I wonder how many people in this city
live in furnished rooms.
Late at night when I look out at the buildings
I swear I see a face in every window
looking back at me
and when I turn away
I wonder how many go back to their desk

Leonard Cohen

transformed by orgasm

October 26, 2019

When I see a woman’s face transformed by the orgasm we have reached together, then I know we’ve met. Anything else is fiction. That’s the vocabulary we speak in today. It’s the only language left.

Leonard Cohen
The Favourite Game

To The End Of Love

September 10, 2019

on your knees

April 17, 2018

She stands before you naked you can see it, you can taste it, and she comes to you light as the breeze. Now you can drink it or you can nurse it, it don’t matter how you worship as long as you’re down on your knees.

Leonard Cohen
Light As The Breeze


September 9, 2017

The birds they sang at the break of day
Start again I heard them say
Don’t dwell on what has passed away
or what is yet to be.

Ah the wars they will be fought again
The holy dove she will be caught again
bought and sold and bought again
the dove is never free.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

We asked for signs the signs were sent:
the birth betrayed the marriage spent
Yeah the widowhood of every government –
signs for all to see.

I can’t run no more with that lawless crowd
while the killers in high places say their prayers out loud.
But they’ve summoned, they’ve summoned up a thundercloud
and they’re going to hear from me.

Ring the bells that still can ring…

You can add up the parts but you won’t have the sum
You can strike up the march, there is no drum
Every heart, every heart to love will come
but like a refugee.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

Leonard Cohen

I am dying

May 3, 2017

I am dying
because you have not
died for me
and the world
still loves you.
I write this because I know
that your kisses
are born blind
on the songs that touch you.
I don’t want a purpose
in your life
I want to be lost among
your thoughts
the way you listen to New York City
when you fall asleep.

Leonard Cohen

Play It Glissando

December 1, 2016


Diary 1st December

More fragments from a splintered mind –

O the sisters of mercy they are not
Departed or gone,
They were waiting for me when I thought
That I just can’t go on,
And they brought me their comfort
And later they brought me this song.
O I hope you run into them
You who’ve been travelling so long

Leonard Cohen


Have you observed how closely our shadows sit together? Now and again they touch like lovers. They think we can’t see them, but we can, can’t we? Their desire, one for the other, is very apparent to me.


Yesterday, a grey sky lowering the horizon. The leaves have finally fallen, but still gorse bushes are flowering in places on the moor. Surely the frost must finish them off?

This morning, cold. Minus five on the thermometer in the garage.

Steam rising from my cup of coffee causes my thoughts to stray. Schooldays. Boredom and melancholy and endless bouts of wanking. Everyday a fresh opportunity to fail. Teachers with dead eyes. The walking dead. “Jessie” James with his nicotine yellow fingers, and his spiteful attempts at humour. Mrs Laite with her following of invisible but strange spirits, still in mourning for a long dead husband, and teetering on the brink of dementia.

Oh, what tough little roughs we were.

But even then, despite everything, I was easy prey for the seductive darkness. And the darkness in winter is so absolute, isn’t it?


Memory of an evening in Thame years ago. Dead and alive sort of place. What on earth was I doing there? Don’t know now, but I was with H – her of the long neck and smouldering glances – and we’d both had a drink or two, for sure. There was one of those prefabricated, aluminium-framed, bus-stops, in part windowless where once there had been windows. A rank and urine-smelling place, where tramps congregated late at night.

To my utter amazement, H said to me: ‘Have me here…here on the floor.’


And before I knew what was happening, she was on all fours, skirt up, wriggling lace panties down.

Just the smell in that place put me off. It was dark and there was no one else about. But I couldn’t comply with her demands. It was impossible. I tried to explain but she was furious with me.


And then a Saturday night at The Bell, Apsley. Much later, this. The “Tree-Fellow” was there, with his squint and his evil-smelling cheroots. H, more than a little intoxicated, told him she’d like to screw him. ‘A good night out for me,’ she said, ‘would involve a variety of sexual partners.’

I could tell he was deeply shocked.

I intervened, and she turned on me like a rabid dog. Eventually, I suggested we call it a day. Go home.

‘Fuck you both,’ she said, getting up from the table. ‘I’m outta here…’

All good things, inevitably, come to an end.


And then another time, with the woman I love most in the world. Our first ever date. In the King’s Head, Harrow-on-the-hill. The two of us sitting together, earnestly talking about life, the universe and everything. I with one leg awkwardly folded under me, excuse myself to go to the toilet.

But disaster always awaits the unwary.

On standing, I realise my leg has gone numb. I should sit back down, let feeling return to it. But no. I try to walk through that crowded bar towards the Gents. I make it, yeah – after hobbling and flailing about like one who’d just received a hefty kick to the balls. So very embarrassing. At one point, glancing back over my shoulder, I see the look of total shock on that poor girl’s face…

How to make a good first impression, eh?


March 3, 2015


Reality is one of the possibilities I cannot afford to ignore.
Leonard Cohen
Beautiful Losers