Starlight Rendezvous

October 31, 2015


Curtain down, lamps snuffled,
Some of the dancers
Winding down their legs,

are out meeting dog-walkers,
Across a sea of faeces;
Draw on their Capstans.

A Guinness clock Toucan,
pecks at 11’ o clock; in
an age of nylon -,

And rock n’ roll waltzes,
Madam Rosa wraps up cards,
on the eastern night pier.

Drunken sputniks tumble
down over the displaced,
the small planets, converge;

we sleep on an ex-doctor’s sofa,
here on Rodentia close,
After four whisky-sours-,

Several galaxies are
Breaking out into collisions,
In the dark front of our eyes.

Lorna Liffen

Lorna Liffen is from a family of chemists and palmists, although not clairvoyant or working in a lab herself. First came to poetry in about 1990. She has had collections out from Hub Editions and a verse-play.

Mojo Mirror…

October 31, 2015


This one uses the reflective power of a mirror to return bad energy back to someone who deserves it. The results on your target will usually be closely related to what they did to you in the first place. A very appropriate Voodoo revenge spell.

• A small mirror without a frame (try a craft store)
• Black paint
• Dark rum

Do this spell after the sun goes down, though you don’t have to actually be in the dark when you perform it. Pour rum over the mirror, and leave it on a cloth or in a dish to air dry on its own. Once the rum has dried, use a brush to paint a thick X over the face of the mirror.

Repeat the name of the person you are casting the spell on 5 times, and then smash the mirror (do this over newspaper or cloth to minimize the mess). Gather up the shards and throw them in the garbage. Even though the mirror is not left intact, it’s reflective energy persists to keep this Voodoo revenge spell active until it reaches your target.

Source HERE.


He took the sacramental chalice, and stretching forth his bare arm, cried in a loud voice, ‘Come ye viewless ministers of this dread hour! come from the fenny lake, the hanging rock, and the midnight cave! The moon is red – the stars are out – the sky is burning – and all nature stands aghast at what we do!’ Then replacing the sacred vessel on the altar, he drew, one by one, from different parts of his body, from his knotted hair, from his bosom, from beneath his nails, the unholy things which he cast into it.

‘This,’ said he, ‘I plucked from the beak of a raven feeding on a murderer’s brains! This is the mad dog’s foam! These the spurgings of a dead man’s eyes, gathered since the rising of the evening star! This is a screech-owl’s egg! This a single drop of black blood, squeezed from the heart of a sweltered toad! This, an adder’s tongue! And here, ten grains of the gray moss that grew upon a skull which had lain in the charnel-house three hundred years! What! Not yet?’ And his eyes seemed like balls of fire as he cast them upwards. ‘Not yet? I call ye once! I call ye twice! Dare ye deny me! Nay, then, as I call ye thrice, I’ll wound mine arm, and as it drops, I’ll breathe a spell shall cleave the ground and drag you here!’

William Mudford
Reign of Terror

all lights dim…

October 31, 2015


“…yes I understand your spells — your sex magic — at least, I know this: all lights dim when you walk in…”

John Geddes
A Familiar Rain

Welcome one and all…

October 31, 2015


Peeing Song

October 30, 2015


I frequently pee in the shower.
More often I pee in the bath.
Outside on the ground when there’s no-one around
I pee and I pee and I laugh.

On occasion I pee on the hearth rug,
then scrub it and wash it and boil it.
When my mother is here we are very austere
and both of us pee in the toilet.

My cousin pees daily when drinking green tea –
she does the whole thing with élan.
Like a fountain she pees and with great expertise
insists that she pissed in the pan.

I have an old friend in Ohio –
her bladder is second to none.
How sad for the person she pees on.
She calls him (such subtlety!) John.

I pee when the moon is ascending
or when my silk underwear nips;
I pee with huge might in the depths of the night
and during each solar eclipse.

I pee when I’m writing my poems:
they begin with a ‘p’ and they end
with an ‘s’ like the hiss of a wee that has missed
or a flush that has gone round the bend.

Helena Nelson

Helena Nelson works in a further education college in Fife. When she was at school, she played the triangle in the Senior School Orchestra. She is now performing a simlilar role in the world of contemporary poetry.


