Time

September 27, 2015

clock

I know time,
I know his name,
his face,
how he creeps like a shadow
always something to tell.

I know his ways,
how he plays tricks
in the darkness
games in the light,

he takes what he likes
because he can; he is a thief
stealing hours, days,
sometimes whole years
not for pleasure,
he must,
he cannot help what is in him,
like DNA,
his eyes, his feet,
the shape of his hands.

He never thinks of tomorrow,
only the now,
spends it like currency
‘til the moment is gone.

Yes, I know time,
I know him
and those who remain,
stout friends
who settle my hours and days,
live on my moments,
in my eyes, my ears

and whisper his secrets
for the rest of my years.

Carolyn Edwards

(Carolyn Edwards’ work regularly appears on-line at Words-Myth, Poetry Kit and Caught in the Net )

Witchcraft in Cornwall…

September 27, 2015

Saturday night fetish…

September 27, 2015

hangover sundayfetish_party_by_queen_of_escape

Still recovering from Batman Day!

WOW!!

Big confession, though – my recovery is more to do with our private munch last night, rather than the “Caped Crusader”.

But what the hell. Eighteen guests, plenty of costumes, leather and lurex, tats galore, the hypnotic sound of a leather crop on tender flesh. We had it all. And good food, with even better wine – and some vintage brandy, which knocked me about terribly.

A young woman in a figure-hugging latex dress (I really don’t remember her name, Christsake, I know I should, but I don’t) smiled at me outside the loo. The guy she was with, Timbo, was wearing tight, tight shorts, torso bare, ball gag hanging from his neck. A gangly-leggy-thing, fuzzy red-hair, friend of Gabby, asked me will I do a Tarot reading for her.

‘Yes,’ I told her. ‘But not now. Tomorrow. Right now I want a pee…’

And in between the fun and games, the eating and the drinking, a lot of talk about, believe it or not, Jeremy Corbyn, the new Labour Party leader. To the media he is the Devil incarnate. To many of his own party he has no coherent forward agenda. Civil war must follow within the party – or so it’s suggested. But the man can’t be all bad. His favorite book is Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary.

Our little party broke-up around half-three, four o’clock, after we toasted the new day, and after the woman with the whip and chains hanging over her naked shoulders told me I had a “cute smile”.

Ahhh, such a wonderful pervy night. Friends like these don’t grow on trees. They take years to acquire. I am so, so lucky. Barbara summed it up when she said, “It’s like getting very drunk. A special head trip. Everything becomes so lovely and vague…”

Can’t wait to do it all again!