How to kill someone

August 13, 2017

She lay on his shoulder in this ugly room, folded up with almost imperceptible breathing like seagulls settled on the water cock over gentle waves. Looking at her head and body, richer far than her rare fur coat, holding as he did to these skins which enfolded what ruled him, her arms and shoulders, everything, looking down on her face which ever since he had first seen it had been his library, his gallery, his palace, and his wooded fields he began at last to feel content and almost that he owned her.

Lying in his arms, her long eyelashes down along her cheeks, her hair tumbled and waved, her hands drifted to rest like white doves drowned on peat water, he marvelled again he should ever dream of leaving her who seemed to him then his reason for living as he made himself breathe with her breathing as he always did when she was in his arms to try and be more with her.

It was so luxurious he nodded, perhaps it was also what she put on her hair, very likely it may have been her sleep reaching out over him, but anyway he felt so right he slipped into it too and dropped off on those outspread wings into her sleep with his, like two soft evenings meeting.

Henry Green
Party Going

9th August

I keep a diary: a day-to-day record of my thoughts, activities, and impressions, handwritten in my spidery script that no one can read. I’ve done so most of my life. Here my most sordid secrets are laid bare. The Sapphic loves of my partners, the intense physical and emotional relationships I have experienced over time, and even the tempestuous passion I felt for Claire P all those years ago. All this and more is recorded in a series of black, hardcovered notebooks.

My secret life. Erotic, nebulous in parts, full of clichés with great lapses into flamboyancy and ecstasies transcended. Here is recorded my first lovemaking with SAM:

12th March

“Skin honey and scarlet, blouse the colour of pale wine. She wore a front fastening brassiere and her fine, pale breasts tumbled easily free – only to be trapped by my waiting palms.

“Fire & ecstasy.

“I turned a corner in space as we sought each other’s hidden soul. She came so very quickly, unexpectedly. Later she came again when I went down on her, licking her wet, puckered sex.

“Afterwards, I escorted her home. High, full moon and wind and light rain. Waited an eternity for a 138 Northwood bus at the stop beside the photographer’s studio.

Then, returning to my tatty flat, experienced intense loneliness and a sense of terrible loss. Masturbated aggressively in bed, the scent of her hair on the pillow beside my face. Felt myself outside of time. Tiptoeing through chaos, in another, alternative dimension. I tried to persuade myself that SAM’s love would endure, but knew it wouldn’t. My head full of fire and suspended stars. I couldn’t come until I thought of Georgina – her big eyes and nutbrown skin, my favorite fantasy girl, her curvaceous young body. I moaned her name aloud, over and over, as if casting a spell of protection against SAM’s encroachment on my life. Finally came imagining Georgina acting in a most lewd and provocative manner – which in reality she never would…!”

In time SAM became my wife – my first wife. I was deeply in love with her; or rather deeply in love with who I thought she might be. Hence this two years later:

5th December

“Blank days. So much dull work. Looking forward to a short break. Walking with SAM in Claraden Road. Snow falling and whiteness spreading around. Christmas lights in all the shop windows. Snowflakes on the collar of SAM’s grey overcoat melting. We kiss and her nose is ice cold on my cheek. She is so childlike at times, so in need of protection.

“I ask the question, straight out: ‘Will you marry me?’ By its suddenness, I surprised even myself. After all, what did I really have to offer her?

“The falling snow became millions & billions of falling diamonds in the streetlight’s glow. Pure white diamonds descending in silence –

“ ‘I haven’t a ring yet,’ sez me. ‘I thought we could go to Spivack’s in the morning and you can chose one you like.’

“Still she remained silent, contemplating my proposal, its ramifications and future complexities. Then, finally, she said: ‘Yes, I’ll marry you…’

“And the whole world came alive in me. White magic prevailed. SAM was happy too – and oh so very amorous. We hurried to my flat which was as cold as the North Pole in deep winter. We had each other on the living room floor, both still partly clothed – ”

Once SAM said to me that ‘There’s not more than thirty-six ways of doing it.’ Her own technique was one of virginal innocence. A child in a world of nasty lust and unspeakable desires. It was a technique that had its attractions, and a number of other admirers beside myself. Bruce, an American service man and Jazz musician, who lodged with SAM’s parents, practiced eight of those thirty-six ways of doing it, the night before our wedding. The child was a bitch on heat who believed her knickers were ankle warmers. But I was totally blind to this at the time. None so blind as those who will not see –

18th June

“Love, art, wine. Read the Kama Sutra. Fuck T’s wife in revenge for SAM’s many betrayals over our five years of marriage. Lust is all exposed nerve endings. It permeates every fiber of my being. As if every nerve in my body is pulled taut and stimulated by an almost continuous series of short-circuits.

