Face

I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body’s weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn with pity, – let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again.

Edna St Vincent Millay

birds and trees

Diary 21st May

‘You can’t have everything,’ I said.

‘Why not?’ she asked.

‘Darling, where would you put it all…?’

#

People tend to drain me. There are times I feel I’m in the midst of a huge masquerade ball where, come midnight, the guests unmask and I find myself surrounded by vampires of the most disreputable sort.

This bal masqué will, of course, be the death of me…

#

Rain yesterday and this morning. Rain on the slates shines sometimes in the smoky light. You know, I feel the future is to be found in the gull infested landfill sites near the coast. The gulls sense it and dig deep in the heaped detritus to find it. Simultaneously, starlings in great shoals abandon the present for the past. They are wiser, perhaps, than the gulls. We? We’ll fade gradually, ungracefully in a wreath of feathers and human hair…

#

This morning I’m too lazy to masturbate. So I inveigled my way into Gabriella’s good books, and she obliged with a sleepy, teasing handjob that resulted, fifty minutes later, in a nasty, nasty mess on my chest and belly.

#

In the sitting room the chairs are quite still. After all they have nothing else to do. The books on the shelves are silent, exhausted perhaps after a night of whispering to each other. They rest in such impressive dishevelment, gathering dust and providing shelter to the occasional small spider, embarrassed by its nakedness and wishing to hide its shame from others.

Ah, if only we could dream on beams of silk…?

And still it’s feckin’ raining.

#

So many wild flowers blooming in the hedgerows. They’re awash with rain, dripping wet, on either side of the puddled lane. Even the gorse is in flower…

#

Out tonight, restaurant and drinks, with friends. Italian food and good conversation…None of us, I suspect, will be particularly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow.

Landscape at Fontainebleau Forest - Abbott Handerson Thayer

They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate,
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few.)
You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods.
But there is no road through the wood

Rudyard Kipling

Paula Rego - The Family

I was born into the arms of men who scrape the streets
with their wallet chains, found my baby teeth in the coin

dish with fishing flies and a spark plug spacer, learned
the perimeter of harm through the slats in a three-walled

shed. There was never snow in my hometown, just the
florescent Coor’s Rockies hung between the dartboard

and a wedding license; most were married on a dare or
by a big brother’s fist. I heard the sudden boot clatter of men

when the wrong words were said. One night, they hit a deer
in the hills and butchered it in our garage. Hanging by its

hooves, blood pooled on a tarp, steaming in the night air.
I remember the way the deer’s skin was stripped down

like pantyhose. Like it was leaping into the concrete floor.
Dad sent me down to the market for a sixer and Reese’s Pieces.

Sarah Pape

(Sarah Pape, teacher of English, managing editor of “Watershed Review”, has been published extensively in a variety of literary journals and magazines. Her chapbook, “Road Z”, was published by Yarroway Mountain Press. )

mastur

Cum face…

May 21, 2016

cumming

Phaedra: I wanted to see your face when you came.

Hippolytus: Why?

Phaedra: I’d like to see you lose yourself.

Hippolytus: It’s not a pleasant sight.

Phaedra: Why, what do you look like?

Hippolytus: Every other stupid fucker.

Sarah Kane
Phaedra’s Love

normal size…

May 21, 2016

men7

“At least you are back to being normal size.” She gave a strangled laugh. “If the size of a cucumber on steroids is normal that is.”

Charlene Hartnady
His First

thing hanging down…

May 21, 2016

penis-potato

So beautiful of course compared with what a man looks like with his two bags full and his other thing hanging down out of him or sticking up at you like a hatrack no wonder they hide it with a cabbageleaf

James Joyce
Ulysses