No more than friends

November 3, 2019

It is so quick how we forget
The very first time we met.
My heart skipped a few beats
As I tried to catch my breath.
I looked softly into your eyes.
I knew that very day
That I was in love, but the wrong way.

I saw you look at me
With those eyes and a smile so boldly.
At that time you were not free.
I knew that this could never be.
My heart sunk to the floor.
I stared through those eyes of yours
And thought to myself, I will never be yours.

I kept my feelings deep inside
To remain just friends….
That was how it was going to end.
I knew just how you felt.
I could feel it burning inside
That the love we shared could never be.
No more than friends,
Which is exactly how it began.

Sopheap Cabaniss

Edge of the Wild

November 3, 2019

It ends and starts with intention, for all beginnings are ends.

Invaluable, it doesn’t count for much, I know, but I try. Hard.
There are ways to repeat this, a chorus of crows, a fluttering of sound.
I might get used to it, after some time, but I’ll often be on edge, pinfooted.
It would look like spying, but see here, what I’ve quietly done.
Love and love and more love: evergreen,
Warm, belly-full; cool, satiated, a wilding of grin, romp and ballad.
If all my fears went driving, all stirrings travelled on,
I’d still be here, finishing things; planted and pruning.
There is no gateway; no golden harp.
I am in need, I am in want, I am in hope.
It isn’t a secret, a sheltered hideaway or a silent hurt.
I am admiring the view now, seeing all that it is full and plenty,
And wanting it for myself, closing the distance of one jealousy to another.
Forever; wild and steaming, rioting and skimming the sky with resilience
I am mostly staring at stars, backlit by moonlight.
Most nights, I wonder, half-handedly curious, yet struck with ebbing
Let me, help me to see the worth, the riches, the flourish under the hibernating.
I am so afraid of being troubled and alone at the end of this world,
At the start of whatever is next.

Leah Umansky

A city of fugues

November 3, 2019

Everything runs, plays, and slips away. Poetry and Music. A city of fugues without a skeleton. Melancholy with vertebrae.”

Federico García Lorca
1926 Letter to Melchor Fernández Almagro
trans. Christopher Maurer

Art is born and takes hold wherever there is a timeless and insatiable longing for the spiritual, for the ideal: that longing which draws people to art. Modern art has taken the wrong turn in abandoning the search for the meaning of existence in order to affirm the value of the individual for his own sake.

Andrei Tarkovksy
Sculpting in Time


November 3, 2019

We don’t age with years, we age with scars. Scars that reminds us of the things we’ve conquered with fear, with love, and with pain. Scars that reminds us that nothing in this world comes easy, but ultimately everything heals through time.

Juansen Dizon

My fantasy, wish, dream, whatever you want to call it, is of two leather-clad bitch-women force feminizing me one rainy afternoon. After they finish, they invite in half-a-dozen randy studs and tell them to have me as often as they want. ‘Use and abuse,’ they say, ‘to your heart’s content.’

I’m restrained, handcuffed, and these dudes start stripping off my panties. One of them grabs my head, forces my face to his lap. ‘Suck on that,’ he says.

Another behind me thrusts into me roughly. There are cheers and laughter. I’m like a helpless ragdoll as they have me over and over again. They cum inside me, no condoms, cum on my face and in my lipstick smeared mouth. My ordeal lasts most of the afternoon, and when they’re finally finished with me, I’m left as a cum-covered ruin, rolled in a ball on the floor.


exotic kind of love

November 3, 2019

She didn’t love anyone, just herself, a very strange and exotic kind of love, and she liked the feeling of belonging more than the person she belonged to.