May 31, 2014
Listen to me, you can’t fix people.
Your love won’t make him stop hating his father
and your devotion won’t cure her of her childhood.
All you can do is be there, violets sprouting out
from your ribs, acceptance on your lips, your own
wounds still bleeding and all you can do is be there
and sometimes that’s enough, sometimes that’s everything.
May 30, 2014
This isn’t a joke!!
“Every vagina has its own style, obviously. In the same way fashion and hairstyles change with the times, so does what goes on between a woman’s legs. And now more than ever, it feels like there’s a lot going on down there…”
See HERE for the full article in VOGUE.
May 30, 2014
‘Do you wanna touch me, Dreamer? Do you wanna fuck?’
She turned my nipple as i said that and stared down at me. ‘Yeah, I wanna fuck you. I wanna taste you.’ She leaned over to kiss my cheeks, biting my neck and ears, dragging her tongue down my chest, licking to my belly button, stopping there. She slid down my body to pull off my shorts. She ran her fingers through the hair between my legs and looked at me down there. Then she put her face up to it and smelled. She put my legs over her shoulders and all I could see was her long hair and i felt her tongue press against me, starting to go back and forth. At first, she just kind of teased me with it, like she hadn’t decided if she was going to eat me out. Then she shot into a rhythm and started using longer licks, working her tongue against my clit until it swelled like a dick about to come”
May 30, 2014
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
(Edna St. Vincent Millay)
May 30, 2014
Sam told me about this waiter in the hotel where she stayed in Spain. She was there with her parents, a long overdue family holiday, the first since her father’s return from South Africa. Sam was young, innocent, and their waiter, Francisco, recognised her innocence as a weakness he could use. This gangling, prematurely balding, thirty year old, saw her as a newly pubescent guitar on which he could strum his Gypsy tunes.
Francisco was charm personified around Sam’s mother and father, nothing was too much trouble for him, but alone with Sam he was like a twelve-handed lecher. An octopus. He would take any and every opportunity to corner her alone, grope her, stroke her, even one time put a hand beneath her light cotton dress.
Sam hated it.
She hated Francisco, but didn’t know what to do about his unwanted attention. She didn’t tell her parents because she was too embarrassed…She was totally ignorant of men’s ways. So she did the only thing she could think of – she did her damndest to avoid him. She hid herself in her room whenever he was around.
One afternoon Francisco suggested to Sam’s mother that her daughter might like to accompany him to a small nearby bay. Francisco’s own daughters would be there, and the girls could swim together.
‘It would be company of her own age,’ he suggested. ‘Young girls need other young girls. And the sea is very safe there, very calm…immaculate.
Sam’s mother in her abject naiveté thought it an admiral idea! Her husband, the major, was indifferent; he spent most of his time at the bar so that his skin permanently exuded this faint whiskey smell in the heat of the day.
Sam made a variety of excuses why she wouldn’t or couldn’t attend, all fictions of course. She couldn’t tell her mother the truth, because if she did there’d be a scene and Sam couldn’t face unpleasantness like that. Better to lie to her parents, and continue hiding herself away in the hotel room or in the town.
Then late one Wednesday morning Sam was in the hotel pool when her parents approached to tell her they were going for a walk. They stood at the edge of the pool, and as Sam nodded, said, ‘Fine’, a hand slid round her waist.
She tried to lurch away but Francisco’s grip was tight on her. He was in the water a little behind her; he pressed closer to her, called a greeting up to her mother and father. He’d changed his day off, he said. He’d keep an eye on Sam. No worries.
Even as they were talking in this way, Sam became aware of Francisco’s erection under the water: it stabbed at her backside. She did her best to ignore it. Shut her mind to it. Francisco rubbed against her, her swimsuit, all the while talking to Sam’s mother.
Sam was horrified when she realised that somehow Francisco had tugged the front of his swimming trunks down, and that his hardness was rubbing against the soft curve of her backside. This was too much. Reaching behind her she sunk her fingernails into his hip, and clawed…Shocked, he lurch away.
To the casual observer it looked like a game between the pair: high jinks in the water.
‘You take care then, darling,’ her mother said, turning away, smiling. She didn’t notice the small creamy white cloud rising round her daughter in the water.
Sam scrambled out the opposite side of the pool and ran to her room. She kept the door locked. At first she was so terrified that Francisco would follow her she bolted herself in the bathroom. She felt dirty, disgusted. She climbed in the shower and stood in the warm jet of water for an age…
Two days later, their holiday at an end, Sam returned home with her parents. There’d been no further incidents.
