How the sound of the sea
throwing shingle onto the shore
at first drowned the sound of crying
until we nearly fell on top of her
half buried in a hole.
A pair of scarlet shoes sat by her side
heels spiked into the sand
the sea licking their sharp toes.
She was wrapped in a shawl
embroidered with roses
that smelled of Mitsouko
her little fingers entwined in the fringe.
I clutched her up and felt
the sharp edge of a silver bangle
cutting into her wrist,
moist from the dampness
that clings to the shore.
We glanced out to sea
hopeful, suddenly sober,
the wind numbing our cheeks.

Josephine Scott


January 4, 2016


When I undress, I find upon my thigh
The punctuation of a row of wounds.
Small as a pin, in twos and threes they lie
In little crescents. No, you heard no sounds
When I was making fond love to that beast,
Your unregenerate cat; I suffered all
His passionate attention without cry.
And now his mark is here upon my thigh.
Devious emotions simmer in my breast.
(I cannot tell of yours.) Do you recall
His rapturous reception of my touch?
See how my hands move through the delicate fur.
I sit at a distance from you, making much
Of your spayed pet, coaxing a deepening purr;
While all the time his claws sink in my thigh.

Valerie Smith


January 4, 2016


As we shook hands I wondered idly what her urine looked like.

Patrick McGrath
Dr. Haggard’s Disease

escape the madness

January 4, 2016


Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation.

Graham Greene
Ways Of Escape


January 4, 2016


Sex is now a conceptual act, it’s probably only in terms of the perversions that we can make contact with each other at all.

J.G. Ballard
The Atrocity Exhibition


“Ah – the autumn leaves,’ she exclaimed, ‘spinning earthwards, to their common home! Ah me, life is strange! Would you care to hear my triolet on the leaves?’

‘Later,’ I said.

‘No, here. I would like the leaves to hear it too. A simple little thought, but expressed, I tell myself, not unworthily. Thought cannot be new, Norman; it is the expression that matters.’

She rested her chin in one of her hands, gazed dreamily at the leaves, and declaimed:

‘Sweet little leaves so brown and thin,
Sycamore, beech, oak, elm and lime;
Soon will your year again begin,
Sweet little leaves so brown and thin.
Sycamore, beech, oak, elm and lime,
Victims of winter, weather and time –
Sweet little leaves so brown and thin,
Sycamore, beech, oak, elm and lime.”

Frank Baker
Miss Hargreaves