March 9, 2016


I hear the wrench my brother smashes
on the garage floor as he tries
to put a Norton engine back together,
the Bells whisky my father slops into a tumbler,
followed by ice, a tap turned on,
my other brother imitating machine gun fire
in the loft where he plays war games.
I hear my mother typing in the new room
making the dining table shudder
as she punches each key, our dog,
Steve, barking at the kitchen door,
Penny, my cat miaow for supper –
and myself on the phone again, straining
for background noise, anything familiar.

Jackie Wills
from Fever Tree (Arc Publications 2003)


To begin: she ordered me naked before cuffing my wrists. She took great care in my positioning on the bed: face upwards, of course; ankles firmly secured to the end of the bed. Then she sat on my face and ordered me to lick her out until she came.

It was after her quivering body finally relaxed on my face, the real ordeal began. Pegs attached to nipples and balls. Cock standing respectfully to attention, leaking a little precum for which she slapped my balls…but really hard! And not just the once, either, but several times.

The pegs flew off, and I bucked with the sudden pain.

She put her face down beside my ear, spoke softly like a lover. ‘You little tart, I’ll show you what’s what…’

She started to handjob me, slowly, long teasing strokes which became more intense when she forced a small dildo into my backside. She teased and edged me for an eternity. I’ve never been so desperate to cum before…

‘You’re pathetic,’ she whispered. ‘Really pathetic…’

Rapidly, expertly her hand gripped my cock and tugged. She took me to the point of no return in seconds, literally…then released me. My cock bobbed and jerked involuntarily. Spunk dribbled down its stiff length.

My orgasm ruined, harshly, for her bloody amusement…

She laughed at me. Then grabbed my cock again, rubbing the swollen head with the fingers of her free hand. I bucked, called out. But she was merciless…

Calling me a “Wimp” and laughing, she rubbed her palm roughly, rapidly over my cock head. The intensity of this was beyond simple words. Pleasurable, yes, but heavily overlain with discomfort, bordering on intense pain. Writhing, I begged her – literally begged her – to stop.

Then, unexpectedly, my cock shot a thick load of spunk in the air, but she kept rubbing it…

What she was doing would normally be very pleasurable, but post orgasm with my glans made terribly sensitive, it was like a glimpse into hell.

She said, ‘You stay stiff, you wimp. I haven’t finished…’

Her hand was a blur on my supersensitive cock head. I felt more vulnerable, more helpless than ever before with her. The sadistic smirk fixed to her face was frightening…One hand gripping me tightly, the other rubbing like mad.

I endured sixty minutes of this non-stop stroking: a torturous overstimulation that forced me to cum for a third time, and then, semi-erect near ordeal’s end, a final, ugly spasm of raw pain and an accompanying, pathetic teaspoon of spunk splutter…

‘What a little tart you are,’ she said, wiping spunky hands over my face. ‘Next time we do it with Viagra…Keep you stiff all night long!’


I bring your wooden heart,
its cogs and valves, its many voices.

One forages in the dry leaves,
sacking feet shuffling on sand and stick;
one stirs the rommelpot, the kimmel tub
in the big gut of the hollow man;

one walks a viper, swinging along,
loop left, loop right, tee-tum, tee-tum;

one screams with the love of parrots,
a high romantic with an Arabian zest;

one steals your bones, the femur
and the little toe bones: tosses them

in chorus to the reedy crows. One booms
out where the convicts swing in chains.

And yes, you are right: underneath is the truth,
humming along. I am in your hands,

all together now. We are an earquake,
a soul-ache, a tide in the bedrock.

Pamela Coren

blessed Bride…

March 9, 2016


Bride (Pronounced BREE_juh, the R rolling gently off the tongue) goddess of the Celts known by many names (Brighid, Brigit, Bridgit, Brigid), Bride being the Scots Gaelic variant. Her name is “Exalted One”, and She tends the triple fires of smithcraft (physical fire), healing (the fire of life within), and poetry (the fire of the spirit). In balance to this She also presides over many healing springs. Cattle are sacred to Her, green is Her colour, and, perhaps one of the reasons She is so beloved is that She is said to have invented beer!

Oh, blessed, blessed Bride!

Her feast day of February 1st is called Imbolc (the Christian Candlemas), when the predictions for the coming spring’s weather are made. She is daughter to the Dagda, and invented the first keening when her son Rúadán was killed.

The Cailleach, crone Goddess of winter, is said to imprison Bride in a mountain each winter; She is released on the 1st of February, traditionally the first day of Spring in the British Isles.

The Goddess proved so popular with the people that when Christianity came by, they converted Her to a saint. Called “Mary of the Gaels” by the Irish, St. Brigid is believed to have been the midwife to Mary at the birth of Jesus, and so was thought the patroness of childbirth. Her importance is such that She is one of the three patron saints of Ireland, with St. Patrick and St. Columcille. Her nineteen nuns (a solar number) kept an eternal flame burning at Her monastery at St. Kildare.

beautiful things…

March 9, 2016


Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty. There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

Oscar Wilde
The Picture of Dorian Gray

“Night Mail.”

March 9, 2016

An old, old favourite. Auden, of course, wrote the poem specifically for the film.


Diary 9th March

Gale force winds from the coast, this morning…Banshee screams in the chimney…and driving rain that smells of salty sea. A rough night, to be sure. The house all at sea, finally shipwrecked on this moor-like peninsular, miles from anywhere…
It’s my fervent belief that the point of consumption tax on “remote gambling” (think internet or cell phone gambling) should be raised to 30% (it’s currently 15%). I know the companies involved try very hard to avoid paying any tax in the UK, but the cheerful Chancellor should whack ‘em hard…but will he?
The head of Devon & Cornwall police recently claimed there were “no beds available within the UK” for people with serious mental health issues. And long has it been this way. It’s a situation that is totally unacceptable. Mental Health within the NHS has always been the poor relation when it comes to dolling out funds. The police have little option now, but to deliver an individual with mental health problems to a hospital A&E department and leave them there.


Needless to say the police claims are “disputed by health chiefs”. Well, they would be, wouldn’t they?

A recent report compiled by a panel of NHS and independent experts states that there’s been “chronic underinvestment in mental health care across the NHS in recent years”.

The extent of the financial squeeze and divergence of mental and physical health budgets is underlined by findings from BBC Freedom of Information requests. These show that the income of mental health trusts in England fell by 2% in 2014/15 after taking account of inflation. The Health Foundation think tank says that over the same period of time the income of acute trusts – hospitals dealing mainly with physical health conditions – rose by 2.6% in real terms.

In other words, money earmarked to improve mental health services is being used ‘elsewhere’.

Sounds like a job for Dangerous Dave…Or is he still too busy pissing-off the junior doctors?