Fetish Odes

October 9, 2015


Yesterday was National Poetry Day in the UK but Peedeel was off with the fisherman at the Falmouth Oyster Festival. Instead of posting poetry to his blog, he was getting quietly pissed intoxicated. So now he posts this to compensate:

Who introduced forgiveness, sorrow,
the stupor of my share? I will be filled when you are also,
with courage and beautiful things.

I remember it well,
on the first evening in the one-dimensional bed.
I said to myself, here the turning,
then you approached, put yourself against me,
enabling my desire, and the night stopping,
the light disencumbered, going quickly from there.

I reassemble to reach all centres, all cherish
the interior of it with the exterior,
and on the first dimension
make it roll, slip its hand, then make it
to be put on the belly.
I withdraw, embrace it from top down,
the caress with yours raised, then removed.

I am able to reach the mouth, making it,
and apply to please you, relieving,
functioning a long moment thus,
head and calves,
therefore I insist well, and it obviously lends.

I raise it in my arms
and into the first dimension put it.
I see your glance and I can only agree
exchange and good process.
It takes its time, and I unquiet
try to move
the dimensions of my face,
but it does not seem to include/understand/occupy
elsewhere my formal diagnostic.

With the instant I reopen my eyes,
my sex so deeply hidden in the mouth
I imagine my nipple cutting through a path, entering
the hemispheres of the brain.
I made the balances. I had a moment of emotion

while falling
on something I sought since
these last years.

In the beginning, being wary,
I do not believe in it too much.
I inspect the trick, good, and greater than in my memories.
Was it necessary to see me perched,
encircled by furies of the balances,
taken with the trap between
love and trouble, between obligations and embarrassment,
epic with the word?


It is not by desire that it arrives,
assuming a mechanical role, the wives
saying with a small smile: I shall accompany you,
the eyes of these ladies igniting.
The gods had covered their decoration
learnedly, chaotic with slapdash high seasons.
They were engulfed under pink-candy signs,
devoted to scrupulous examination
of each model presented, their upstream words.

Emerging among mine, they connect.
The spirit recovered, conversation
says to me that one should have gone
more quickly to facilitate the passage.
Your throat is spread for languages I do not remember,
a long quiet plan soaked
with the loneliness of two people.

Usual paradox: it says
it is normal for a woman making deux/trois
then emotional blackmail
of the way I know you will leave me,
but withdraw this idea
so when making love you have it,
not to go now then leaving later.

You will add, you will stress, it therefore
starts with you
to leave, the idea that I will leave you.
You hold the remote control: enough, yes.


In the cupboard— chaos.

I dream hastily in porno.
Was it necessary that I hide it?
Was it especially necessary to appear wise
in the cupboard?
It is a gift, every morning every morning, I chose it.
You would not have seized the message,
a dream which held me with its heat,
an open door towards the unknown factor.
Every morning I was beautiful,
threading with it half naked.

We live seated, eat pre-cooks,
and the camera holds us, place, glance and memory.
Tomorrow will be widespread,
a soft thing in computers with hinged jibs.
And if we keep silent ourselves?
And if we are made to be silent,
like that, one day, to test, to see?

Not the telephone, not conversations—
However, one can have the feeling
while depriving oneself briefly of a thing,
it is only one idea, then to make the experiment of it,
tomorrow wishing silence,
if others want to be tested there, which one day,
which three hours, to take part
in this withdrawal of the words and will
and the dream posed there.

In the cupboard, chaos—
I had a dream hastily,
and it is you who put words there,
and I will come to shout to you, you

who are the other world, another species, a new kind.

I will crawl teeth and navel
until I am certain in the final analysis,
looking at you between the moon, the rain
and the hour of winter
that you forget the material world, erecting scaffolding
on the backs of comets only to regulate today,
to make platforms with the height of the lie.


Night covered all the valley
and the bell-tower sounded 17 blows.
The sex of men held up
in spite of mercury not favourable
and foreskins folded up with gales, far
from any possibility of desire. Still, the lark
felt the temperature sensual in negative figures.
Is the lark not wanting, however worthy,
looking at the sky in a call to snow,
which could finally conquer it?
The first snow manufactured houses,
or what would be its house, as long as this sun
will not appear too little, in the best years,
and the perishable habitat remains
in the long, first cold.

It had gone a good rate, already singing its icy songs,
the glance towards the sky, requesting to meet it,
occurring suddenly, joined
together in boldness in snow stiffening.
This was the beginning, the beautiful,
long history to shake loose time’s losses and persevere.

I found a beach, black and sticky,
my feathers washed gently. I passed by this phase.
I was not alone in this nightmare.
It is with you, you and you that I think,
questioning, taking risks.
The heart names its torture to discover it.

Estill Pollock

(Estill Pollock’s poetry demonstrates a willingness to engage language in ritual terms, along what Paul Celan termed “the creaturely path”, with an inventiveness that is at once therapeutic and electric. His latest collection is “Relic Environment” from cinnamon Press. See more HERE)

Time Passes By

October 9, 2015


His thumb is cold against the highway
the cardboard direction turns to pulp in his hand
Every headlight breeds desperate hope.
(Car passes by)

The cloth hat is weighed down with copper
Hands that throw lack the blue tips of his nails
Every suit looks the other way
(Man passes by)

His shadow moans in grief against the battlements
Pregnant monologues desert the sickness in his head
For the love of a father cruelly replaced
(Ghost passes by)

The old man walks in deafening silence
Listens to the balloons of children’s talk
A walking stick takes his weight as he cries
(Time passes by)

Rob Coles

What Happened to Kerouac?

October 9, 2015


I’ve never read Breakfast at Tiffany’s
(Or even fancied Audrey Hepburn – Katherine
In The African Queen for me)
I’ve never read anything by Truman Capote
(Though I reckon I’d like In Cold Blood)
Or seen any of the films made about him
And I’ve nothing against Truman Capote
Except for what he said about Kerouac’s writing
(Which I won’t draw any more attention to here
Than I already have)
And I’m not going to call Capote a shithead
Like I was going to. Instead I’m going to re-read
Mexico City Blues and On the Road and Big Sur
And The Dharma Bums and Maggie Cassidy
And drink to a man who died of alcoholism at 47
Condemned by one flip comment and breaking for the new.

Neil Campbell

(Neil Campbell is co-editor of Manchester’s poetry & new writing magazine “Lamport Court” & author of “Broken Doll” from Salt, 2007)

Good Seasonal Message…

October 9, 2015


Reading this morning…

October 9, 2015



October 9, 2015


Haunt an old house.
Ask for a treat.
Laugh like a witch.
Lick something sweet.
Offer a trick.
Wander a maze.
Echo a boo.
Exclaim the phrase—
Normal’s unnatural on Halloween!

Richelle E. Goodrich, Making Wishes: Quotes, Thoughts, & a Little Poetry for Every Day of the Year


last celebratory rite…

October 9, 2015


Some Witches look on Samhain as a time to prepare for the long, dark months of winter, a time of introspection and drawing inward. They may bid goodbye to the summer with one last celebratory rite. They may have harvest feasts, with vegetables and fruits they have grown, or home-brewed cider or mead. They may give thanks for what they have, projecting for abundance through the winter. Still others may celebrate with costume parties, enjoying treats and good times with friends. There are as many ways of observing Samhain as there are Witches in the world!

Peg Aloi
We Call It Samhain