Bridge of tits

July 13, 2019

The Ponte delle Tette, the bridge of breasts in Venice. Here in the 16th C prostitutes would expose their breasts (and more) to attract potential customers.  At night they would use lanthorns to illuminate their bared breasts,  thus enticing the lustful into their arms –

It was hoped by the authorities that by allowing these fleshy displays male homosexuality would be discouraged: the idea being that no man, faced with a bridge full of tits, could remain gay for very long…!?!

DIANA’S JUSTICE

June 2, 2019

The maiden hies off to the woods:
On a moon-pale steed she rides,
Decked out in doublet, hose of black,
A sword all by her side.

She goes to meet her own true love
With lips pursed in a frown,
And rides beneath the greenwood boughs
Until the sun goes down.

Dismounting in the chosen glade,
She sits upon a stone.
With sword laid flat across her knees,
She waits for him to come.

Brush crackles, and her head snaps up.
Her eyes suss out the sound —
Then narrow as he greets the grove
With smile broad as her frown.

“Ah, love,” he grins, then sidles close,
His arms outspread, his hands
Prepared to smooth her knitted brow;
She hefts the sword and stands.

“Love?” she says, her voice quite low,
“Is that what you name this ill
That makes you think you have the right
To bend me to your will?”

His smile falls off; he backs a step,
Tramples its shattered joy,
Mouth gaping in bewilderment —
“You thought it just a ploy?

“I love you, and I thought that you — ”
“Speak not that word to me!”
Her eyes flash in the dusky woods;
Her voice shakes bitterly.

“A virgin I walked out with you,
A virgin I’d remain —
You said you understood and wouldn’t
Challenge my domain,

“You plotted to seduce me — you
Believed I had no mind
To give that gift of my free will,
And in my own good time!”

His brow is creased beneath fair hair;
His chin trembles with grief.
“I made you want me, didn’t I,
Till you must have some relief?”

She spits at him and hefts the sword
Till he backs off again.
Her eyes dart wild with the distress
Of thus confronting him.

“That’s just the point! I trusted you
To help uphold my vow;
I didn’t want to want you then,
And I don’t want to now!

“You sought for your own pleasure, so
You played games with my mind!
You made me false to that most dear —
That was the most unkind!”

Now he draws out his dagger, his
Blue eyes gone wide with fear —
She lifts the sword to mark his chest,
Scowl marred by silent tears.

“Ah, love,” he begs, “don’t do this, you’ll
Regret it all your life!”
He holds her eyes. He ducks the sword
And strikes out with his knife.

“Traitor!” she screams at silver flash,
“You’d steal my life now, too?”
“You’ve mine!” he cries as blades swing down,
Too late to halt for rue.

He stabs her right below the heart;
Her sword cuts through his chest.
Two loves who share one pool of blood —
Diana’s case can rest.

Adele Gardner

not the salvation

April 2, 2019

The orgasm focuses. I lust to write. The coming of the orgasm is not the salvation but, more, the birth of my ego. I cannot write until I find my ego. The only kind of writer I could be is the kind who exposes himself.. . .To write is to spend oneself, to gamble oneself. But up to now I have not even liked the sound of my own name. To write, I must love my name. The writer is in love with himself. . .and makes his books out of that meeting and that violence.

Susan Sontag
Journal entry 19th November 1959

their voluptuous lips

March 28, 2019

In the moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by their dress and manner. I thought at the time that I must be dreaming when I saw them, for, though the moonlight was behind them, they threw no shadow on the floor…Two were dark, and had high aquiline noses, like the Count, and great dark, piercing eyes, that seemed to be almost red when contrasted with the pale yellow moon. The other was fair, as fair as can be, with great, wavy masses of golden hair and eyes like pale sapphires. I seemed somehow to know her face, and to know it in connection with some dreamy fear, but I could not recollect at the moment how or where. All three had brilliant white teeth, that shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red lips…They whispered together, and then they all three laughed – such a silvery, musical laugh, but as hard as though the sound never could have come through the softness of human lips. It was like the intolerable, tingling sweetness of water-glasses when played on by a cunning hand.

