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


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!


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 –


Diary 13th December

Last night, strange dreams – almost fever dreams. Unsettling; unpleasant. The night before that, I dreamt I was in a dense forest. The place was unknown to me, and yet I seemed to know which path to follow but without any idea of my final destination. Despite this I remained still, quiet, calm. Now, I sit at my desk and watch the fog gathering across the lane in the darkness: an opaque obscurity about the hedgerows. It is cold outside. It all seems strangely threatening to me.

And my loves, sleek and smooth, a pair of subtly scented shadows under the bedclothes in the next room, sleep through the velvet night, in gentle oblivion. Which is as it should be.

Ah, come, whisper me some more dreams, will you? Dreams of mistletoe kisses and sensual mouths; wild cascades of gleaming hair, and the closeness of made-to-sin-bodies.


Storm birds die in the depths of her eyes!

Oh, when she is angry, she is intimidating! But still so very beautiful…


Unlucky thirteen?

We made love the first time on the thirteenth. I passed my driving test on the thirteenth. I left school, unofficially, on the thirteenth…The luckiest number, ever, IMO!


November 14, 2016


All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible. This I did.

T. E. Lawrence
Seven Pillars of Wisdom


September 23, 2016


Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Langston Hughes

in the mind of the moon

August 19, 2016


carefree creatures cavort

happily over hilltops

of endless possibilities

and drink cool waters

of contentment in the valleys

where death is less substantial

than even these shadows

that stalk my earthly movements

and haunt my derelict dreams

these shadows sharpening their teeth

and calculating

the most efficient means

of separating me

from what’s left

of my sanity

Frank Grigonis


Diary 12th May

‘As the mottled wings of a butterfly are invisible against the ground, so the devil merges with the print in an opened newspaper…’

So scrape off the fetid yellow scum of sleep, and leap refreshed into this world. We call it the real world, but I see it more as a requiem for the dead night just buried; a soft lamentation for fading dreams – bizarre and fitful dreams.

The glimpse of a woman’s face – a sort of scratchy-print effect, more than a living breathing individual – at the top of a flight of narrow stone steps.

Where is this?

No idea. Somewhere deep inside my own head?

Who is she?

Again, I’ve no idea. Nor do I know what those other things are, those vague moving shadows caught in the blurring of focus at the periphery of my vision.

It’s night. No moon or stars overhead. A distant globe of light to my right illuminates a section of riverbank. The steps ahead of me are worn, wet, mossy. I begin the slow ascent…

And the woman, inexplicably, is swallowed whole by the night. One minute there, the next not. A will o’ the wisp that leaves me doubting my own senses.

And then I’m in an attic room, a parody of the rooms in Barbès…the sloping ceiling and the narrow arched windows. An old man stands at his easel, pallet knife in hand. Though obviously blind, he works the canvass before him with practiced ease, applying the oil paint in thick, rich layers of colour. It is soon obvious to me that he is mining his subconscious to produce this work of primal emotion…He is ‘seeing’ through his pallet knife.

On the canvass a nude – possibly the woman I observed at the top of the flight of steps. Around and beyond her an odd juxtaposition of disparate objects: a safe, an umbrella, a wall flower and a key. In one corner, on the unswept floorboards, a mouse.

This blind old man is playing with the irrational, chaotic, unknowable and otherworldly. He is painting my dreams, or my life; trying to capture the essence of my soul on his canvass. In thick layers of bright paint he is creating visions of half-sleep, of lovemaking. The woman’s smile of fire is too vivid to gaze on for long…

And then a violin begins to play…


The sky is streaked red this morning. Time for my breakfast gin. I think I’ll make some churros and thick chocolate, too. Yes, start the day right. A wonderful plate of healthy options calentitos de rueda!

Vladimir Foksnov - Girl & Bull

Diary 19th April

So they love each other. Everyone knows this, but nobody believes it possible. They can’t be together that way, surely?

