I didn’t know that…!

August 28, 2015



August 28, 2015


Watch you…

August 28, 2015


“Dorian used to watch you like a starving man who wants meat. Now he looks at you like he wants seconds.”

Richelle Mead
Thorn Queen

A writer speaks…

August 28, 2015

Reading today…

August 28, 2015



From the passing-by of bars his gaze has grown
so tired that he can take no more;
as if there were to him a thousand bars
and then behind the thousand bars no world.

The soft and supple steps of his strong stride
which turns itself in ever-tighter circles
is like a dance of strength around a centre
where a great will stands stultified.

Only sometimes the curtain of the pupils
slides open soundlessly. Then a picture enters,
goes through the tensile stillness of the limbs
and in the heart it dies.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Translated by Duncan Forbes


August 28, 2015


Sharp dreams about hunting the bear
The bear hiding in the tall bushes
A bad dream to dream about the bear
About the bear of the night
About a magical bear I cannot see
In the tall bushes of the night
A dream about hunting the bear
A dream about dreaming of the fox
A dream about a screaming fox
Bearer of bad omen
A dream about the woodpecker
A woodpecker pounding the home
A warning dream of death

Mariana Zavati

(Mariana zavati Gardner is a bilingual poet (Romanian and English), literary critic, writer and translator. Of Romanian origin, she is now established in the United Kingdom. Literary pseudonyms used over the years are: Mariana zavati, Mariana Gardner, Mariana Yulia. Her poetry collections include: Whispers, UK 1998, The Jorney, Published by Poetry Books, UK 1999, Watermarks, UK 2000, Travellers/Călătorii, 60 bilingual poems, Criterion Publishing, USA & Romania, 2001, The Spinning Top: Snapshot Poems, UK 2001, Pilgrims/Pelerini, bilingual poems, Editura Napoca Star, Cluj, 2002, Bequests/Moșteniri, Editura Etnograph, Cluj-Napoca, 2003)

A different bridge

August 28, 2015


As if watching a valley
from a distant ridge,
I will be crossing
by a different bridge.

The shine on the walls,
the shadows on the floors
will wash differently
though these are the same shores.

Habits will retreat,
difference encroach,
the crossing trains
leave where they approached;

the altered light
splash into the brain,
an overheard radio’s
radiant refrain.

Alistair Noon

(Alistair Noon was born in the UK but has lived in Berlin since the early nineties where he works as a translator. His poetry and translations from German and Russian have appeared in nine chapbooks from small presses. His first collection was Earth Records from Nine Arches Press, 2012; other chapbooks include: Out of the Cave from Calder Wood Press, 2011: Across the Water and Swamp Area both 2012 from Longbarrow Press)


They call this passion…bent over a desk, Wiseman’s fat cock half up me. He was a hatchet-faced relief teacher, employed to cover two terms that year.

We were in the upper fifth: a big, high, yellowing room, three floors up in a Victorian building of crimson brick with cream stone dressing. Like all the classrooms it smelled of lavender floor polish and disappointment. Its normal occupants were at games for the next hour. Wiseman wouldn’t be interrupted.

Earlier he’d tried to kiss me, but I’d turned my head away. Instead he’d nuzzled my neck, the smell of him sour like milk on the turn. The old bastard quickly, skillfully unfastened my trousers, pulling them down round my thighs. Then he bent me over the desk.

Seconds later, I felt the head of his cock brushing me. He got it between the cheeks, pulling them wide apart with stubby thumbs. I could tell he’d done this before…he was just too certain, too practiced in his moves. Not gentle, though. He forced it up an inch at a time until I felt his balls pressing against me. He used it like a battering ram.

He’d done this with me before, of course. First time was in the small bog on the second floor – officially the “staff” loo, but everyone used it. I’d wanked him off in there like there was no tomorrow, my hand a pale blur on his short, fat thing. The sink creaked under his weight as his cum splattered the green vinyl flooring. He gave me a quid, insisting on my silence in return.

‘Discretion is everything in these matters,’ he said. ‘You understand? I doubt anyone would believe you any way…if you were to say anything, that is. I’m a happily married man with two teenage daughters – ’

He put his cock in my mouth and almost choked me in the annex one lunchtime. The annex was supposed to be locked during lunchbreak, but he had a key and took me in there. Afterwards I skived off for the afternoon, went to the cinema and he covered for me…

Bent over the desk in the upper fifth, I could see out the window. Trees and shops along the High Road, the corrugated roof of the bicycle shed on the farside of the quadrangle. The air was like glass drinking summer rain, like a tightrope holding our ends down. He enjoyed the tightening and clenching of my body, I could tell. His breathing became ragged, the desk creaking with each rough thrust. Our belt buckles rattled together and he moaned ‘Lovely, Oh, so lovely’ shooting his load way up where the sun will never shine.

He pulled out. I stayed as I was for awhile. Bland acceptance of the inevitable, you’d call it. I used my handkerchief to wipe the muck running out of me, then wedged it between the cheeks and pulled up my pants.

‘Get yourself some tuck, boy.’ He gave me a handful of coins. His normally sallow complexion was flushed. ‘I’ll cancel those two detentions you have for this Friday evening.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

We were all living on the darkside of the moon back then. Even when Wiseman was feeling me up, I was thinking about girls, their panties the colour of clouds. Their budding breasts. Their scent. That’s what made me hard for him. He liked to see mine standing stiff. I wondered about his daughters, imagined them half-undressed for my pleasure…

I hated the man, despised him, his lusting for lust. I Hated the school, too. I was so full of rage back then, I could have set the feckin’ sky ablaze. But Wiseman’s days with us were numbered.

He was so much his own worst enemy and was anything but wise. His only sincerity was his often repeated desire for secrecy. He was a thief who abused his position. He stole smiles from the faces of various boys and locked them in the prison of his rough lusts. I wasn’t his only conquest / victim / cum-slut. There were others, trapped in silence, who accepted his favours, his gifts and treats. He was cunning, yes. But stupid, also.

He didn’t know when enough was enough. His lust for fresh flesh was out of control. He tried it on with John T, and John reported him to Mrs M, our form mistress; she went straight to the headmistress – and Wiseman was out the door an hour later. No big fuss, no police, no wringing of hands: discretion then was everything. The school’s name, its reputation was everything. And Wiseman, undismayed, would have found himself a new position, new boys to bend over desks…


August 28, 2015


Should you die
I shall not lay and stare, I shall not weep.
I shall not let my own life stray
in half-days and in three-quarter nights.
No, I shall lead, spear-thrusting out
into the thickening fray.

Should you die
I shall not toss and turn, I shall not weep.
I shall not count my own short time
in half-days and in three-quarter nights.
No, I shall row, hard-oaring out
into the swallowing brine.

Should you die
I shall not scream and rage, I shall not weep.
I shall not miss my own heart’s beat
each half-day, and each three-quarter night.
No, I shall ride, careering out
into the mustering heat.

Fanni Mari