the bent woman whispered where
she’d find the tree, and when
the moon would be full; or rather,
just starting to spill
over down the nightcloth, plump vessel
leaking into gibbous wane.

it is crucial to catch the brightest drops.

lyla climbs the bitter hills with muddied knees,
legs grass-whipped raw,
clutching the bucket as a child to her breast.
and here the tree is crouched
like a mammoth rock-clung spider,
its broad black leaves bowing,
beneath the heavy spill of moonshine.

monstrous tree drinks in the light, drinking deep;
sucks the moonspray from porous leaf to vein,
excreting glowing sap-trickles
from tiny wounds in its bark.

inside her bucket, two glass jars clink
together. lyla draws a silver drill,
hypodermic thin.

two jars of sap, honey-thick and
moonbright — to be fed
in quivering convex spoonfuls
to the helpless mouth;
fed until her darling once again opens
his yellow eyes.

Brock Marie Moore

ugly or grotesque

January 6, 2018

I believe when I am in the mood that all nature is full of people whom we cannot see, and that some of these are ugly or grotesque, and some wicked or foolish, but very many beautiful beyond any one we have ever seen, and that these are not far away when we are walking in pleasant and quiet places. Even when I was a boy I could never walk in a wood without feeling that at any moment I might find before me somebody or something I had long looked for without knowing what I looked for.

W.B. Yeats
The Celtic Twilight


January 6, 2018


She was terrific to hold hands with. Most girls if you hold hands with them, their goddam hand dies on you, or else they think they have to keep moving their hand all the time, as if they were afraid they’d bore you or something. Jane was different. We’d get into a goddam movie or something, and right away we’d start holding hands, and we wouldn’t quit till the movie was over. And without changing the position or making a big deal out of it. You never even worried, with Jane, whether your hand was sweaty or not. All you knew was, you were happy. You really were.

J.D Salinger
The Catcher in the Rye

Oh, something is there, waiting for me. Perhaps someday the revelation will burst in upon me and I will see the other side of this monumental grotesque joke. And then I’ll laugh. And then I’ll know what life is.

Sylvia Plath
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

My dirty, depraved weekend

January 6, 2018

It would be good to announce that activities this weekend will include a vicarage tea party, a game of tennis doubles played on a grass court in vintage lingerie, cocktails with kinky friends, an exploration of each one of my fetishes with four or five adventurous others of either gender, sex with a number of equally perverted partners, followed by an excellent meal that I haven’t had to cook myself.

Instead we have nothing special planned. So it will be the same old same old. At least I can finish reading Unicorn the poetry of Angela Carter while I sip the breakfast gin.