April 4, 2020

There’s no lock on the door
since the Midnight Men came,
with their pale, grinning faces
their tire-track eyes,
and the sound of the shadows
seems louder somehow,
on the street that runs empty
past Emily’s house.
She still plays there sometimes
on the grey concrete stoop,
with the screen door wide open
to welcome the rays
that spread out from the dish
on the middle school roof –
education for all’s what
the Midnight Men say.
And the grown ups all smile
as they murmur along
with the lessons they learn
in the new, better way,
while they work at new jobs
that the Midnight Men brought
till their finger bones show
white on red, like their teeth.
It’s much safer these days —
no one worries at all
about vandals or thievery —
those things are done,
and if every gaze shies from
the old Northgate Mall
no one says much about it
or questions the smell.
But young Emily wishes
her life would change back
to the way that it was
before fog drifted down
from the cracks in the sky
where tomorrow peeked through,
before Midnight came early
and never moved on.

Marcie Lynn Tentchoff

Ça plane pour moi

April 4, 2020

music composed by Lou Deprijck; lyrics by Yvan Lacomblez

“Verily and forsooth,” replied Goodgulf darkly. “In the past year strange and fearful wonders I have seen. Fields sown with barley reap crabgrass and fungus, and even small gardens reject their artichoke hearts. There has been a hot day in December and a blue moon. Calendars are made with a month of Sundays and a blue-ribbon Holstein bore alive two insurance salesmen. The earth splits and the entrails of a goat were found tied in square knots. The face of the sun blackens and the skies have rained down soggy potato chips.”

“But what do all these things mean?” gasped Frito.

“Beats me,” said Goodgulf with a shrug, “but I thought it made good copy.”

Henry N. Beard and Douglas C. Kenney
Bored of the Rings

We read writers of such scathing originality for their personal authority, for the example of their seriousness, for their manifest willingness to sacrifice themselves for their truths, and – only piecemeal – for their “views.” As the corrupt Alcibiades followed Socrates, unable and unwilling to change his own life, but moved, enriched, and full of love, so the sensitive modern reader pays his respect to a level of spiritual reality which is not, could not, be his own.

Susan Sontag
Simone Weil
collected in: Against Interpretation

we kissed for hours

April 4, 2020

The first time I had sex with a woman, just her and I, I marvelled at the pace. Sex with men always felt pressing, driven by an intensity that climbed quickly. Sometimes I liked that energy, it made me feel wanted, desired. The rush was fun, like tearing open a present. Other times I felt like we skipped over the good parts, like I could have pressed against him while he kissed my neck for hours. Sometimes I felt like I was trying to catch up, I was too young and inexperienced to say “Slow down.”

The first time I had sex with a woman, and it was just her and I, we kissed for hours. Literally hours. Slow, tender, swollen-lips, hands in our hair, teasing tongues, moans and soft sounds, our hips pressing together, in no hurry but never staying still. By the time I pressed my hand between her legs her panties were soaked right through. That little wet spot made fireworks in my head, my clit throbbed. This was divine. I didn’t pull her cotton underwear aside until she was already close to orgasm, just from my fingertips tracing over the fabric, and her eager grinding against my palm.

After she came we slowed down but never stopped touching each other until she’d had her second, third and fourth. There’s a difference between “I came” and “I’m satiated”. Fucking someone who understood that made sex an entirely new thing. We fucked until we were finished, exhausted and spent. I finally felt satisfied.

The next time a man touched me all I could feel was the energy propelled by his hard-on. The rush that rush-of-blood to his cock put him in. I felt like I wasn’t there.

Queer Enough Zine, March 2018

The Art of Love

April 4, 2020

The Art of Love? It is knowing how to combine the temperament of a vampire with the discretion of an anemone…

(L’art d’aimer? C’est savoir joindre à un tempérament de vampire la discrétion d’une anemone…)

Emile M. Cioran
Syllogismes de l’amertume
Trans. P

too old and dead

April 4, 2020

In Scotland last year while walking through an ancient forest with my husband, we took a shortcut through the wild glen and intended to walk down the bank of the Fillen to Crianlarich. We came to an open space, flat and treeless and full of sun-haze.

As we entered, my husband remarked: ‘I don’t like this place, it’s too old and dead.’ I was about to reply that I felt it only peaceful, but I suddenly had the sensation of depression almost amounting to hopelessness.

What I ‘saw’ was more a feeling as if all about me was snow, under a leaden sky, and behind me there were people and their eyes were without hope.

My husband saw that I was oddly frightened and so we left for Crianlarich. We told them at the hotel that we’d felt spooky at one place in the forest. The late Mr Alistair Stewart said: ‘Oh yes, that would be where a whole village was lost in the snow and they all starved to death.’

We are both Celtic, but neither of us is in the least psychic. One thing I do know is that even if I were chased by Hitler and his grizzly gang, I would not enter that forest again.

O. A. T. S., Surrey
Country Life, letters page 27th February 1942

Morgan le Fay

April 4, 2020

In c1150 Geoffrey of Monmouth named nine sisters in his Vita Merlini as the rulers of the enchanted island of Avalon. Among them was Morgen (more familiar to us as Morgan le Fay), who in later stories is described as Arthur’s half-sister and becomes his most implacable foe. Sir Thomas Malory, in his great 15th-century novel, Le Mort D’Arthur, tells us Morgan was “put to school on a nunnery, where she learned magic and necromancy”.

Though this may sound odd to us today, many of the women in enclosed orders were learned, and since learning was frequently equated with magic, thus Morgan came to be considered a sorceress.

John Matthews
8 things you need to know about King Arthur

There’s nothing in the world more desperate and ruthless than an unmarried woman of thirty. Nothing in trousers is safe within a mile of her.

M.V. Heberden
Murder Cancels All Debts