lifted up my skirt

December 1, 2015


My last significant boyfriend was never able to give me a vaginal orgasm, but like my first boyfriend, he was also very good at oral. Nothing much to report about his abilities, but he did do something once that again literally brought me to my knees. We were standing in the living room, he was saying goodbye before he went to work. “Come here,” he instructed. Then he lifted up my skirt and started squeezing my meat cushions. He moaned. I could feel his soldier salute. Then he stopped, looked into my eyes, licked his index finger, and slid it inside me. He moaned again, pulled his finger out, put it in his mouth, sucked my female essence off him, and moaned again. He walked away, leaving me frozen and flooded. My knees buckled and I fell to the carpet. Having said that, it was probably one of too few moments where he managed to actually turn me on.

Source HERE

sweat and skin

December 1, 2015


Coloured lights splintered behind my eyes. For a few brief, blissful moments, all thought, all memory, dissolved like sugar in water. I was free. There was nothing but sweat and skin, hot harsh breath against my neck, a cock driving into me. Raw, undeserved pleasure stolen from a stranger in a dark room”

Alexis Hall

War Games

December 1, 2015

Chess Pieces

Your bishop zig-zags
across the board as I capture,
burn brain cells at both ends.

News-at-Ten a back-drop, a hum
of food scares, royal engagements,
a storm of flashbulbs threatening seizures.

Then Kosovo, the hard stuff.
The invasion of a Bosnia, Chechnya,
TV war of the month. Finger on remote.

A photo journalist stands feet away, shoots
as though the camera will shield his flesh
or calm a child crying yards from the lens.

Click. Vets in Practice, Ready Steady Cook,
any action but that action – real
to reel. Not like 600 years ago

when news took months to paint
and helmets covered the scared
faces of boys. Uccello, you knew

better than to prop up your easel
in fields charged with testosterone,
banners and horses with vacant eyes.

In your studio, you could pretend –
add an extra hoof or two,
an iridescent turban for impact.

Subtract a howl,
an agonised stare,
a flag in the wrong colour.

After San Romano, did you go out
to survey the wreckage, the flail
of shiny armour in fertile fields?

Did you get a whiff of those over-ripe
oranges and did they impart a citrus
tinge to the smell of body parts?

Or did you cover board with fantasy,
invent knights, action heroes to hang
in grand parlours, galleries,
above the heads of French schoolgirls,
exhausted London tourists, filling
fifteen minutes before lunch?

Joyce Mandel Walter

(Joyce Mandel Walter was originally from Brooklyn, NY. She now lives in Kent and works as a journalist and editor in London. Her poetry has won awards, prizes and has been widely published.)


December 1, 2015


Peedeel recovers slowly from the Christmas party. His body looks (and feels) as if it had been left overnight in a medieval bear pit with one very pissed-off Grisly.

He fasts.

He contemplates infinity.

Music is his only companion: Verdi, Mozart, early Pink Floyd –

Another wet, blustery morning here. The moor looks windswept and waterlogged. There is, apparently, a tribe where lovers bite each other’s lips until they bleed. It’s a rite to prove fidelity. Ferocious in the extreme – yet one I may have experienced myself, catching sight of my face in the bathroom mirror earlier.

So much in the media about bombing. Let’s bomb Syria…perhaps we’ve grown bored with bombing ISIS in Iraq? Is that it? Is it to become the new national sport, a televisual replacement for all that tedious football?

War creates war.

The UK Prime Minister makes much of the ‘self-defense against terrorism’ argument but his statement that ‘the main threats against this country are planned and orchestrated’ in Raqqa, Syria, is not backed up by any hard evidence. Smoke and mirrors, boys and girls. The government is determined to prevent people in the UK dying at the hands of terrorists, while simultaneously turning its back on British people dying as a result of its own policies.

Ahh, “NONESENSE”, you cry! “RUBBISH!”

And yet we have just had a report linking the government’s Work Capability Assessment to an extra 590 suicides! See Here.

And you will note, of course, Peedeel mentions only briefly the numbers of ‘excess winter deaths’ in the UK last year, the highest for fifteen years: mainly the elderly, and due generally speaking to hyperthermia and crap diet. Oh, well, old people are going to die anyway, aren’t they? Put the buggers out of their misery.

Of course the UK needs to be seen to stand beside its allies, the US and France. France’s President Hollande, a failed leftwing politician in bad domestic trouble, sank his country in the murky swamp that is Syria months ago. The many alleged genocides committed by ISIS received scant attention in the western media prior to the recent Paris attacks. Instead newspapers and TV concentrated attention on the odd outrage involving individuals from various parts of the western world usually decapitated on YouTube, and the unsupported boasts of dull-eyed ISIS fighters.

And Russia, of course, stands beside its ally: Bashar Assad. This Russian involvement troubles Washington greatly. There the Hawks shake in their boots – what if the Ruskies isolate and defeat ISIS? What then?

The war in Syria against Bashar Assad is purely sectarian – Bashar belongs to a Shiia subset while the population is largely Sunni. The US really has no business meddling in this war except to grab the chance to sell arms to one side or the other. Make a bit of a profit. Saddam Hussein was probably a Shiia masquerading as Sunni, just as Bhuttos and Musharraf are. This practice to save one’s life to pretend to be of the other sect is called Taqiya and is permitted by the Quran, However Saddam closed his eyes to sporadic killing of Shiias by Sunis in parts of his country thereby antagonizing the Shiia majority in Iraq. Hence his days became numbered.

So we have a war where Sunnis kill Shiites and the UK wants to drop “smart bombs” into this messy inferno to sort it all out. Really? You couldn’t make this sort of thing up, boys and girls. As fiction it’d be rejected by any sensible reader! Unfortunately, this isn’t fiction, it’s our world today: the Frankenstein monster we’ve helped to create!!