
Calcifer trots up
drops a dark wad
at my feet, then
gripping it in her mouth
tosses it about.
Stiff feathers splay;
it’s dead.
In the flower bed
I cut a musty grave
the black soil
crumbly and cool
I pack over it.
How familiar
earth feels.
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Literature
The Headshrinkers
When Todd opened the bathroom door and found Nick lying fully clothed in the tub with his wrists competently slit, it was not an absolute shock. Like Todd, Nick had had musical aspirations, but where Todd was an extrovert with his own band, The Headshrinkers, Nick had been a regular shut-in, working and reworking his ballads just for his own satisfaction apparently. With Marlboro lights and cheap lager Todd had coaxed Nick out of his shell. ‘Teach me one of yours,’ he’d requested early on. He had even got Nick playing rhythm guitar at a Headshrinkers gig one time. Strumming throughout from behind a veil of hair it was hard to say if he’d enjoyed the experience. Improvements in Nick’s disposition were followed by severe retreats, and shortly prior to his death he had stopped communicating with his housemates and sat all day staring at a mildewed wall.
Nick’s parents drove up to London to collect his stuff. Just before they arrived, Todd looked in on h
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Lacuna by venturus Lacuna :iconventurus:venturus 0 2 15 by venturus 15 :iconventurus:venturus 0 2 The Wrong by venturus The Wrong :iconventurus:venturus 0 2 The Fanatic by venturus The Fanatic :iconventurus:venturus 2 2 Lines on a krater in the British Museum by venturus Lines on a krater in the British Museum :iconventurus:venturus 1 2 Jinn by venturus Jinn :iconventurus:venturus 0 2 The Flight by venturus The Flight :iconventurus:venturus 0 7 Emigre by venturus Emigre :iconventurus:venturus 1 2
Literature
The Wraith
Though he had pre-registered months in advance, when he arrived at reception, the conference hosts could not locate his name on their lists, nor was a “John Wraith” lanyard waiting for him to collect. There were, the wraith noticed, other pale faces checking in, slipping between the hearty flesh-and-blood types who wheeled their compact suitcases about the lobby and gabbed brightly. When his turn came to pass his luggage to the porter for stowing while a room was prepared for him, the man at first overlooked him. Then, handing over the string bag in which he’d packed his best shoes, a black brogue slithered out and tumbled to the floor. Apologetically, the wraith picked it up, repacked it, was left holding the bag; the porter had moved on to the next guest.
A brisk air-con in the executive suite kept the delegates alert. The wraith sat silently tapping notes into his iPad and sipping water while the hosts paraded their company’s successes and left little time at
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Ian McLachlan by venturus Ian McLachlan :iconventurus:venturus 0 2

Favourites

Journal
S.
              Butter
Breakfast was real oatmeal
Every morning in Taos,
Served at the kitchen table
By the window.  Ravens
In the courtyard.
You always put a dab of butter
In my bowl, covered it
So it would melt completely.
         Understanding  
                           New Year's Eve, Taos
You slipped into the study,
I followed, locking the door.
Your sarong at your feet,
Hazel eyes, serene, oval face,
Golden hair all in a swirl.
Now--eased--on your side,
Still coming in ripples, you
In the cove of my arms.
I whisper, just the beginning.
"Baby, too fast," you say.
I grab a fistful of damp hair.
Your nails rake my cheek.
     When We're Gone
I wish you hadn't deleted
The 600+ messages we shared,
Cavafy, koans, feisty sex.
I smiled, laughed out loud
At your puns, double entendres
Every time I
:iconSwep-Lovitt:Swep-Lovitt
:iconswep-lovitt:Swep-Lovitt 1 0
Journal
Throwback Thursday #12
:iconneurotype:
Welcome to the twelfth installment of Throwback Thursday with CRLiterature! If you've missed any so far, check them out here:
Throwback Thursday #1 Bullet; Orange Throwback Thursday #2 Bullet; Orange Throwback Thursday #3 Bullet; Orange Throwback Thursday #4 Bullet; OrangeThrowback Thursday #5 Bullet; Orange 
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Journal
Sapiens (2), the animals
   the agricultural revolution left sapiens dependent on grains but the faustian bargain between humans and grains was not the only deal our species made. another deal was struck concerning the fate of animals such as sheep, goats, pigs, and chickens.
     as humans spread around the world, so did their domesticated animals.  10,000 years ago a total of not more than a few million sheep, cattle, goats, boars, and chickens lived in restricted afro-asian niches. today, the world contains a billion sheep, a billion pigs, more than a billion cattle, and more than 25 billion chickens. from an evolutionary perspective the agric. rev. was a wonderful boon for domesticated animals, unfortunately the evolutionary perspective judges everything in terms of survival and reproduction, with no regard for suffering and happiness. it might well be that domesticated chickens and cattle are among the most miserable creatures that ever lived.
    the domestication
:iconSwep-Lovitt:Swep-Lovitt
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Replacement for the Stars by yuumei Replacement for the Stars :iconyuumei:yuumei 15,162 345 Come Undone by yuumei Come Undone :iconyuumei:yuumei 13,861 320 Rain on My Sunshine by yuumei Rain on My Sunshine :iconyuumei:yuumei 21,328 647
Literature
We Split The Dalis
She got Chagall's Cirque Soleil.
I got the four Friedlaenders.
We split the Dalis', Helen of Troy
And Kissing Grapes,with its glittered
Angel, bough of purple skulls.
So, we move, bedroom
To bedroom, dining to living room,
Pulling art off walls.  But not until
The den, when I reach to lift
Alvar's Espacio Rojo--our first auction--
Does she break down, face
In hands, sink to the blue couch.
I closed my eyes.  Returned,
Backtracking, each piece to its home.
All the days, the nights, room
After room of memories on fire.
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Literature
Gulf
Shoulder to shoulder,
In a rough surf, they ride
A yellow raft,
My Mother and Father.
At the first drops
Of the storm, their faces
Side by side,
They're slow to move.
Legs trailing, now
Propelled, now withdrawn,
They re-appear
Each time farther out.
The rhythm of the sea--
I complain it's pulling me
Down--the rhythm
Is my parents' own.
Hugging the raft,
They wear the distant smile
Of those quietly
Listening at a shell.
:iconSwep-Lovitt:Swep-Lovitt
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Feel and Conquer by yuumei Feel and Conquer :iconyuumei:yuumei 29,093 1,150 The Sky Beneath My Feet by yuumei The Sky Beneath My Feet :iconyuumei:yuumei 24,196 432 Fisheye Placebo: Ch1- Part 4 by yuumei Fisheye Placebo: Ch1- Part 4 :iconyuumei:yuumei 6,458 647 Arabic Swordman by bloodsplach Arabic Swordman :iconbloodsplach:bloodsplach 35 5 City Night Speedpaint (tutorial video linked) by yuumei City Night Speedpaint (tutorial video linked) :iconyuumei:yuumei 12,621 218
Journal
Blood


