furnace burning inside

November 4, 2017

To be able to sit with you hours on end and talk about anything and everything is fine. But to reach out and touch the furnace burning inside of you, is pure magic…

It took some time for me to realise that your mind was actually the scene of the crime…

All of us play with fire. But are we careful enough to keep warm, or simply careless enough to get burned…?

We fucked until she was just a breathless tremor in my arms…

Two’s company, six is handy…

The moist smell of her many amours clings to her, this young priestess of love…

Now is the time when lovers pant away their souls…

I will not die from this desire. Instead I will swim in it, relish it, crave it…

Saturday Morning Desire

October 7, 2017

It’s a terrible thing, isn’t it? The way we love each other…

If nothing will save us from death, perhaps love will save us from life…

Books are finite, sexual encounters are finite, but the desire to read and to fuck are infinite; it surpasses our own deaths, our fears, our hopes…

Sex is art. It is all art and all life. It is everything…

…I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way. You, with all your undumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it. And yet I believe you’ll be sensible of a little gap. But you’d clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it should lose a little of its reality. Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is really just a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become. I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan’t make you love me any more by giving myself away like this — But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defenses. And I don’t really resent it.

Vita Sackville-West
Letter to Virginia Woolf 21st January 1927

11th August

The truth is she’s tired of men not treating her like the gift she believes she is. It’s a problem she wants to correct – starting now! She has dogs, a pair of Airedales raised from pups. Both are as neurotic as she; as vain as she, in my opinion. The dogs guard the only exit from this room.

Often her mind lays open like a drawer of lethal kitchen knives. She touches the blades one at a time. Her touch is that of a lover, lingering on cold steel. Who ever saw such grace? Such monstrous longing for blood? With such blades as these she could shrieve a soul from the pangs of hell.

‘I have something here,’ she says, smiling like one driven mad by desire. ‘Something I want to show you. Come look. You’ll never be the same again, I promise – ’

Night visions

August 7, 2017

7th August

These daily rituals where I feel I have control of my life. Hold the world in the fingers of my hand. Until the vivid evening falls and the last shadows stand around us. Then the air is fixed and cold.

A world of huntresses, of women, Dianas chaste and rare – rare at least to chastity. Recklessly riding their men, displaying nothing if not their athletic female will.

Ah, to crack the skies with a stroke of lightening, or to run like fire through the neatly stacked corn stalks – surprising secrets from everyone.

Now, it is still dark outside. Countless lovers move secretly to nefarious purposes. Oh, yeah, the crazy viciousness of love defies all comprehension.

#

To A & L’s for supper yesterday. They have a pair of new black kittens. Frisky little hairballs designed for mischief. One went missing during the day and might have climbed out of a window. But no. After a comprehensive search of the house, A found it hiding in a table drawer… 

The human trap

July 16, 2017

16th July

He said, ‘Put your face down there,’ and guided her head lower. She lightly kissed his belly before taking him into her mouth –

She became like a she-wolf feasting on flesh – he cried out in pleasure, pain, terror, and she smiled as she feasted, sucking the very soul from his body in that fractured moment of time –

A wild thing, was she. Feral and ferocious – and, oh, so greedy! She felt liquid fire in her veins and the moon filling her head –

Gradually she released her claw-like grip, licked the remains of his soul from her lips, and spoke in a low growl. She said, ‘I’d like to keep you chained in my wardrobe. I’d have you there to kiss whenever I wanted. Have you there to fuck when I felt desire. See how eager I am? I came to you without shoes or clothes, dressed only in my fine grey fur. Yes, my love tastes of bitterness, and like the wild rose I’ve been covered in thorns. I will make a crown of thorns for you to wear in my wardrobe…my den. Your prison. And only I will see. Only I – ’

He lay silent an still beneath her. She breathed her life into his motionless mouth, and said, ‘You’re as nothing now. Nothing but what I mould you into. My pet, my dog. My slave. You are nothing but a blank canvass on which I can paint my darkest fantasies. You will be whatever I tell you to be. You have no choice. There is no other way -’

#

He knew she could cut his soul into a million pieces. Once, in a corn file, he’d heard the sound of raindrops whispering on her bare flesh. It was a poetry, softly recited on breasts, belly and buttocks, which came back to haunt him again and again. Another time she wrote him a love letter, the only one, and it was full of sadness and despair –

chemistry

July 14, 2017

i wear my loneliness like a taffeta dress riding up my thigh
and you cannot help but want me.
you think it’s cruel
how i break your heart, to write a poem.
i think it’s alchemy.

Warsan Shire

Our Numbered Days

July 8, 2017

Neil Hiborn
Our Numbered Days