the language of dreams

October 28, 2017

The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real…for a moment at least…that long magic moment before we wake.

George R R Martin
Included in Pati Perret’s The Faces of Fantasy

Omens

October 21, 2017

The dead bird, colour of a bruise,
and smaller than an eye
swollen shut,
is king among omens.
Who can blame the ants for feasting?
Let him cast the first crumb.
#
We once tended the oracles.
Now we rely on a photograph
a fingerprint
a hand we never saw
coming.
#
A man draws a chalk outline
first in his mind
around nothing
then around the body
of another man.
He does this without thinking.
#
What can I do about the white room I left
behind? What can I do about the great stones
I walk among now? What can I do
but sing.
Even a small cut can sing all day.
#
There are entire nights
I would take back.
Nostalgia is a thin moon,
disappearing
into a sky like cold,
unfeeling iron.
#
I dreamed
you were a drowned man, crown
of phosphorescent, seaweed in your hair,
water in your shoes. I woke up desperate
for air.
#
In another dream, I was a field
and you combed through me
searching for something
you only thought you had lost.
#
What have we left at the altar of sorrow?
What blessed thing will we leave tomorrow?

Cecilia Llompart

provide sacrificial tribute

September 16, 2017

12 – 15 th September

My dreams: feverish ramblings through some mythic wilderness. Troubling storms in the night, gales and rain, rain, rain.

We should all bow down to the great sky cock and provide sacrificial tribute. Say, the odd virgin or three – but if they’re too hard to find, what about a couple of goats?

They’re naming these feckin’ storms now. Shitty Kitty would be a good name –

I’m thinking of building an Ark –

Then, abruptly, trapped in this breathless precision of silence. Where’d the wind go? Did some bastard cut the throat of a virgin? Is the storm finally ended? Or have I gone deaf?

#

Enough. I’ve had enough of here. Of work, of people. I need a break from it all. So, off to the north coast we do go. A room at the top of a tall building overlooking the sea. Observe at first hand the rage of the ocean as it hammers the rocky coastline.

Oh, wonderful. Our windows full of sky and ocean and we can look across to the coast path, all elbow bends as it climbs towards a truncated horizon. And, amazingly, the rain has stopped!

Food here is out of this world. Excellent. Great choice of wines, too. We spend our time walking on the rocks, or gazing out to sea while seated on wooden bench seats, or making love in our rooms. At night the sea sounds like an express train rolling through the darkness.

Morning walks in the wind, foam flying from the sea. Luminous grey sea, banded emerald green further out. Sun burn on my face, and occasional bouts of ecstasy. Last night loving again, wild, free, in a world of magic, drunk on fleshy bliss –

But all good things come to an end. Time to return to the daily grind…

29th July

It’s a time to pause and think. No one is coming to rescue you from this –

You think this is as bad as it can get?

You’re wrong, trust me. The pain has become you, hasn’t it? Anymore and you’ll break in pieces? Yet this is only the beginning –

Yeah, wade through that red sea of pain, feel yourself fuelled by it – feel your head enter a different place, that place of foggy mornings and stillness which touches your soul. Yes, you may burn – burn out. But you know you’ll come back, you always do, reborn out of the flames –

Breath in –

Breath out –

Effortless…well, just a little ragged, perhaps. But that’s to be expected, isn’t it? Take pleasure in it. And when she tightens the clamp and the metal teeth bite deeper, smile. Eat the freaking pain whole, master it, and ask for more –

You are like a tree standing against gale-force winds: you might bend but you will not break. You can smell the earth after a fall of rain, and the musty scent of old books which you love. You think of long conversations that go on through the night, and afternoons spent listening to music, or the sound of owls hunting in the darkness when you’re alone. You think too of the word: the ‘SAFE WORD’ that can end this torment –

But you know you will never use it –

You are drifting away from reality. Your body is a piano on which is played this music of pain, but you have slipped away. There, yet not there. Real, yet unreal. A tiny splinter of living agony, only partly aware…

#

I dreamed I was in the old house. All the mirrors had been covered with white sheeting. Nothing could be reflected. I could not see myself –

People used to do that when someone died, didn’t they? Close the drapes and cover the mirrors. Very fitting. Most apt.

I was in the old house but my dogs were not. My beautiful shaggy dogs had finally abandoned me to my fate.

I felt very sad.

