Nothing On TV

October 7, 2015

Yeeeeees

Tie me to the bedposts
and ignore me for a while
then when I get restless
come and make me smile

Oh smother me in kisses
caress me with your lips
and if that isn’t working
feel free to try the whips

lets both be transgressive
theres nothing thats taboo
light the hot wax candles
it’s the only way to woo

but first unplug the ‘phone
in case mom calls to nag
I’d only sound incoherent
mumbling behind a gag

under my demure exterior
I admit there’s another me
it’s time you got to meet her
‘cos there’s nothing on TV

Elliedark

driving

On this shared road westwards
where Donne thought deep into faith,
the car kicks down a gear and the
A5 unspools its tune like ferric tape,
the tyres’ slow hymn on tarmac,
perhaps I dare to think of hope;
on the cusp of winter’s long tenancy
wondering if, when, spring come again;
if, after this austere new ice age,
we can ever know what’s really been lost.

The Roman road’s shattered spine
now arches through a wayside hinterland;
small towns pick-pocketing each other,
stripped of their old callings and clinging
to name alone; the setting sun shatters
between pylon and gantry, local colour
bled out into warehousing valleys,
artics shunting a service economy
from hub to hub, supplying demand
in a strategically-decommissioned landscape.

Into the westerly sunset – at Donne’s back
the weight of imagery, of blood and thorns,
he almost dared not to turn and face.
In my rear-view, the heartlands of old beliefs,
handed-down songs; my own forming:
the alternative, a future that wasn’t a dirty word,
if only we could build it, cradle to grave,
with our minds and hands and hearts.
The cruellest month begins with the cruellest
of jokes; you wake to find that hope’s flown.

Deeper westwards, and into the embrace of
slate rising, Donne’s route drops in dying light
and soars, at last, as he prepares to glance back.
On the radio, Amy sings the urban blues, the engine
gulps back the miles; we run on, away from
or into trouble, into the darkest of nights.
Bring your hopes and your proven fears,
keep a kind eye out for your fellow traveller:
we might need each other more from now on.

Jane Commane

(Jane Commane has had poems published in “Tears in the Fence, And Other Poems”, “ The Morning Star”, “ Iota” and “Anon” and collected in “Best British Poetry 2011”. She’s an editor at Nine Arches Press and co-editor at “Under the Radar” magazine.)

discreetly

digging snow…

October 7, 2015

Handsinsnow

Then he started digging snow up with both hands, and he covered them good, the two of them, and then he stood up and looked out on the unfurling white land. There was blue sky and a full yellow sun. Warmer now, there was even that kind of sweetness that comes on sunny winter days. It made him think of pretty women on ice skates, their cheeks touched perfect red by the cold, their eyes daring and blue.

Ed Gorman
Death Ground

About tits again…

October 7, 2015

nicetits

In the end…

October 7, 2015

theend

Thought for today…

October 7, 2015

restofus

Reading today…

October 7, 2015

whiphand

Not a book for the faint hearted, this one. Vivid sex scenes, surprisingly explicit for its time, and plenty of violence, but none gratuitous…

A non-explicit excerpt:

“You might say it was warm in Dallas.

“The middle of America. A gathered-in collection of white buildings wanting to be a city. Heat waves rising from pavement and bricks. A large town sprawling and shimmering in the Texas sun. A fitting destination after the miserable trip through the desert.

“I had picked a great place to start over. The dubious prospect of this new start was crowding for space with the pain in my head.

“My assets were not impressive. An ex-cop who could hardly apply for police work. In green gabardine with black shoes, I’d be irresistible to prospective employers. A three-day growth of black beard and no razor. One thin dime in the cash on hand. Ten cents. I could buy coffee.”

Halloween…

October 7, 2015

magic-forest-by-arsenii-gerasymenko

Tis the night—the night
Of the grave’s delight,
And the warlocks are at their play;
Ye think that without,
The wild winds shout,
But no, it is they—it is they!

Arthur Cleveland Coxe
Halloween: A Romaunt

give you all the best…

October 7, 2015

harry holland

I give you virtually everything I have. I give you all the best things I have, and while these things are things that I like, memories that I treasure, good or bad, like the pictures of my family on my walls, I can show them to you without diminishing them. I can afford to give you everything.”

Dave Eggers
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius