March 31, 2016

Jeanne Mammen-She represents (carnival scene)

I was born for love –

to give and to receive it.

Yet my life has passed

almost without loving.

So I’ve learned forgiving:

even the deserts

I have crossed

I feel no scorn for.

I just ask them

with astonished eyes:

What gardens were you born for?

Blaga Dimitrova
Translated by Heather McHugh

(Blaga Dimitrova, is author of more than 40 volumes of poetry, novels, plays, essays. )

Love and Sleep

March 31, 2016


Lying asleep between the strokes of night
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
Pale as the duskiest lily’s leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,
But perfect-coloured without white or red.
And her lips opened amorously, and said—
I wist not what, saving one word—Delight.
And all her face was honey to my mouth,
And all her body pasture to mine eyes;
The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,
The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,
The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs
And glittering eyelids of my soul’s desire.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

search for fragments…

March 31, 2016

Books Nick Georgiou

I believe that today more than ever a book should be sought after even if it has only one great page in it. We must search for fragments, splinters, toenails, anything that has ore in it, anything that is capable of resuscitating the body and the soul.

Henry Miller
Tropic of Cancer


I saw him watching me in the gilded mirrors with the assessing eye of a connoisseur inspecting horseflesh, or even of a housewife in the market, inspecting cuts on the slab. I’d never seen, or else had never acknowledged, that regard of his before… When I saw him look at me with lust, I dropped my eyes but, in glancing away from him, I caught sight of myself in the mirror… I saw how much that cruel necklace became me. And, for the first time in my innocent and confined life, I sensed in myself a potentiality for corruption that took my breath away.

Angela Carter
The Bloody Chamber

After Paradise

March 30, 2016

oralsex Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

Don’t run any more. Quiet. How softly it rains
On the roofs of the city. How perfect
All things are. Now, for the two of you
Waking up in a royal bed by a garret window.
For a man and a woman. For one plant divided
Into masculine and feminine which longed for each other.
Yes, this is my gift to you. Above ashes
On a bitter, bitter earth. Above the subterranean
Echo of clamorings and vows. So that now at dawn
You must be attentive: the tilt of a head,
A hand with a comb, two faces in a mirror
Are only forever once, even if unremembered,
So that you watch what it is, though it fades away,
And are grateful every moment for your being.
Let that little park with greenish marble busts
In the pearl-gray light, under a summer drizzle,
Remain as it was when you opened the gate.
And the street of tall peeling porticos
Which this love of yours suddenly transformed.

Czeslaw Milosz


She had black silk stockings on covering her knees, but I was unable to see up as far as the cunt (this name, which I always use for Simone, is, I think, by far the loveliest of the names for the vagina). It merely struck me that by slightly lifting the pinafore from behind, I might see her private parts unveiled.

Now in the corner of the hallway was a saucer of milk for the cat. ‘Milk is for the pussy, isn’t it?’ said Simone. ‘Do you dare me to sit in the saucer?’

‘I dare you,’ I answered, almost breathless.

The day was extremely hot. Simone put the saucer on a small bench, planted herself before me, and, with her eyes fixed on me, she sat down without me being able to see her burning buttocks under the skirt, dipping into the cool milk. The blood shot to my head, and I stood before her awhile, immobile and trembling, as she eyed my stiff cock bulging in my trousers. Then I lay down at her feet without her stirring and for the first time, I saw her pink and dark flesh cooling in the white milk. We remained motionless, both of us equally overwhelmed.

Georges Bataille
Story of the eye

Our sponsor again…

March 30, 2016


Dominate or submit…

March 30, 2016


S Pranam Singh Acrylic on Canvas Lady in Blue Mood
Diary 30th March

Hansa came into our lives when I was eight or nine years of age. She was a mystery to us, an exotic enigma beyond solution. My father called her the “Indian Princess”. Originally from Imphal, in India she came in search, perhaps, of a new civilization. An economic migrant that somehow washed up on our shore, to become friend, confidant, and companion to my mother.

I remember her first evening with us. It was winter and very cold. Hansa came down from her room to undress in front of the fire. I was fascinated by her. The beautiful silken sari in such startling colours. Her long black hair, swept back tight to the skull, forming a pony-tail that fell down the length of her long back.

She undressed without inhibition. After all my mother was another woman, and I, a child, was a non-sexual being to her mind. I remember in particular the firelight glow on her dusky arms and breasts.