#

Morning. Sky the colour of a three day old bruise. Body all aches and pains, the penalty of too much consensual abuse –

H C asking about my work last night. ‘It’s general themes are about our isolation in a hostile world,’ says I, in my most poncey voice. ‘We all of us exist in a capricious, deceptive, threatening world – a world full of corruption. I, as a writer, manipulate coincidence and show how close to the edge we all really are. Our commonplace fears are as nothing compared to the arbitrary and incomprehensible menace usually surrounding us -’

‘Oh, really?’

It’s pointless saying anything else. The concepts are beyond H C’s comprehension and semi-detached, rural life. Instead I recite:

The storm came across the coast
To the rolling moor
And the rain tasted of so much
Bitterness…

such dangerous things

July 22, 2017

This is why dreams can be such dangerous things: they smoulder on like a fire does, and sometimes they consume us completely.

Arthur Golden
Memoirs of a Geisha

15th July

Lunch and drinks with close friends yesterday afternoon. Developed into a wonderful session (as is usual) that took us through to early evening –

Strange dreams of schooldays last night. And of a girl who smelled of pink bubble gum and Johnson’s baby powder. How delicate we both were. Our touches hot with joy and desire. My fingertips wet with the dew of her dawn –

Now, flying inside my own body. How our bodies do betray us: such terrible traitors they are! There is rain in the window, look. She lies on the bed curled with cushions and sipping tea from a bone-china cup. Her sex is so like a hothouse rose. I have been imprisoned by her hands for so many years –

And it’s time to wake – but where is reality?

I dreamed

June 27, 2017

I dreamed I spoke in another’s language,
I dreamed I lived in another’s skin,
I dreamed I was my own beloved,
I dreamed I was a tiger’s kin.

I dreamed that Eden lived inside me,
And when I breathed a garden came,
I dreamed I knew all of Creation,
I dreamed I knew the Creator’s name.

I dreamed- and this dream was the finest –
That all I dreamed was real and true,
And we would live in joy forever,
You in me, and me in you.

Clive Barker
Days of Magic, Nights of War

20th May

In the garden, her wrist on show, the pale white scar bearing witness to a past indiscretion: a failure this, to accompany so many others. The rose blooms bled behind us in soft red bursts. A reflection of another time and her own undoing, perhaps. It’s summer and all the pretty girls wear dresses that show off their freckled shoulders. They come and go beside the living wound of the roses. And in her eyes a reflection of gentle dark night. Later she spreads herself out like a pale landscape across my bed, and my fingers trace her smooth contours with pleasure. But now I am become shadow. A footstep or two, half-heard. I am not here. And none of it really matters. Not anymore…

#

Drunk on wine and poetry and the taste of your skin – especially the ripe folds of skin between those softly curving thighs. Ah, to drink you down in one long draught. To be drunk. To be drunk by sipping without stopping, like some blasé god, Bacchus perhaps? To be drunk on wine and on you. To drink down the fine frothy waves of you. To drift on your tides like a water-logged piece of flotsam. To be drunk forever…

A fate devoutly to be desired.

#

And to the cinema to see Alien Covenant, a film that has filled me with hope for the future of mankind. The day wet. The sky low enough to swallow the earth in big misty mouthfuls. A and L told me the film was “slow”, “not much happening”. Comments that puzzle me in hindsight? I didn’t think it that bad for a film of its ‘type’: “Look, there’s an alien; kill the alien; the alien’s dead…perhaps?”

Afterwards had a reassuringly third-rate meal at R Fast Food, followed by the most tasteless coffee I’ve ever encountered anywhere in the world. Had a brandy with it, which was okay. God bless Courvoisier! It saves even a wilted salad!

#

Thursday given over to Crowley’s ritual technique of eroto-comatose lucidity: repeated sexual stimulation to the point of orgasm – until the body drifts, leaf-like between sleep and wakefulness…in a state of near exhaustion, because of this continuous excitation; erotic massage, fingering, physical stimulation of genitals and erogenous areas – continuing for a period of five hours or longer on this occasion.

Both heaven and hell…

Trance-like state achieved. Saw this wild, grey sea unlike any other sea I’d ever encountered. Heavy drops of rain falling in torrents out of a vermillion sky, and mask-like faces in the air around. Foaming waves…

Vision disrupted finally by ejaculation…but magic made, anyway. All desire centered on one good outcome. Hopefully successfully.