October 30, 2015


So delicate and ripe
Fruit waiting to be picked
I can smell the sweetness
Before I even dive in
So excited the anticipation
Has me famished
And us both leaking
So earnest in my approach
My descent seems snail’s pace
Spreading her open wide
Caressing those thick buttery thighs
My moans haven’t developed yet
So all I can do is sigh
As I plant delicate kisses along each thigh
Tongue tracing the curves of her love
Nuzzling my nose in her fresh mound
Inhaling the intoxicating essence
This meal may stick to my ribs
Running my tongue along get dripping cavern
Such a sweet drink
Sweeter than my dream
My thirst has been ignited
As I envelope her between my lips
I feel her pearl throb and twitch
My tongue can’t resist
And as much as i try to pace myself
I become ravenous for her nectar
desperate for her taste
vice grip on her hips
Caught in a frenzy
Oblivious to her moans, cries sighs and thrashing
Her libido is no match for my palate

Alexandria N Brown-Pitts

(Alexandria N Brown-Pitts says that poetry is her first love, her main passion, and she hopes to publish a collection soon).

A Quiet Marriage

October 30, 2015


At home my aunt was queen,
took even the priest’s arrival in her stride.
They had gas-lights high on the wall.
If she touched a mantle
it fluttered broken moth to the floor.
The lavvy was outside
squares of newspaper hanging
from whitewashed brick.

Uncle Tommy rarely spoke smiled with eyes
black as coal he heaved underground.
If he was home he’d fish in his pocket
for a shilling when I left.
No-one else gave me money.
They bought a present for me once
when I passed the scholarship.
Tiny heart on a chain, solid silver.
I’d be quieter than usual
when the priest came – tall as my dad
he’d stand by the fire, long hand pale
against the cornish, missing nothing.

She always gave.
My mam raged, shocked me
when we got home
He disgusts me. Vulture!

He would never accept a cup of tea,
just the money – her discreet gesture
as he left, turning at the door
to bestow a blessing.
They came from all parts of the world
to the funeral. The priest quoted
husband and children.

I thought of her agoraphobia, her smile.

From then on, if he wasn’t in The Bull,
my uncle spent his evenings in the kitchen.
Couldn’t bear to sit in th’house without her.

Joan Poulson

(Joan Poulson is a poet, dramatist, children’s writer and tutor born in Manchester, UK. See blog HERE).

In the multiple orgasm…

October 30, 2015


The clitoris not only applauds when a women flaunts her mastery; it will give a standing ovation. In the multiple orgasm, we see the finest evidence that our lady Klitoris helps those who help themselves. It may take many minutes to reach the first summit, but once there the lusty mountaineer finds wings awaiting her. She does not need to scramble back to the ground before scaling the next peak, but can glide like a raptor on currents of joy.

Natalie Angier
Woman: An Intimate Geography

Aftermath by Oer-Wout

Two kisses in one kiss was all it took, a comfort, a warmth, perhaps temporary, perhaps false, but reassuring nonetheless, and mine, and theirs, ours, all three of us giggling, insane giggles and laughter with still more kisses on the way, and I remember a brief instant then, out of the blue, when I suddenly glimpsed my own father, a rare but oddly peaceful recollection, as if he actually approved of my play in the way he himself had always laughed and played, great updrafts of light, burning off distant plateaus of bistre & sage, throwing him up like an angel, high above the red earth, deep into the sparkling blank, the tender sky that never once let him down, preserving his attachment to youth, propriety and kindness, his plane almost, but never quite, outracing his whoops of joy, trailing him in his sudden turn to the wind, followed then by a near vertical climb up to the angles of the sun, and I was barely eight and still with him and yes, that was the thought that flickered madly through me, a brief instant of communion, possessing me with warmth and ageless ease, causing me to smile again and relax as if memory alone could lift the heart like the wind lifts a wing, and so I renewed my kisses with even greater enthusiasm, caressing and in turn devouring their dark lips, dark with wine and fleeting love, an ancient memory love had promised but finally never gave, until there were too many kisses to count or remember, and the memory of love proved not love at all and needed a replacement, which our bodies found, and then the giggles subsided, and the laughter dimmed, and darkness enfolded all of us and we gave away our childhood for nothing and we died and condoms littered the floor and Christina threw up in the sink and Amber chuckled a little and kissed me a little more, but in a way that told me it was time to leave.”

Mark Z. Danielewski
House of Leaves