Flight bite

Flightpathproject has recently returned from India, where birds are not the only flying creatures to watch – or to watch out for.

Fragile in flight; fierce when feeding


Dengue mosquito Aedes aegypti feeding

Dengue mosquito Aedes aegypti feeding

 Image at wikipedia.org

‘India suffers particularly from dengue, especially at this time of year, after the end of its summer monsoon, when puddles of still water in cities become breeding grounds for the Aedes mosquito, the vector responsible for spreading the illness.’

 Read full article at http://www.economist.com/blogs/banyan/2014/10/dengue-india

Flying in circles


The sound of fever

  Listen to Peggy Lee sing ‘Fever’ at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGb5IweiYG8


Fever 103̊

Pure? What does it mean?

The tongues of hell

Are dull, dull as the triple


Tongues of dull, fat Cerberus

Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable

Of licking clean


The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.

The tinder cries.

The indelible smell


Of a snuffed candle!

Love, love, the low smokes roll

From me like Isadora’s scarves, I’m in a fright


One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel,

Such yellow sullen smokes

Make their own element. They will not rise,


But trundle round the globe

Choking the aged and the meek,

The weak


Hothouse baby in its crib,

The ghastly orchid

Hanging its hanging garden in the air,


Devilish leopard!

Radiation turned it white

And killed it in an hour.


Greasing the bodies of adulterers

Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.

The sin. The sin.


Darling, all night

I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.

The sheets grow heavy as a lecher’s kiss.


Three days. Three nights.

Lemon water, chicken

Water, water make me retch.


I am too pure for you or anyone.

Your body

Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern——


My head a moon

Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin

Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.


Does not my heat astound you! And my light!

All by myself I am a huge camellia

Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.


I think I am going up,

I think I may rise——

The beads of hot metal fly, and I love, I


Am a pure acetylene


Attended by roses,


By kisses, by cherubim,

By whatever these pink things mean!

Not you, nor him


Nor him, nor him

(My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats)——

To Paradise.

 by Sylvia Plath