“T’s wife, Pam, Pamela, a name invented by the poet, Philip Sidney – perhaps from the Greek, meaning “all honey”? Certainly, she is ALL honey. I pollinate her honey pot at every opportunity. And she is intoxicated by Pan, a thing of pandemonium, with a sex urge too violent for her body to sustain.

“Tranquility is no longer a possibility for either of us.

“Instead there is anguish, spasms of hate, terrible depression for me – which I cast temporarily aside in fleshy acts of revenge on Pam’s pale body. Clawing hands. Exhaustion. I have her in shop doorways at night. In alleyways by stinking dustbins. In her husband’s bed – even once in a toilet cubicle at Debenhams. Repeated humiliations. Only ever half-gratified, we both come back for more.

“But today SAM talks of a ‘Fresh start’. Forget the other men in her life, they’re not important. Temporary aberrations. In the past. It is me she really, truly loves…

“Words, words, and more words. Mostly lies, too. Heard it all, so many times before. Our love is fucked and there’s nothing I can do about it. What she “feels” is no longer “love”. It is nothing more than attachment, the habit of having someone familiar to touch, to hold, to control. A safe option. I did everything in my power to keep her close, everything in my power so that love would not disappear, not fade away between us. But I was living in an imaginary relationship. I was a fool…

“She tells me to give up Pam but I say, ‘Perhaps, we’ll see – ’

“We visit Al and Di this evening. We go in a black cab to Ealing. I finger a supposedly repentant SAM roughly during the journey’ She will do anything to gain my forgiveness. I make her “finish” herself off in front of me. She sits on one of the pull-down seats opposite, legs spread in compliance. After she comes, I make her kneel on the floor of the cab and suck me off.

“Eros crucified.

“The hate I let lose is equivalent to all the hate in the world. Behind the hate is love. Damaged, distorted, but not finished with…

“I can only think of all those evenings spent together in mutual silence, wrapped in love, the two of us in front of the fire. Her skin smelling faintly of buttermilk and baby powder. A unique small, this, like no other woman in the world. They were times we were both happy –

“Yet that too is probably a lie. Even during the best of times Sam was seeing other men. I know that now…”

So, in the pages of my diaries, I’m able to experience again the ugly haemorraging of love from my first marriage. I can witness afresh the sins, negligences, and ignorances of my earlier life, and gain fresh inspiration from them. I can see exactly how time distorts my memory of such long ago events, too. These diaries stand as witness to everything, warts and all.

#

“It takes a woman years and years to unlearn the things she’s been taught to be sorry for.” Yes, but in unlearning these things, she may become a monster. Most men are uncomfortable with sexuality that is not made for their own consumption. And this new, superwoman will display many male traits – a propensity for violence, for example. And like most men, the ability to see things not as they are but as they think they should be –

You have been warned.

#

The one thing that really, really turns me on. The most sexy thing in the world –

Kindness!

And one of the most exquisite experiences in the world –

‘Lying in bed on a summer morning, with the window open, listening to the church bells, eating buttered toast with cunty fingers.’

#

Who the hell pays any attention to the world ending? It ends for me every single night. But it begins again next morning –

Delightfully Sticky Chaos

August 3, 2017

3rd August

Mood today: ash-grey.

I seek for something beyond the shadow of a translucent tear. Obscurity, perhaps? Or extinction forever? Why don’t you chose?

We should be silent if silence makes us happy. Our love should not be spoken of because words are lies. Speech is a betrayal of self. It should be enough just to look at each other and hold each other’s gaze –

Your eyes seen in a dream like this one, seem huge to me. Haunted by night and its many ambiguities. In these eyes, your secret eyes, only the unreal exists. They contemplate invisible beauties and not me –

We must love. Must feel. We are here to be engulfed, to taste danger, risk hurt. And when we’re betrayed, abandoned, wounded or left broken, then we should sit and listen to the apples falling from the tree in the night. Count them if you will. Those apples falling in heaps around you, their sweetness rotting into the ground – that is the true meaning of life!

Yes, yes, it’s true. I’m a collector of beautiful moments. Remember walking naked into the sea at midnight? All those wonderful stars overhead and the sound of the waves breaking over the beach. And our laughter, the four of us, when the policeman flashed his torchlight at us from the pier. Magical that moment.

named this place

July 28, 2017

I know that the “57” in Heinz 57 refers to the number
of pickles that the company used to sell,
and that graham crackers and corn flakes were originally
created to prevent masturbation,
but I can’t tell you the difference between a seal and sea lion.
Or the difference between an alligator and a crocodile,
though I think it has to do something with the shape of their snouts.
Pumas and leopards are the same cats with different coloured coats, and something called
“the wingless fly” lives in Antarctica, but I only know this because I saw it on a PBS kid’s show once,
and also,
I had to google the spelling of Antarctica
because my computer dictionary told me I wasn’t even close.