#

Dreams from Thursday night: vivid, confused and disturbing. A beautiful woman, tall, wearing a flounced bell-shaped skirt and no upper garment. Full breasted; heavily rouged nipples. At her waist a belt of jeweled snakes. Around her other women, Neolithic women in tatter skins. All glimpsed by the dancing light of candles set in crystal.

And they dance, these women. A dance of leeches. Spinning in sinister ballerina poses. The dance becoming more frenetic, frenzied and furious. Their bodies come together like a wreckages of flesh…

Wind dancers, these, I realise. Animal shapes crossing the ridges of their backbones. Before they dissolve in to so many particles, shifting in the wind, to reassemble as the sea folds around their bare feet and ankles.

And this wind creeps in through the cracks in the world…

#

Friday off to close friends for long boozy lunch (Peedeel drank only water!), Chinese food in multiple courses, and good conversation. Plenty of laughter. I felt strangely dissociated, though. There, yet elsewhere. The after effects of such an intense ECL session yesterday, perhaps? Certainly, very sore downtown.

whip

Diary 3rd – 4th March

The night turns itself inside out. Dreams come: bizarre, yes – but so vivid they seem more real than waking life. Dreams of photographs and ciphers, spies and bloody murder. And in amongst this chaotic mayhem, Madame Lamson!

See her standing tall in a black corset, tattoos twining up her left arm. No panties, just that thick bush of rusty-red curls. Another, smaller tattoo on her right side just above the groin: this a simple wreath of wild flowers. Black fishnet stockings on her legs, and a riding crop held lightly in both hands.

Madame Lamson:

Sets such impossible tasks. Then punishes failure without a hint of compassion in her hard green eyes. She is the original switch bitch!

Long, lacquered red nails. And that smile on her face, the one that follows you everywhere; metamorphosing, ultimately, into an aristocratic smirk for the men and women groveling round her spiky high heels.

Madame Lamson holds the keys to the gates of hell. Her crop on your flesh leaves red patterns of pain, and eventually you grow drunk on this pain, which is like the sun coming out and making you dizzy, so that you feel your head will just float away to another, rarer place.

Her mouth is all curves and ripeness – like her body. Faint dusting of freckles on her cheeks, and her hair when the sunlight catches it from the window glows red. She is unforgiving and relentless. And her victims feel themselves sliding into a slow-motion loss of control – unable to apply the brakes.

She told you once that she loved candyfloss and carousels. Remember that? Her favorite film was ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’! Your head tried to followed the trail of her words, remember? She spoke so softly, so sweetly, while mercilessly inserting a thumb nail into your urethra.

You almost cried out your safeword when she did that, didn’t you? It was almost too much. Her likes, you thought, were in-feckin’-credible, considering what a bad bitch she could be.

She also told you her favorite colour was pink…!

#

Our lives together are a song in which music and poetry have become a single, beautiful harmony.

#

The past is a splinter in my soul, a wound that turns slowly septic. Whatever happened, I wonder, to Gail La Mare?

#

At age ten I went to the cinema (the name of the film is unimportant) and fell in love with a young actress appearing in the main feature: thirteen or fourteen years of age, she travelled on a ferry across Hong Kong harbor, and I became besotted with her – with the fall of her hair, with her large, almond-shaped eyes, and with the sound of her voice.

At the end of that film, I experienced a most dreadful sense of loss…

I went to see the film again. And again. Every day for a week, I went to see my one true love, who remained so impossibly distant from me…and yet so near.

At night I dreamt about her. In my dreams she became my ‘girl’ and we kissed each other with an innocent passion.

I spent all my pocket money on seeing that film, and then stole cash from my mother’s ‘piggy-bank’ (the only time I’ve ever done such a thing) so that I could continue to go watch my ‘love’. I was like an addict in desperate need of a fix.

And all these years later, as an adult, I can still feel that poor child’s pain…

#

Each of us, it’s true, are capable of writing various, strikingly different autobiographies, according to the viewpoint chosen and our principle of selection.

Without stick or sword

January 15, 2017

rose-freymuth-frazier-hounded

Diary 15th January

Returned yesterday from a small soirée at Goodrington Sands. It is a dog owners paradise, and most of the population seemed to be engaged in walking their dogs along the beach or promenade.

We arrived there Friday lunchtime and had a boozy lunch followed by a long walk along the beach. The wind was bitterly cold.