But Sam was haunted by the events of that day. She hated Francisco or any mention of him. Yet, over time, he was transformed in her mind – he become a symbol of masculine aggression, totally sexual, a wild beastman who took her by force whenever and wherever he desired – even as others looked on!
Sam confessed that having feared and loathed Francisco for the duration of that holiday, he began to figure often in her masturbatory fantasies. Even when making love to her husband, many years later, Sam tended to close her eyes and recall the hardness of Francisco against her taunt buttocks and thighs; see her mother smiling down at her as his hard body dissolved against hers in that final, sudden, surprising spasm.
‘I hate him,’ she explained. ‘He disgusts me. But now he also turns me on. It’s the darkness in him. The unrelenting search for his own gratification. He’s a pig. His need is desperate, and when I think on that I’m aroused. His sadism, my humiliation – his burrowing fingers leave me panting. It’s horribly beautiful in a way. But then I disgust myself, too. Afterwards I always feel a little sick inside.’
Later, the same year of the Spanish holiday, Sam let her cousin Donald explore her body through her dress – breasts, belly – while kissing her mouth. He was two years older than her. They were sitting on a bench beside the canal, no one else around. He became bolder; she allowed it. She touched him. And in touching him that way her thoughts returned to the sundrenched pool in Spain, and Francisco pressing against her.
The memory raked her senses. She saw the sperm in the water like poison. Even as Donald’s sperm spilled over her small fist, over her bare legs.
Her own orgasm was sudden and unexpectedly fierce.
‘It frightened poor Don, I think,’ Sam said. ‘As if his rough fingers had done me some great harm. Caused me to throw a fit. But it was because of Francisco, because of what happened in Spain. When I cried out that way beside the canal, Donald nearly ran for it. Seriously. He looked shocked. I sat there yodeling, legs scissoring, never wanting it to end…!’
Her laughter was gently self-mocking. She had this way of disappearing just when you thought you could see the real Sam. She often did it through her laughter.
She saw most men as sexually feeble by the time I knew her. She craved men with physical power, power to conquer her, to take her. Hard men with rough hands. She desired to fall, to lay in defamation, degradation, to drown in physical abuse – to be used and humiliated. Ultimately, these needs of hers destroyed her marriage. Left her feeling empty, unhappy and alone.
After she told me about Francisco, I went to bed. I lay awake a long time in the dark. My head was filled with images, one superimposed on another, like reels of film haphazardly spliced together and slowly uncoiling. I thought of the girl Sam had been and the woman she’d become.
I felt Sam’s life had indeed been branded by that Spaniard. If she’d never crossed his path, how much different could her life have been? Would she be happy now? Contented? Or would something else have damaged her beyond repair?
‘It was his eyes,’ Sam told me. ‘His eyes more than his cock frightened me. They were so intense, I had to look away. Couldn’t face them. Gypsy eyes…Or then again, perhaps, I never really looked away at all?
‘Yes,’ she repeated. ‘It was his eyes. What I glimpsed inside there tainted all the remaining moments of love in my life…’
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014
I dance a ribbon path,
create hundreds of bubbles,
and dark rocks are smoothed.
A gull holds the air, the lifeguard
returns with the flag, and a small
crab scurries from a bucket.
Sand engulfed the sea surges,
channeled gully smacked with surf,
ocean swell climbing.
Ice creams in hand, a crowd gathers,
cameras capture whipped aqua waves –
that holiday moment.
One mother feeds her child,
stickleback youngsters race ashore
and a spaniel heads for home.
Scrambling for higher ground, a family
splits like slate in the heat of harsh words –
ten days magnified in close up.
Noisy and giddy from gushing to meet
what I am not,
I’m not myself:
but ready for the high tide,
white sun and horizon mist,
to dissolve the sting of salt.
May 28, 2014
On the face of things,
you’re perfect, all angles right.
In fact, I could frame you.
Slap you between four slices
of board, crop your untidy
woolly edges and hang you
over the head of my bed.
I’d study your features
as one might a Rubens. Write
poems to you, feed you tit-bits,
teach you dance steps, dress
you in Levi’s and sleeveless T’s.
Parade you out on holidays,
keep parts well oiled, muscled
for the sessions.
Bottle your pheromones.
All I ask is that you keep your lips
slightly parted for a show
of teeth, a mixing of tongues,
your fly in good working order.
Do we have a deal?
It could work you know, this
shoot, this coupling conceived
between the covers of Cosmo.
“That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coalbins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain.”
The October Country