You know, they say that there is a part
of the human chest that if you strike it hard enough,
it makes the person’s heart explode.
This sounds like such a lie that I have to believe it’s the truth.
If I were science, I’d never tell anyone where this place is.
If I were science, I’d have named this place after you.

Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz

Taking the risk

July 22, 2017

The human trap

July 16, 2017

16th July

He said, ‘Put your face down there,’ and guided her head lower. She lightly kissed his belly before taking him into her mouth –

She became like a she-wolf feasting on flesh – he cried out in pleasure, pain, terror, and she smiled as she feasted, sucking the very soul from his body in that fractured moment of time –

A wild thing, was she. Feral and ferocious – and, oh, so greedy! She felt liquid fire in her veins and the moon filling her head –

Gradually she released her claw-like grip, licked the remains of his soul from her lips, and spoke in a low growl. She said, ‘I’d like to keep you chained in my wardrobe. I’d have you there to kiss whenever I wanted. Have you there to fuck when I felt desire. See how eager I am? I came to you without shoes or clothes, dressed only in my fine grey fur. Yes, my love tastes of bitterness, and like the wild rose I’ve been covered in thorns. I will make a crown of thorns for you to wear in my wardrobe…my den. Your prison. And only I will see. Only I – ’

He lay silent an still beneath her. She breathed her life into his motionless mouth, and said, ‘You’re as nothing now. Nothing but what I mould you into. My pet, my dog. My slave. You are nothing but a blank canvass on which I can paint my darkest fantasies. You will be whatever I tell you to be. You have no choice. There is no other way -’

#

He knew she could cut his soul into a million pieces. Once, in a corn file, he’d heard the sound of raindrops whispering on her bare flesh. It was a poetry, softly recited on breasts, belly and buttocks, which came back to haunt him again and again. Another time she wrote him a love letter, the only one, and it was full of sadness and despair –

“Now wait a second…” Kenneth butted in.

“Yeah, we haven’t asked you the questions yet,” Brandon finished for Kenneth.

“Yeah, like what are your intentions toward our little Ryan,” Patrick added, smirking.

“What do you do for a living?” Brandon added.

“Can you support Ryan’s shoe fetish?” Kenneth threw his question in too.

“Hmm, okay, here are my answers. I plan on feeding him, dancing with him and God willing fucking him until he can’t walk straight. I help infertile chickens have baby chickens, and I think so. I’m hoping his feet are about my size. We can share shoes and everything,” Phillip answered.

Crystal Rose
I’ll Be Your Drill, Soldier

Psalm of no surrender

July 14, 2017

My destroyer;
Master of disguises.

Able to breach my defenses
with a single searing word.

Faster than adrenaline’s rush.
Stronger than a nightmare’s claw.

Creature of a thousand beloved faces.
Ventriloquist of every voice I’ve longed to hear.

Chameleon. Sorcerer. Stalker.
O, you deathless thing.

You track me down
by the stink of my loss.

You lead me into the eager quicksand,
make me lie beneath the beast’s belly.

You coax the iron from my blood
into your own shallow veins.

You bury me in the desert
of steaming asphalt, drown me

in the sewage of your monstrous language.
Shall I be your slave, your poet, your captive?

Will you be my god,
shall I have no other?

Must I worship you
with all my disgrace

and all my hatred
and all my shame?

This handfasting
works both ways.

If I am yours,
you are mine.

We go down
to the sea of no stars

with our wrists bound
tight as ticks;

we go down
to the sea of no stars

and you will not see
that silvery surface again

without me at your side:
your relentless, bloodied bride.

Deborah A. Miranda

Sunday morning kisses

July 9, 2017

Kiss her. Slowly, take your time, there’s no place you’d rather be. Kiss her but not like you’re waiting for something else, like your hands beneath her shirt or her skirt or tangled up in her bra straps. Nothing like that. Kiss her like you’ve forgotten any other mouth that your mouth has ever touched. Kiss her with a curious childish delight. Laugh into her mouth, inhale her sighs. Kiss her until she moans. Kiss her with her face in your hands. Or your hands in her hair. Or pulling her closer at the waist. Kiss her like you want to take her dancing. Like you want to spin her into an open arena and watch her look at you like you’re the brightest thing she’s ever seen. Kiss her like she’s the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. Take your time. Kiss her like the first and only piece of chocolate you’re ever going to taste. Kiss her until she forgets how to count. Kiss her silent. Come away, ask her what 2+2 is and listen to her say your name in answer.

Azra.T
This is how you keep her