Aubade

July 2, 2019

You wake with a start from some dream
Asking if I want to walk with you around the block.

You go through the things that need doing
Before Monday. Six emails. A presentation on Manet.

No, I don’t want to put on clothes and shoes
And dark glasses and follow the dog and you

Down Smith Street. It’s eight o’clock. The sun
Is toying with those thick clouds and the trees

Shake their heads in the wind. You exhale,

Wheel your feet to the floor, walk around to my side
And let your back end drop down onto the bed.

You resort to the weather. A high today of 78.
But that’s hours aways. And look at the dog

Still passed out cold, twitching in a dream.

When we stop talking, we hear the soft sounds
He makes in his sleep. Not quite barking. More like

Learning to speak. As if he’s in the middle of a scene
Where he must stand before the great dog god

Trying to account for his life.

Tracy K. Smith

Eggs Norwegian

March 30, 2019

Give a man a stick, and he’ll hurl it at the sun
For his dog to race toward as it falls. He’ll relish
The snap in those jagged teeth, the rough breath
Sawing in and out through the craggy mouth, the clink
Of tags approaching as the dog canters back. He’ll stoop
To do it again and again, so your walk through grass
Lasts all morning, the dog tired now in the heat,
The stick now just a wet and gnarled nub that doesn’t sail
So much as drop. And when the dog plops to the grass
Like a misbegotten turd, and even you want nothing
More than a plate of eggs at some sidewalk café, the man –
Who, too, by now has dropped even the idea of fetch
Will push you against a tree and ease his leg between
Your legs as his industrious tongue whispers
Convincingly into your mouth.

Tracy K. Smith

Your dog is not a dog of grace;
He does not wag the tail or beg;
He bit Miss Dickson in the face;
He bit a Bailie in the leg.

What tragic choices such a dog
Presents to visitor or friend!
Outside there is the Glasgow fog;
Within, a hydrophobic end.

Yet some relief even terror brings,
For when our life is cold and gray
We waste our strength on little things,
And fret our puny souls away.

A snarl! A scruffle round the room!
A sense that Death is drawing near!
And human creatures reassume
The elemental robe of fear.

So when my colleague makes his moan
Of careless cooks, and warts, and debt,
– Enlarge his views, restore his tone,
And introduce him to your Pet!

Sir Walter Raleigh

Boring…

September 13, 2018

Cute beyond words

January 1, 2018

The Big Question

July 9, 2017

Oh dear…

February 25, 2017

behind-me

alexander-szekely-a-little-party

Diary 28th / 29th September

There are two universal languages: mathematics and music. One of them describes the universe in all its complexity; the other personalizes just how we feel about that.

Have you ever stopped to consider how amazing it is that you are anyone at all?

#

I’m no gynecologist, but I’ll take a look for you…

#

Overcast yesterday, but warm, no rain. Dead leaves from the trees down the lane strewn across the road. Some gorse on the common still flowering despite the time of year. Met a woman out walking her dog. The dog’s name is Henry, and off the lead he totally ignores the woman who calls to him to “STAY”. ‘He’s an absolute shit,’ she tells me. ‘He never comes when I call. Typical male. Only does what he wants.’

Henry is an Irish wolfhound with a one track mind. Why does she let him off the lead if he ignores her calls? The dog seems to control the woman, rather than the other way round. He’s very friendly, however, despite his intimidating size.

#

Friday night was fun night. Four friends attending, two newcomers no show. Often happens. Individuals who we meet via the local munch, newcomers who express a desire to come play, invariably are time wasters. Drop outs. Their particular fetishistic kink would appear to be the initial discussions about role playing: a voyeuristic delight in pervy detail, if you will. They talk the talk, but never walk the walk.

#

Muriel, apparently, is currently heavily into post orgasm “torture”, and her hubby, John, is looking very much the worse for wear (perhaps because of this?).

C’est la vie.

If nothing else, John proves he is very much more ‘obedient’ than that dog Henry! The benefits of obedience training, I s’pose. John even cums to his wife’s strident command – !

Fascinating.

#

The world unrolls and watches around me. Here a fireside rug, gentle on the knees. Material to sink into. All here are equal. No ruffling of my life – except, perhaps, in the scent of a woman’s hair? The distinctive scent of her female parts? I am level with her eyes, with her mouth. Bruising kisses, exchanged. She makes no sound, draped in shadows. Then drops a sigh, softly sighing again, limbs flexing taut.

Outside darkness and moorland.

There are times, like now, when I believe the moor breaths the darkness.

They are like brother and sister.

‘Oh God,’ mutters a soft female voice nearby. Then again, like a loud exhalation between tightly clenched teeth. ‘Oh God…’

hhighfive

wisechoice