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
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,
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

Saturday morning secrets

October 21, 2017

To enjoy the foreplay, you must learn to love the thorns…

Must find a way to express this innate fire…

“What is your favourite pastime?” he asked.

“Making men nervous,” she replied.


October 19, 2017

Your lips bleed
like the scarlet syrup of a
dark passion fondue;
two curly lines of red
peeking from behind
your hallowed veil,
and you,
you lay them upon
my neck,
my very body you hail
as your own.
This then, is like
a red petal falling on
or a rose stained in blood
as I pull you closer to me
and together,
we drown in a pool of
crimson wine
you anoint
my lips with.
The taste of you
is like the tip of a sword
dipped in sparkling liquorice;
and our bondage becomes
the hypnotism
my tongue
slickly wrap around,
or perhaps,
the voyeur of this
eyeless world.
We’re just like
diamonds sleeping on their
velvet cushions,
or illuminating puppets
showing the way.
Love, may you claim me,
till death do us part.

Annabell Swift

Sunday Morning Pastimes

October 8, 2017

True bliss follows a good whipping…

You are going to burn in the lava of my soul…

What is an hour or two of torture among such close and intimate friends…?

Grip hard and rub fast. Faster…!

Was it a dream, or did we really do that to each other…?

The casualties of love lay all around us…

She said to me, ‘What is life for? What’s it all about?’

And I replied, ‘It’s so we can love other people. So we can love…’

Give each other the gift of time…

Saturday Morning Desire

October 7, 2017

It’s a terrible thing, isn’t it? The way we love each other…

If nothing will save us from death, perhaps love will save us from life…

Books are finite, sexual encounters are finite, but the desire to read and to fuck are infinite; it surpasses our own deaths, our fears, our hopes…

Sex is art. It is all art and all life. It is everything…

What I Want

October 4, 2017

You asked and the answer
            is my mouth nibbling your freckled shoulder, tasting
the stewed salt of your skin                until I leave violet
crescents beneath your jawline, a mark
                        that will last for days. This far west,

you can’t
            tell the sky from the sea, mirrors of each other
thin light slanting into us, all reedy and dim. I could

stare     open-mouthed            at the Pacific
            all        day, surrounded by manzanita,
listening to you say the words                        rough-hewn
            over and over and                               over, until

the sound is so distorted, I lose
                        it among the sluicing of the waves and
               the gravel-mouthed crunching of foreign tires /
until I’m drunk off the sound of your             voice, the spraying mist,

            the way you plot a map on my back,
dragging your fingers along my spine until I can’t imagine how I existed
                        before this moment.


          You asked
and my answer is the pen
            I used to sketch a path
between           your ribcage and hipbone,
            scrawling questions of the body,
the ocean, the you, the me,     this      us.

Caroline Kessler

Sunday Entertainment

October 1, 2017

Such a grey silent day. I’d like to be tied up in a wood far, far away…

Time can be so very misleading – all we ever have of it is NOW, and our lives are made up with billions and billions of these nows…

It’s not always a fuzzy Mills & Boon romance. Sometimes it’s about a stranger and a fist full of hair over a bowed back…

…I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way. You, with all your undumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it. And yet I believe you’ll be sensible of a little gap. But you’d clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it should lose a little of its reality. Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is really just a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become. I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan’t make you love me any more by giving myself away like this — But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defenses. And I don’t really resent it.

Vita Sackville-West
Letter to Virginia Woolf 21st January 1927

For Willyce

September 16, 2017

When i make love to you
i try
with each stroke of my tongue
to say
i love you
to tease
i love you
to hammer
i love you
to melt
i love you
and your sounds drift down
oh god!
oh jesus!
and i think
here it is, some dude’s
getting credit for what
a woman
has done

Pat Parker

everyone is a book

September 8, 2017


Writers tell stories better, because they’ve had more practice, but everyone has a book in them. Yes, that old cliché. If you gave the most interesting (to the person who’s living it) life to a great writer, they could turn it into something wonderful. But all lives are important, all people are important, because everyone is a book. Some people just have easier access to it. We need the expressive arts, the ancient scribes, the storytellers, the priests. And that’s where I put myself: as a storyteller. Not necessarily a high priestess, but certainly the storyteller. And I would love to be the storyteller of the tribe!

Tanith Lee
Love, Death & Publishers
Locus Magazine April 1998