Morning. Silver streaks in the sky between intermittent layers of thick cloud hanging low on the moor. Time to take the pigs for a walk. Nice pink leads, they have. Walk them across the back of my dreamscape before the rain sets in and washes us all away –

The artwork has been created by David M. Bower, who said about his work:

People always want to know what I was thinking when I create one of my more unusual paintings. My answer to them is simple: I just really wanted to paint that girl wrapped in plastic, holding a dead rat. The story sometimes just happens during the painting process. Sometimes the hidden narrative or true meaning is in the title itself. I am often inspired by an image that I see and my painting materializes from that image. It will often morph into so much more.

A Day In The Life

May 6, 2020

Monday Morning, heavy rain in the window. Dee, nude and sleek in the bathroom, brushing her teeth after showering. I enter to ask a question, and she gropes my backside (I’m fully dressed). So I grope her back; end up with a hand full of pussy. Less than two minuets later we’re in the bedroom.

We make love with quiet determination, as if this will be the last time ever. Her mouth tastes of mint toothpaste and violets.

Afterwards, while in each other’s arms, Gabby enters the room. ‘Dirty devils,’ she says, removing her pajama top and climbing on the bed. ‘You’ve been at it without me!’ Her breasts sway as she pushes against me. ‘Move over you, selfish beasts -’

Gabby kisses Dee long and hard on the mouth. I tug Gabby’s purple panties down and gently kiss her backside. She adjusts her position in the bed. I roll round and go down on her. Sometime later, she cums – but not before she’s made Dee cum again with her fingering.

Time can be slowed right down, you know? Just lay in bed and listen to the sound of the falling rain, if you don’t believe me. Just listen and lose yourself in its syncopated rhythm.

During this period of lockdown, the three of us in isolation, our lovemaking has become a necessary affirmation of our love for each other. We make a lovely mess, and tell each other stories – or recite fragments of poetry. We each of us have work to do, but it can wait. We need to be foolish. Lovers never forget the echo of each other’s hearts. It’s that simple; that complex.

Kissing Dee’s breasts tenderly, I quote, ‘I will do today what others won’t, so I can live tomorrow like others can’t.’

‘Good for you,’ she replies. ‘Go down and make more coffee then.’

So, I go to make coffee.

Later, there are telephone calls to make, then I sit working on my PC while Dee sits on the floor in the doorway of my office sketching. The movement of the charcoal in her hand is swift, confident – bold sweeps across her stark white pad.

For our evening meal I roast vegetables: aubergine, cougette, red & yellow peppers, vine tomatoes, corn, sweet potatoes and chick peas, all coated in olive oil and Moroccan spices. Delicious.

Finally, that strange, almost surreal moment at day’s end, when they both start a slow striptease to Gregorian chant in the living room –

As Nietzsche once said, (or maybe it was someone else?): ‘And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.’

Well, I could hear the music – and see the dance! God help me, I’ve not laughed so much in a long time!

And then to bed –

black wind

April 13, 2020

…the nights are a tangle of black wind, black leaves and love.

Roo Borson

It’s blowing a hoolie

February 15, 2020

The storm’s coming in off the coast. It’s been christened Dennis by the Met Office. Wind howling round the standing stones, abundant rain across the moor and cold as the Ice-queen’s heart. There’ll be more trees down before this day is out –

walk in this unknown rain

January 28, 2020

I listen to the sound of the water falling in my sleep. Words fall like water, I fall. I draw in my eyes, the shape of my eyes, and I swim in my waters: I tell myself my silences. All night I wait for language to configure me. And I think of the wind that comes to me, that dwells in me. All night I walk in this unknown rain. I was given a silence full of forms and visions (you say). And then you ran with regret like the only bird in the wind.

Alejandra Pizarnik
The musical hell
Trans. Peedeel

I will die in Paris, on a rainy day,
on some day I can already remember.
I will die in Paris – and I don’t step aside –
perhaps on a Thursday, as today is Thursday, in autumn.

It will be a Thursday, because today, Thursday, setting down
these lines, I have put my upper arm bones on
wrong, and never so much as today have I found myself
with all the road ahead of me, alone.

César Vallejo is dead. Everyone beat him
although he never does anything to them;
they beat him hard with a stick and hard also

with a rope. These are the witnesses:
the Thursdays, and the bones of my arms,
the solitude, and the rain, and the roads. . .

César Vallejo


November 28, 2019

I love the rain. I love how it softens the outlines of things. The world becomes softly blurred, and I feel like I melt right into it.

Hanamoto Hagumi
Honey and Clover

Alone in the Rain

October 28, 2019

Rain falling on me.
I am naked and awash
with the rain that wakens
your scent on my skin.
Cold, too.
Pointless to try to warm up
as this night my soul
is a thunderstorm of chills –


This was a dreadful time, rendered the more dreadful by the gloom of the weather and the country. I was never warm; my teeth chattered in my head; I was troubled with a very sore throat, such as I had on the isle…I would be aroused in the gloaming, to sit up in the same puddle where I had slept, and sup cold drammach; the rain driving sharp in my face or running down my back in icy trickles; the mist enfolding us like as in a gloomy chamber — or, perhaps, if the wind blew, falling suddenly apart and showing us the gulf of some dark valley where the streams were crying aloud. The sound of an infinite number of rivers came up from all round. In this steady rain the springs of the mountain were broken up; every glen gushed water like a cistern; every stream was in high spate, and had filled and overflowed its channel. During our night tramps, it was solemn to hear the voice of them below in the valleys, now booming like thunder, now with an angry cry. I could well understand the story of the Water Kelpie, that demon of the streams, who is fabled to keep wailing and roaring at the ford until the coming of the doomed traveller.

Robert Lewis Stevenson

Meanwhile the sky had turned quite thundery, and, with nightfall, huge raindrops began plopping down, bringing relief from the harshness of a torrid, airless day. The sea was loudly raging, out roared by long rumbles of thunder, while flashes of lightning, bright as day, kept brusquely revealing the two pleasured cunts of the now silent girls. A brutal frenzy drove our three bodies. Two young mouths fought over my ass, my balls, and my cock, but I still kept pushing apart female legs wet with saliva and come, splaying them as if writhing out of a monster’s grip, and yet that monster was nothing but the utter violence of my movements. The hot rain was finally pouring down and streaming over our fully exposed bodies. Huge booms of thunder shook us, heightening our fury, wresting forth our cries of rage, which each flash accompanied with a glimpse of our sexual parts. Simone had found a mud puddle, and was smearing herself wildly: she was jerking off with the earth and coming violently, whipped by the downpour, my head locked in her soil-covered legs, her face wallowing in the puddle, where she was brutally churning Marcelle’s cunt, one arm around Marcelle’s hips, the hand yanking the thigh, forcing it open.

Georges Bataille
Story of the Eye