S, almost in tears, fears her cat may die soon; it has been very ill, and she has spent a small fortune on vets bills – but, despite every test known to man, the vets are unable to determine exactly what is wrong with the animal. They are perplexed.

S is also concerned her father will not see out this year. Hopefully she is wrong on both counts!

More booze follows.

Twilight then night, with its brood of phantoms that walk the world as sentient things. Muttered “Hullo’s”. Glimpses of the strange, profound and baffling. Circling faces and disembodied voices.

A woman, mid-fifties(?), fleshy and flashy, tells me she has a complete school uniform at home: gym-slip, white socks and big sensible navy-blue knickers. ‘You should come see me in it,’ she says. ‘A weekday’s best for me. I even have a satchel containing crayons and drawing pad.’ She passes me a slip of paper on which is written a phone number and address. ‘I play an adorable little virgin, so innocent – you can corrupt and debauch me in whatever way you desire!’

Time passing. Grotesqueries of light and shadow. The people here are all affluent, bored, over-sexed – almost parodies of themselves. Women with strange secrets in their drowsy eyes. Men, faces flushed with lust, join in the never ending dance.

A woman’s face above me: shadowy eyes, a bright red mouth, and nostrils like dark wells. There are wrinkles at the edges of her mouth and her tongue seems huge inside my mouth. Her cheeks flush scarlet and her eyes glow like little lanterns when her climax engulfs her.

A man’s whispering, Mephistophelian voice at my ear. He offers his wife, a plump forty-something, who spreads her legs to my passionless gaze. He tells me in explicit, vivid detail what he would like to see me do to her.

I comply with each of his shocking instructions.

When she cums it is like a cataclysm.

And then, in another room, another much younger woman. Incredibly vivid. Incredibly flexible. Intense and demanding in each of her movements. The surging of blood to her face, lost in pure physical sensation, and the tingling of nerve endings. The quickening of her breath and spastic motion of hip and thigh…

Finally to bed like an impotent old giant.

Unfortunately, I sleep badly. Doze and wake disoriented in my strange surroundings. Dee snoring gently beside me.

As if to reinforce the surreal experiences of the preceding evening, I watch the breakfast news on BBC. A doctor in an A&E department explains to the camera that he has no beds available. No trolleys left, either. Ambulances are backed up on the A&E ramp outside. The patients cannot be removed from the ambulances, there is nowhere to put them. Consequently, the ambulances are unable to respond to any further calls for assistance.

It’s a mess!

A crises!

Then, amazingly, the Queen of Brobdingnag, Terresa Maybe appears on screen in a different report. The problems, she explains, the NHS is currently experiencing is due in part to GPs not working evenings or weekends!

Luggnagg meets Brobdingnag.

I think I shall relocate to the land of the Houyhnhnms. It’s feckin’ safer.

After breakfast we say our goodbyes to S and her man. Drive then into Brixham. Dee wants to see the place again, a nostalgia trip. She’d last visited in her teens with AN, a girls only camping holiday…very Sapphic, I’m sure (only kidding girls).

Dee tells of the transvestite artist they met there beside the harbour. An older guy. Diabetic, with an ulcerated leg. He invited them both back to his ‘artist’s garret’ to show them his collection of clothes. He asked the girls to try them on, which they did. He sketched away like mad as they shamelessly stripped and dressed in his offered finery. An intimate, almost immemorially pagan scene.

Then he asked AN if he could try on the top she’d been wearing. She agreed, but the top was far too small and his attempts ended in seem-stretching failure.

He explained his leg was ‘killing’ him and had to sit down. AN, very kindly, changed the dressing on his leg for him…

Dee and I sat outside a café in bright sunshine. The weather was totally different from yesterday’s. We’d left Cornwall in snow flurries. And now, sitting looking out across the harbour, I could feel the sun burning my face!

Incredible!

Dee said, ‘What a glorious sunshiny day! We’ve been so lucky.’

Finally, we drove home. I felt very second-hand to be honest. Slightly hungover and jaded. Cooking a meal last night for Dee and L, I was really running on empty. I managed a glass of wine, for myself, followed by a large brandy, but no food. I went to bed at eight-thirty and fell immediately fast asleep.

Uneasy dreams followed. They always do. Gigantic shadows of men and women entwining. Faces glowing scarlet-red with excitement. Ephemeral rooms, scattered with cushions. Laughter, gently mocking. Becoming harsher –

Then waking, thankfully, to this sombre dawn.

A new day begins –