It’s simple, but too complex. Almost impossible. It could never work…

But there are those who say they were made for each other. They observe them together, see the smiles and the need in their eyes. The lovers, of course, prefer to say nothing. Inhibited by convention, perhaps, or just frightened of criticism. Their desire to be with each other is greater than anything. They shut out the world and continue their existence, each with a piece of the other inside of themselves.

And closed off from the world in this way, they feel the flow of days around them, each night becoming a fresh wonder…their physicality is like an arrow-shower of blazing sunlight in the surrounding darkness! They have changed and can never go back. They have tasted ecstasy and their love has burned all bridges behind them. They feel themselves, now, to be as one. Indivisible. Complete.

‘Leur livre de maroquin rouge!’


Some days are so sad all I want to do is sleep. Sleep because the worlds I dream are so much better than this sad mess we call reality; sleep because my dreams are full of wonder, like the dreams of a child – and they will become my new reality!


We have dark sides and sometimes do not know how to forgive. Old hurts cannot be magically deleted from our heads. We drag them round with us like familiar but unwanted baggage. Not out of spite, but simply because we don’t know how to let them go…!


Have I mentioned before my love of strong, powerful women? It’s the reason for my use of the artwork of Belarus artist Vladimir Fokanov above (Girl & Bull). Perhaps it’s a throwback to my catastrophic childhood? What do you think? A memory of my being carried as a small child by my mother or some other female? An impression of female strength, an erotic supremacy that has remained with me over the years…?


She looks at her past and goes there…without regret. Life flows; the pages turn. She listens to his silences and hears there the sound of dreams. He is so like her – a creature of strange desires and emotion.


Dream about the curvaceous Sal, seen last Sunday in a figure-hugging yellow dress, cut so very low and show-casing her woderful oeufs en coquette…Oh, a masturbatory vision if ever one existed!


September 9, 2015


Though I haven’t been fishing in 7 years I dream every single night that I am fishing. Often it is the canal at home – vastly altered, sometimes flowing swift and very deep, with sharks – mostly it is Crookhill. I have every kind of fishing adventure. There’s always a big fish – and whenever I dream I catch that, the day after I sell a poem. One night I dreamed I caught the grandfather pike at Crookhill – at the corner near the outflow. You and Johnny were pulling at its fins, and I was heaving down the slope – we had twenty feet of it out – and still most of it was in the pond. The next day I sold my first poem and got married. Sylvia is my luck completely. In these fishing dreams my great enemies are eels. Joan, I cannot tell you your horoscope till I know the year. Was it 29?

Ted Hughes
Letter to Gerald and Joan Hughes, 24th February, 1957

Dream Incubation Spells…

September 9, 2015


Dreaming can be an adventure; one never knows what will happen, who we’ll meet, what adventures we’ll have. Although that can be very exciting, sometimes we need more from our
dreams. We need dreams to be a source for specific information that we’re unable to access in any other fashion.

A dream incubation spell requests a specific dream. The technique of dream incubation becomes easier with practice; initially it may be challenging. Do not give up if the dream doesn’t occur on first attempt; persist, repeating as needed. Different dream incubation spells work for different people. Play about and experiment until you find those that work for

Dream incubation is an ancient technique, pioneered in early temples of healing, Earth’s first hospitals. Following spells, rituals, counselling, and healing, one went to sleep within the shrine with expectations of receiving a healing dream: either an actual healing within the dream, a visitation from the resident spirit, often in the form of a snake, individual diagnoses, or treatment recommendations. Dreams may be incubated for any purpose, however.

Two types of spells for requesting dreams exist:

• Spells cast to receive a specific dream. The dreamer knows exactly what dream or what type
of dream is needed: Dream Incubation Spells

Spells and procedures to increase clairvoyance and psychic ability. Dreams are prophetic;however, the dreamer is content to receive dreams as they appear, not specify the exact one. These spells are classed among Prophetic Dreams.

Judika Illes
The Element Encyclopaedia of 1000 Spells