    “A true Arab knows how to catch a fly in his hands,”   
    my father would say. And he’d prove it, 
    cupping the buzzer instantly 
    while the host with the swatter stared. 
    In the spring our palms peeled like snakes. 
    True Arabs believed watermelon could heal fifty ways.   
    I changed these to fit the occasion. 
    Years before, a girl knocked, 
    wanted to see the Arab. 
    I said we didn’t have one. 
    After that, my father told me who he was,   
    “Shihab”—“shooting star”— 
    a good name, borrowed from the sky. 
   
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Journal
just returned
from visiting middle child, Jeremy, and family of wife Ting Xuan and boys Etele and Nico, in malibu. flew back out at 2350 sunday which gave me 6 full days there. they bought a house up in the hills overlooking the pacific ocean 4 years ago, spent a lot of money remodeling it, but with increasing business interests in china, where they live, they're thinking about selling. so, he called and said come or you'll never see the house. was struck, even as i've been in similarly exotic locations, by how removed they were from the normal flow of the world. wind down the at-times precipitous road to the pacific coast highway and you leave olympus to enter again a writhing, jostling river of human activity. anyway, late conversations with Jeremy looking out over the ocean, working puzzles and playing old maids with etele, reading (re-read the floating opera, 1st time since the 70's, and phillip k. dick's the three stigmata of palmer eldritch), and continuing to try to refine my own life, from s
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Journal
A Message In A Bottle
A wicker rocker, on my screen porch.
Black coffee, until it is light enough to see
A  crossword puzzle.  Blue jays,
As many as five raucous in a big holly.
The runners pop in the dark, and stream by.
Women in pairs, some pushing strollers.
Power walking, Elkins jump-starts his day.
So these specific lives merge, become
A river, as I watch from the bank--
She's standing alone out on a train platform. 
The future. There's a lot of life
Yet to go, and grandkids are not our kids.
 
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Activity


A London Vampire is a story consisting of 26 poems about a man who quits his office job to manage a Goth band called No Reflection. This transformation in his working life is preceded by an existential transformation into some kind of predator. This is contemporary urban life from the predator’s perspective.

Though I assigned to the character many of the properties of a vampire, I wanted to leave it open whether the life-draining force is actually quotidian office life, or the city, or those who run the city. Alternatively, the vampire could be mental illness, or a life lived in pursuit of physical pleasure at the expense of emotional or spiritual feeling.

I loosely based the sequence ... READ MORE

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venturus
ian mcLachlan
Artist | Literature
United Kingdom
Current Residence: London
Twitter: @ianjmclachlan
Instagram: /ianjmclachlan
Youtube: www.youtube.com/user/ianjmclachlan
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:iconswep-lovitt:
Swep-Lovitt Featured By Owner May 30, 2017
thanks for the fave on "S.". seems like i've finally found an essence. 
Reply
:iconswep-lovitt:
Swep-Lovitt Featured By Owner Jul 24, 2016
thanks for the favorite of Sapiens, the animals. 
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:iconventurus:
venturus Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2016   Writer
:)
Reply
:iconlittleblueblanket:
littleblueblanket Featured By Owner Oct 27, 2015
Your work is lovely. 
Reply
:iconventurus:
venturus Featured By Owner Oct 28, 2015   Writer
thanks lbb :)
Reply
:iconlittleblueblanket:
littleblueblanket Featured By Owner Oct 28, 2015
You're welcome. :)
Reply
:iconemmasloane:
EmmaSloane Featured By Owner Jul 12, 2015
Thank you very much for the favorites, Ian.  
Reply
:iconventurus:
venturus Featured By Owner Jul 20, 2015   Writer
you're welcome. :-)
Reply
:iconbelcanto2:
belcanto2 Featured By Owner Jun 5, 2015
Thanks so much for the favorite on In Sepia, 1915, Ian.Wink/Razz 
Reply
:iconventurus:
venturus Featured By Owner Jun 8, 2015   Writer
you're very welcome. :)
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