There’s a one-eyed yellow idol
To the north of Kathmandu,
There’s a little marble cross below the town.
There’s a brokenhearted woman
Tends the grave of ‘Mad’ Carew,
While the yellow god forever gazes down.

He was known as ‘Mad’ Carew
By the subs at Kathmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell.
But for all his foolish pranks,
He was worshipped in the ranks
And the Colonel’s daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along
With the passion of the strong,
And that she returned his love was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty one,
And arrangements were begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present
She would like from ‘Mad’ Carew,
They met next day as he dismissed a squad.
And jestingly she made pretence
That nothing else would do….
But the green eye of the little yellow god.

On the night before the dance
‘Mad’ Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him
As they pulled at their cigars,
But for once he failed to smile,
As he sat alone awhile
Then went out into the night..beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn,
With his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temples…dripping red.
He was patched up right away,
And he slept all through the day
While the Colonel’s daughter
Watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked her
If she’d send his tunic through,
She brought it and he thanked her with a nod.
He bade her search the pocket,
Saying ‘that’s from ‘Mad’ Carew’
And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew,
In the way that women do,
Although her eyes were strangely hot and wet,
But she would not take the stone,
And Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he’d chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height
On that still and tropic night,
She thought of him…and hastened to his room.
As she crossed the barrack square
She could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing through the gloom.

His door was open wide,
With silver moonlight shining through.
The place was wet and slippery where she trod.
An ugly knife lay buried
In the heart of ‘Mad’ Carew…
‘Twas the vengeance of the little yellow god.

There’s a one-eyed yellow idol
To the north of Kathmandu,
There’s a little marble cross below the town.
There’s a brokenhearted woman
Tends the grave of ‘Mad’ Carew,
While the yellow god forever gazes down.

J Milton Hayes

What’s in My Journal

July 31, 2017

Odd things, like a button drawer. Mean
Thing, fishhooks, barbs in your hand.
But marbles too. A genius for being agreeable.
Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous
discards. Space for knickknacks, and for
Alaska. Evidence to hang me, or to beatify.
Clues that lead nowhere, that never connected
anyway. Deliberate obfuscation, the kind
that takes genius. Chasms in character.
Loud omissions. Mornings that yawn above
a new grave. Pages you know exist
but you can’t find them. Someone’s terribly
inevitable life story, maybe mine.

William Stafford
(from Crossing Unmarked Snow)

a need to suffer

July 31, 2017

To enter that silence was like entering a sea. At once a happiness and a very precise state of abandonment to an evolving idea. A way of thinking or perhaps of not thinking – the two things are not so far apart. It’s not clear. It’s a love that loves even now, which invades everything, and which is immune from anything anyone may say about it, for reasons that might be called religious. For it resembles a need to suffer, an obscure need to suffer in order to recall an absence without an image, without a face, without a voice. It can’t be stated. It’s elusive, helpless. And yet it exists.

Marguerite Duras
tr. by Barbara Bray

A journal

I got out this diary and read, as one always does read one’s own writing, with a kind of guilty intensity. I confess that the rough and random style of it, often so ungrammatical, and crying for a word altered, afflicted me somewhat. I am trying to tell whichever self it is that reads this hereafter that I can write very much better; and take no time over this; and forbid her to let the eye of man behold it. And now I may add my little compliment to the effect that it has a slapdash and vigour and sometimes hits an unexpected bull’s eye. But what is more to the point is my belief that the habit of writing thus for my own eye only is good practice. It loosens the ligaments. Never mind the misses and the stumbles. Going at such a pace as I do I must make the most direct and instant shots at my object, and thus have to lay hands on words, choose them and shoot them with no more pause than is needed to put my pen in the ink. I believe that during the past year I can trace some increase of ease in my professional writing which I attribute to my casual half hours after tea. Moreover there looms ahead of me the shadow of some kind of form which a diary might attain to. I might in the course of time learn what it is that one can make of this loose, drifting material of life; finding another use for it than the use I put it to, so much more consciously and scrupulously, in fiction. What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think on re-reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time. But looseness quickly becomes slovenly. A little effort is needed to face a character or an incident which needs to be recorded. Nor can one let the pen write without guidance; for fear of becoming slack and untidy…

Virginia Woolf
Diary entry: April 20th, 1919

Good advice…

July 30, 2017

Powerful tool…

July 30, 2017

You are like a war novel, entirely lacking
female characters, except for an occasional 
letter that makes one of the men cry. 

