parties with strangers

October 19, 2019

My behaviour brought tension into the household: unpredictable noise levels; Tuesday night parties with strangers, men I brought home; leaving my handbag outside the front door and possessions trailing up the stairs. These episodes were followed by the depressive shadow of my hung-over days in bed.

Amy Liptrot
The Outrun

look at the ocean

October 10, 2019

It was a party that had lasted too long; and tired of the voices, a little too animated, and the liquor, a little too available, and thinking it would be nice to be alone, thinking I’d escape for a brief interval, those smiles which pinned you against the piano or those questions which trapped you wriggling in a chair, I went out to look at the ocean.

There it was, exactly as advertised, a dark and heavy swell, and far out the lights of some delayed ship moving slowly south. I stared at the water, across a frontier of a kind, while behind me, from the brightly lit room with its bamboo bar and its bamboo furniture, the voices, detailing a triumph or recounting a joke, of those people who were not entirely strangers and not exactly friends, continued. It seemed silly to stay, tired as I was and the party dying; it seemed silly to go, with nothing home but an empty house.

Alfred Hayes
My Face for the World to See

Good writing advice

June 2, 2019

Don’t write drunk

Eileen Myles
Interview in the Paris Review Fall 2015

Christmas Eve

December 24, 2018

a desert

Nyx sold her womb somewhere between Punjai and Faleen, on the edge of the desert.

Drunk, but no longer bleeding, she pushed into a smoky cantina just after dark and ordered a pinch of morphine and a whiskey chaser. She bet all of her money on a boxer named Jaks, and lost it two rounds later when Jaks hit the floor like an antique harem girl.

Nyx lost every coin, a wad of opium, and the wine she’d gotten from the butchers as a bonus for her womb. But she did get Jaks into bed, and – loser or not – in the desert after dark that was something.

Kameron Hurley
God’s War

little, obscure places

May 10, 2018

a resaurant

I have been thinking of places we ought to go together – little, obscure places, here and there in Paris. Just to say – here I went with Anais – here we ate, or danced, or got drunk together. Ah, to see you really drunk sometime – that would be a treat! I am almost afraid to suggest it – but, Anais, when I think of how you press against me, how eagerly you open your legs and how wet you are, God, it drives me mad to think what you would be like when everything falls away.

Henry Miller
Letter to Anais Nin, March 11, 1932

Important Information

April 22, 2018

August 22, 2016



Diary 3rd May

And I will give to my dark mate
Cold kisses, frigid as the moon,
And I’ll caress you like a snake
That slides and writhes around a tomb.

Charles Baudelaire, excerpt from ‘The Ghost.’
In the collection ‘Les Fleurs du Mal’.

I’m here but my head’s filled with atrocities that play over like a continuous loop of film…E in that tight leather dress yesterday, the hem just below the swell of her plump bottom – and the soft curve of her inner thighs as she pressed my face to her crotch, smothering me with love…I drank her in, hating myself, hating and fearing, while the others watched in lewd silence my purple and blue agonies.

Consider time: my body’s become this gallery of scars, a canvass of experiences. All these leftover traces of past lovers, each fresh lover leaving their mark, and these woundings building over time to form the residue which is my identity. Ultimately you are what you’ve loved.

Complete immersion in self: think only of self; the texture of the world is self – painful, inadequate and changeless. Reality becomes an agony that threatens to split one apart. Reality is red-hot, and tastes of wet minge.

My body, my soul opening…

E’s legs begin quivering uncontrollably, and her hands become tight fists in my hair. Someone gives a little cheer of delight…

Oh, Christ..Christ…’ this hissed abruptly from between tightly clenched teeth: the faintest expiration of breath; a prayer of pain, pleasure or a supplication? I can’t be certain.

I need air and step out on the patio. Breathe. Breathe deeply. Naked and cold in the fine drizzle. Cock is this wounded, flaccid piece of uselessness against one thigh. Drink champagne like beer from the neck of a bottle, frothing it over my chin…R on the patio, too, in a cloud of acrid cigar smoke.

‘Tell me,’ he says. ‘Who is that tall blonde lady in a black dress. Very leggy.’

‘Oh, d’you mean M? That’s M in highheels and fishnets. She’s with HD.’

‘Is she now…’

Inside, music playing…Sarah Vaughan…Bluesy-sounding…‘The more I see you’. SE dancing on the farside of the lounge. Laughter and myriad conversations going on. Big Ron dancing, singing loudly, his voice booming:

‘I put my finger in a woodpecker’s hole,
And the woodpecker said, “God bless my soul,
Take it out. take it out, take it out,

To newcomers Ron can be quite intimidating. His size and raucousness, especial when, as now, he’s more than a little drunk. But in fact he’s a big puppy…

I see AC, half-undressed, dancing with T, his mistress; his wife, J, is reclining naked on cushions at the side of the room with a bloke considerably younger than herself. Some of the women wear lacy ethereal underthings; others are naked. Burnt sienna breasts. Soft thighs. The hard hairy bodies of men, some very erect as they dance. Overfed, oversexed hedonists, one and all, conspicuous by their clannishness; a glib, overdrinking lot…and on the fringes of this crowd, a few virile lesbians, hardfaced, dominating and protecting their newly found bicurious girlfriends.

The tense, temporary nature of their mating habits would cause an alleycat to blush in shame. But we have only the one life. It isn’t a feckin’ rehearsal. So live for the moment, would seem to be the philosphy…

Outside again, twilight. A heavy, liquescent sky. Clothed, now, and standing on the patio. Drunk as a skunk, of course. From the house, wild notes of hysteria, perversion and the shrill laughter of women with inflamed ovaries. Thank God we have no nearby neighbours to complain…


Morning. This place looks like a bomb hit it! Dr Terror’s house of horrors. Upstairs some lesbians remain, a last forlorn hope… Simone de Beauvoir announced lesbianism was an attitude: “you are, therefore, all lesbians”. Crophaired lesbians. Lesbians wearing ties or monocles. Everything, but lesbians pushing this bloody vacuum cleaner around…

In degenerate solitude
I rest

Missing bewilderment
And joy

And all that space we share
With a strange view

Now I must prepare a shoping list for the supermarket shop later this morning.