Morning Sex

June 24, 2017

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June 24, 2017


June 24, 2017

Thank you for the selfie
I wish you’d move your hand
I want to see your lovely cock
I want to see it stand –


June 23, 2017




We need to learn to love the flawed, imperfect things that we create and to forgive ourselves for creating them. Regret doesn’t remind us that we did badly. It reminds us that we know we can do better.

Kathryn Schulz
Don’t regret regret

few can escape

June 23, 2017



The soul of a women is like a book which few are able to read – like the wild ocean it has hidden depths, labyrinthine in complexity, a maze that few can escape.

La casa de muñecas (The house of Dolls)

Feeding off new flesh

June 23, 2017

21st June

Five buzzards circling overhead. I’ve never seen so many of them in one go. One of them peels away and flies low over the garden into the tall stand of trees to our left. They are hunting, probably for chicks or fledglings. Their slow circling takes them ever nearer the trees surrounding the churchyard where the rooks nest –

Soon the rooks will rise in a black flapping cloud to drive the buzzards away. There will be a feathered Battle of Britain in the clear blue dome of the sky. One or two buzzards they can usually cope with, but five – ?


Certain thoughts come at very precise times. They have their own agenda. Night encourages them, gives each of them their own moment. And the more there is silence, then the more they will make noise –


It is not difficult to cross the road. But it depends who’s waiting on the other side, doesn’t it?


The mornings lately are misty making everything on the moor look ghostly and strange. Step into that mist and you take a step back in time –

Before everything is over
I would like to make love to you
the same number of times as a gentleman knocking on a
door that will never open for him.

The same number of times a mirror fails to reflect the spirit
of a ruined man.
The same number of times a young woman
discovers in the middle of a noisy party
that she is alone.

I would like to make love to you like a man
leaning his face from the window of a passenger train to catch
one more look at the one woman he ever
truly adored, but now he must leave behind.

Like a circus performer looking up at a ceiling of trapeze rings,
crazy lights and precarious high wires,
knowing he will never climb that high.

Like a washed up prize fighter reaching for the canvas
because it is his only friend.
Like a bum reaching for a twenty dollar bill
that is blowing across a busy boulevard.

I would like to make love to you
before the passersby pass by
before the falling sun falls out of this world
and into the next, before the brown bear of winter falls
into his magnificent winter slumber.

I would like to make love to you with my forehead
pressed to your naked waist.
with my platelets pulsing in your veins.
With my brain on fire and snow falling on your
hissing flames

I would like to make love to you a hundred times
with the shuddering knowledge of
you, with your frozen smile and untraceable fingertips.
you with your indecipherable dreams.

Because I am doomed to live with you even when I am
without you – you with your incomplete shoulders.
You with your rainbow coloured lips.

You with your empty hands.
Your perfumed silence, your perfect elegance.
You, with the sunlight that leaks out of
your darkness and into my world.

George Wallace

Eating Poetry

June 21, 2017

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

Mark Strand