        I am like a table 
        that eats its own legs off
        because it’s fallen 
        in love with the floor.

My frantic hand can’t find where my leg
went. You can play the tourniquet. A tree
with white limbs will grow here someday.

        Or maybe a pup tent
        that’s collapsed in on itself, 
        it so loves the sleep
        of men sleeping beneath it.

The reason why women dislike war movies 
may have something to do with why men hate 
romantic comedies: they are both about war.

        Perhaps I should
        live in a pig’s trough.
        There, I’d be wanted.
        There, I’d be tasted.

When the mail bag drops from the sky
and lands heavy on the jungle floor, its letters 
are prepared to swim away with your tears.

        One letter reads: 
        I can barely feel
        furtive. The other: 
        I am diminishing.


Cate Marvin

I undressed him and put him on his knees.

Once in bed he was told to remove my bra and I laid down. I didn’t feel as nervous as I thought I might, so I asked him to worship my tits…. At first he attacked the nipples with feverish sucking. I smiled and made him slow down…there wasn’t any shyness as I told him what I wanted and how I liked to be kissed. I liked making him take his time around the nipples with gentle kissing and licking. I even asked him to bite them and pulled his head off when I’d had enough.

It felt good to be greedy.

After awhile I held out my hand, palm up, and he filled it with lube. I let him fuck my hand with his desperate hips as he continued his licking and sucking job. As his humping got a bit more intense he lost focus on my breasts and I guided him back with soothing words and giggles.

Eventually, I let him climb on top of me. His treat was humping my leg with my lubed hand holding his cock tight against my bare thigh. It was like we were fucking. He said his body was confused. He needed to feel my cunt. His hips worked against my body. My hips involuntarily moved up. Wanting to meet his too.

He asked defeatedly for penetration knowing the “no” was coming before the question left his mouth. I made him ask again and again. I savoured each sweet, “no.” I can’t describe having that much power escape my lips. I love owning my boundaries and knowing they’ll be utterly respected…even adored.

Eventually, frustrated, he asked if he could get back on his side again and I let him. He fucked my hand a bit more and we talked fantasies. I teased him for needing me to talk dirty. He wanted my thoughts and I kept them all to myself like a greedy little girl. My head felt empty and swimmy with power. My denial made him a little soft so I turned on my belly and let him stroke my ass. He wanted to kiss it, but instead he was told ‘Rub yourself’. I wanted him hard.

With that revelation I remembered something we had discussed earlier in the week. I got up and put him on his back. That week while I was doing my hair and texting him I had teased him that the hair clips would make excellent torture devices. He replied with how much he’d like to experience that, so while I had him waiting and stroking himself, I pulled the bowl from my vanity and placed it on his thighs.

“Remember these?” I giggled before placing clothespins on his nipples and hair clips on his cock and balls. He continued to rub where he could. He was getting harder and harder. His cock was swollen and thick.

That’s when I pulled out a particularly nasty clip. One that looks like little plastic jaws. I asked if he thought he could take it. He said he’d like to try so it went on the head of his cock (his suggestion, of course).

He kept rubbing. I smiled and watched him flinch as I flicked and pinched randomly.

Eventually he asked for the nasty clip to be removed so I bent over, my mouth hovering over him, and placed my lips on it. He moaned in what sounded like half fear. I giggled and bit the clip off (safely so it didn’t pull or clamp back down on him, but enough to torture the fuck out of him).

That’s when he was told his cock would never be inside me. That I didn’t need it. That I’d never need it…

I love his sad, wimpy whines.

To drive my point home, I held out my tongue close to his cock as he rubbed and told him that under no circumstances was my tongue ever to touch his dick. I asked if he remembered one of our first conversations when he had asked if I’d ever had my throat fucked. That was when our roles had yet to be so concretely defined.

I got closer with my tongue causing him to squirm and move it away from my face as he rubbed.

“It’s never touching my tongue.“

More whines.

I continued toying with him in that way. With my mouth hovering over him. I made him watch. I made him keep his eyes open and watch my face achingly close to his hard dick.

He asked to cum and I told him he could cum if he barked for me again. Like a puppy. My puppy. I made him practice. I wanted it to be a loud bark. We worked on it until it was satisfactory, and I started the countdown for his release.

Kitty Casey


July 30, 2017

Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me opens wide –

John Milton
Paradise Lost (Book IV)