Finished reading…

February 17, 2015


Any excuse…

February 17, 2015


Any excuse to buy a book is a good one.


I lie to myself….

February 17, 2015


I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me.

S.E. Hinton
The Outsiders

She arches her body….

February 17, 2015


She arches her body like a cat on a stretch. She nuzzles her cunt into my face like a filly at the gate. She smells of the sea. She smells of rockpools when I was a child. She keeps a starfish in there. I crouch down to taste the salt, to run my fingers around the rim. She opens and shuts like a sea anemone. She’s refilled each day with fresh tides of longing.

Jeanette Winterson
Written on the Body

Muppet Wisdom….

February 17, 2015


Macbeth Mug….

February 17, 2015


Gazing On Midnight

February 17, 2015


If I could write until your moistened eyes
would bleed the ghostly moon all bloodshot red,
so that my words might echo ever afterafterafter
when you gaze after midnight, all alone.

Then you would understand my Keatsian mind
and I’d abandon writing, streaming tears.
For words would phantom my invisible ink,
to bend your midnight to soliloquy.

If I could write like that, I would die orange:
tart worlds around the sweetest left unpenned.
Yet Keats, alone at midnight, failed to worth
of words alive beyond his feeble pen.

So I’ll continue writing my dark night,
each firefly unknown and vanishing
beyond that ghostly future, wrapped in shades.
I cannot be a poet when I’m dead.

Imminent with sunshine, to bring joy
and hope of immortality when long-gone.
Otherwise – at least I’ll not feel SAD,
nor wreck my neighbours’ nerves beneath the moon.

Wendy Webb