Bram Stoker
Dracula

Office Friendships

March 17, 2019

Eve is madly in love with Hugh
And Hugh is keen on Jim.
Charles is in love with very few
And few are in love with him.

Myra sits typing notes of love
With romantic pianist’s fingers.
Dick turns his eyes to the heavens above
Where Fran’s divine perfume linger.

Nicky is rolling eyes and tits
And flaunting her wiggly walk.
Everybody is thrilled to bits
By Clive’s suggestive talk.

Sex suppressed will go berserk,
But it keeps us all alive.
It’s a wonderful change from wives and work
And it ends at half past five.

Gavin Ewart

devour him

March 9, 2019

And she wanted for a moment to hold and devour him, wanted his mouth, his ears, his coat collar, wanted to surround him and engulf him…

F. Scott Fitzgerald
Tender is the night

Web of Dreams

March 5, 2019

She wove a web of dreams
made of love and sex
trapping his heart to the spells
of witchcraft brewing
in the dark cauldrons
of the forbidden realms
hidden within the colours
of seduction swirling
in the magic of her eyes

his blood was poisoned
with a desire for the hands
he would never hold
his soul infected with a longing
for a heart he would never touch
helpless to burn in a love
he could only feel

a love she would never see

or touch

or know

and he lays trapped
in her web of dreams
forever lost
to the charms and spells
of her magic and witchcraft

helpless to the madness
of the rhythm of voodoo
drumming and beating wildly
under the bones of his ribs
his heart burning
for the song of her name
both forever and never hers

Akira Chinen

Lady of Miracles

February 28, 2019

Since you walked out on me
I’m getting lovelier by the hour.
I glow like a corpse in the dark.
No one sees how round and sharp
my eyes have grown
how my carcass looks like a glass urn,
how I hold up things in the rags of my hands,
the way I can stand though crippled by lust.
No, there’s just your cruelty circling
my head like a bright rotting halo.

Nina Cassian
Trans. Laura Schiff

a brother of breath

February 16, 2019

For people could close their eyes to greatness, to horrors, to beauty, and their ears to melodies or deceiving words. But they couldn’t escape scent. For scent was a brother of breath. Together with breath it entered human beings, who couldn’t defend themselves against it, not if they wanted to live. And scent entered into their very core, went directly to their hearts, and decided for good and all between affection and contempt, disgust and lust, love and hate. He who ruled scent ruled the hearts of men.

Patrick Süskind
Perfume: The Story of a Murderer

the world goes asunder

December 9, 2018

On a sunny day. The reality of fine-grained buttocks. The father’s death, a precarious event. I run my hand over your sex. The scent of stripped hazel. Keening comes to an end. Light turns red and runs over our bodies. We’re covered in red silt. We swim like two tadpoles as we touch the unravelling walls. My dress on the floor, like a giant dead bird.

It’s winter. The evening reeks of damp feathers. Icicles drop with a crash, the odd passerby rolls on the asphalt. I tune in my idleness to that of the cat. I read a few lines and then watch as the light wanes on your face, as your eyes change their colour. Beauty belongs to those idling their time away. Our life among poplars and snowfalls, among the conflagrations and parades. As I run my hand over your thigh, the world goes asunder. Somewhere on the outskirts of town, where desire ascends along with the carbon black, where heat no longer reaches, we vegetate superposed in a bed: your nipples on top of my nipples. Your eyes sunken into the dark lighten my skin. The fine-crystal mesh melting away with each breath.

When the heart shrivels up, shrinks to a raisin like grapes left to dry in the attic, when flesh ebbs away, when the body refuses to allow the world in any more, what’s the use of still trying, what’s the use of still smiling?

Leaves afloat in a jug. No old man is waiting.

Doina Ioanid
Chants for Taming the Hedgehog Sow