Her father was a document writer who enjoyed a good lifestyle in India because of the bribes he was paid to “alter” or “adjust” documents in certain property transactions. Her mother remained an unknown quantity, as Hansa hardly ever mentioned her within my hearing.

Hansa on occasion took me to London, to Hamley’s, the oldest toy store in the world. She purchased scale model ships for me there (even then I had a love of the sea). The ships, I recall, were expensive, and she used her own money to pay for them…

I think she felt sorry for me at times. My strange existence on the periphery of my mother’s world was beyond her experience; its oddness, perhaps, unsettled her…

At age ten or eleven I regularly masturbated with my head full of images of Hansa. Her delicate brown buttocks, the vee of fine black hair above the meaty lips of her sex. I wanted to cover her body in fond kisses…

By that time Hansa shared both my mother’s bedroom and her bed.

One day I was unwell with a bad cold. Hansa looked in on me. I lay abed in my PJ’s, flushed and feverish. She opened my pajama jacket and began to massage a mentholated ointment on my chest. Her touch was magical…Her fingers beautifully cool on my hot skin. I became erect, and Hansa noticing this slipped a hand through the fly of my pajama bottoms.

‘Be good, little man,’ she said.

My face reddening, I reached for her breast…but she slipped away. Removed her hand from my pants.

‘You’re a naughty boy. What do you think your mother would say if she saw this?’

‘Not very much, I suspect,’ I mumbled. My cock was so stiff it ached. I felt swimmy-headed, my senses totally disordered by her brief touching of my penis.

Then, without any warning, her hand returned. Hansa grabbed my stiff cock and was rubbing it vigorously. Remnants of the mentholated ointment created a burning sensation. I felt my body tensing, preparing for that familiar orgasmic jolt…but no! Hansa again removed her hand, leaving me at the edge of the abyss.

‘I must get on,’ she said. ‘I’ve work to do. You’ll have to sort that dirty thing out yourself.’

‘Wont you touch it once more? Please, dear Hansa, I’m so close…’

‘Definitely not,’ she said.

I reached out and took hold of her hand. I was aware of a bead of perspiration funning from my hairline down my face. I gripped my cock with my free hand and tugged it. I looked intently into her eyes as I did this. I imagined touching her thighs, her cunt…and shot cum out over the sheets, spasm after spasm…

As my body relaxed, Hansa stood up. She leaned over the bed to kiss me gently on the head.

‘Clean up,’ she said. ‘Then rest, you naughty chap. You’re totally incorrigible…’

I don’t know how or why Hansa departed from our lives. It was in my fifteenth year. Perhaps a lover’s tiff? My mother could be very whimsical. I was away at school when it occurred, and remain ignorant of the circumstances to this day. When I came home for the summer break, Hansa was gone…

I never ever saw her again. She was a mystery left unsolved. But I still have those beautiful model ships she brought for me all those years ago. They are in a cardboard box beneath me bed. Sometimes, late at night, I take them out of the tissue paper wrappings and examine them.

They never fail to remind me of Hansa’s wonderful smile and the gleam of pleasure in her eyes when she first gave them to me…


Oh, dear, the shite seems to be hitting the fan –

‘MORE than half of French voters want their own in-out referendum on European Union membership, renewing fears in Brussels that a Brexit could topple the 28-country bloc.

‘With Britons set to go to the polls in June, there are increasing signs the UK’s referendum is paving the way for other European countries to question their own relationship with Brussels.

‘It comes after calls for Germany to have their own EU referendum in the aftermath of the migrant crisis. In a fresh blow to the EU, 53 per cent of the French people voted in favour of holding a UK-style referendum on the country’s membership.’

On the plus side, of course, when it comes to the EU neither Germany or France have any interest in “democracy” or a “free vote”. They had enough problems when the French people rejected the EU constitution in a free referendum.

It ain’t a mistake that’s going to be repeated.

The Solitary

March 29, 2016


My heart has grown rich with the passing of years,
I have less need now than when I was young
To share myself with every comer
Or shape my thoughts into words with my tongue.
It is one to me that they come or go
If I have myself and the drive of my will,
And strength to climb on a summer night
And watch the stars swarm over the hill.
Let them think I love them more than I do,
Let them think I care, though I go alone;
If it lifts their pride, what is it to me
Who am self-complete as a flower or a stone.

Sara Teasdale