How Coffee Works…

April 25, 2015


Small Beauties

April 25, 2015


in Rodin’s garden
the fragrance of pale pink
roses the buzz of bees

I sit eating cheese
and bread listening
to lovers’ conversations

I think of Camille Claudel
in Rodin’s garden
fragrant pink roses

the buzz of bees
her small sculptures
so few of them

were her hands silenced
by her lover’s work
his needs

did she love
modeling clothing half-

in Rodin’s garden
pale pink fragrance
the buzz of bees

in roses how could
it not matter
that her hands stopped

touching clay molding
draping it
over an armature

her sculptures in height
do not come up to the knees
of The Thinker

at the far end of the garden
woman’s work
always in miniature

pale pink roses
the drowse of bees
in Rodin’s garden

Barbara Hoffman



April 25, 2015




I was behind her, you know. Moving against her, in her, with a firm fine rhythm, taking her. She was mine. I told her that, told her what I was going to do to her. I breathed the words into her ear, my breath like fire, and she did something, I don’t know what. Maybe she spread her legs slightly wider, or altered the angle of her hips, but through some feminine magic my cock went suddenly much deeper, an inch that felt like infinity. I held myself there, the head almost lodged in her cervix. It felt totally feckin’ perfect, I was home at last and the world could end whenever it wanted.

Time freezes…

April 25, 2015


“At the moment of orgasm you are living fully and totally in the present. An orgasm is anticipated, like the sunrise on a new day, and unexpected, like winning a prize in a competition you can’t recall having entered. Time freezes and there isn’t a feeling of loss, a void, a little death, but a reminder that of all human activity, none is more perfect.”

Chloe Thurlow
Girl Trade

Breaking up…

April 25, 2015




April 25, 2015


I saw you yesterday
on the floor of British Home Stores
between the lighting and the men’s casuals.
You stood out in your Blues Brother’s shades,
jeans and red shirt.

I called your name
ran towards you.
Your lips didn’t move.
You were still
too still.

The jeans, the shirt,
too new –
too scratchy
for you – the sensitive one.

A window-dresser pushed past me
wrapped her arms around you
called you Dave.

I told her she had your name wrong.

She stared at me.
Took off your glasses

and carried you away.

Letitia Anne Rhys