More Powerful…

February 18, 2018

How foolish to believe we are more powerful than the sea or the sky.

Ruta Sepetys
Salt to the Sea

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

Fragments of madness

August 19, 2017

19th August

Mood: Feckin’ intense, but kind of blue.

Fact: No woman ever had an orgasm while scrubbing the floor.


Female witches take their power from the earth – which is why men fear them so much! They can raise such terrible enchantment from out of the earth and weave it into spells without corrupting, polluting or poisoning the soil.


You may not have seen it but there is a forest growing inside me. It is huge and dark and filled with frightening things.

I love the sea. The sound of the waves on wind-stripped rocks. The salty smell – which is the smell of memory for me.

Walking in the morning mist. It’s a white veil of breath surrounding us. We find our way by instinct, passing the twisted shapes of gorse and a thin tree. We see the lighted windows of the farmhouse ahead, dim as old lamplight. Often, walking in the mist like this, you are overcome by a feeling of someone / something following you. An irrational feeling, of course…


We’ve received over twenty positive responses to our “Erotic World of Faery” party invites so far. It’s going to be a grand night!

full of harp-noises

August 11, 2017

They went in. Pine-needles are not easy to walk on, like a floor of red glass. It is not cool under them, a black scented life, full of ants, who work furiously and make no sound. Something ached in Carston, a regret for the cool brilliance of the wood they had left, the other side of the hills, on the edge of the sea. This one was full of harp-noises from a wind when there was none outside. He saw Picus ahead, a shadow shifting between trunk and trunk. Some kind of woodcraft he supposed, and said so to Felix who said sleepily: “Somebody’s blunt-faced bees, dipping under the thyme-spray”; a sentence which made things start living again. Would they never have enough of what they called life? There was no kind of track over the split vegetable grass. A place that made you wonder what sort of nothing went on there, year in year out.

Mary Butts
Armed with madness

all the way in

Diary 26th August – Just a fistful of fast, challenging, hot-wired mind-bites!

Yes, yes, she’s an angel. But she fucks with the combined fury of all the demons from hell. D’you know how many demons there are in hell? Go look it up in Johann Weyer’s Pseudomonarchia Daemonum. There are thousands of the buggers…But it’s Duke Sallos who makes men love women, and women love men. He alone rules thirty demon legions of hell! It’s all his fecking fault!


Like the sea at dusk, the waves rolling in only to retreat, slipping between your fingers, as elusive as an old lover. It’s like a song you know well, but have never heard before this particular moment in time.


Women are infinite mysteries, melodious, but sometimes spiteful as black widows. In the States S’s sister said to me: ‘You can’t leave that girl here…’

It was obvious to everyone that S had become besotted with her brother-in-law in the four weeks before my arrival. It was the hardest kind of betrayal. Her sister was trying to reconcile herself to her husband’s recent affair with a local woman. Rebuild their marriage. But S arrived and put paid to that…And she did it without a second thought.

Sympathetic to her sister’s plight, I brought S back with me that time. But it was too late, of course. The damage had already been done. Her sister left her husband in the weeks following. And she…? Well, she moped about like an unexpected return of winter in the middle of summer. She was in love, but not with me. She became a closed up secret, a locked diary that I could no longer read. And that, I guess, was the end of it…


If you’re doing it, and doing it without love, that’s okay providing you’re both enjoying it and no one is going to get hurt because of it.


So many people live the same year seventy-five times over, and call it life!


Is it true girls mature earlier than boys? Or do we simply excuse male immaturity for longer periods of time? Could it be more a case of society’s expectations, rather than any real difference between the sexes?


I keep confusing Donald Trump with Rumplestiltskin. I don’t know why, because I’m sure they don’t both eat babies? Although Forest Trump might , like dear Rumple, destroy himself in a fit of rage one day?


Sex games are fine until you lose the key to the handcuffs…!


‘What use is history,’ says El. ‘It’s over and gone. Not relevant…!’

‘Studying history,’ says Peedeel, ‘stops you believing rubbish – day to day you read in the press or hear in passing the same old myths, half-truths and outright lies churned out about the past. Of course most of our politicians, bless ‘em, want us to believe the rubbish. But you should always find out for yourself…The core task of the historian is interpretation, relating what was then to what is now. Hopefully, on a good day, it might even prevent us making the same mistakes over again – but I won’t hold my breath on that one!’

Reading today…

June 5, 2015



‘I Offered Myself As The Sea’ by Eric Paul

‘I Offered Myself As The Sea’ by Eric Paul


Wednesday was so full of sun. On the beach, the sound of waves lapping over sand. This is a fine stretch of beach approached through a cleft between high granite cliffs, with a small rocky island laying off shore. They say King Arthur once fought a battle near here…

It is certainly a magical place. The sheer cliffs falling away to the sea. The soaring gulls. The calm dark sea, the colour of tranquility today, violet-blue, but sun-dappled further out. Rarely have I seen it this calm –

“But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.”

Our ultimate destination, however, is a small cove on the opposite side of this ragged headland. A haunted place. Hard to reach from the landward side, but we know a way – all narrow elbow turns on a dizzying descent from the coast path. An isolated spot where we can be alone.

There, on stormtossed nights, so they say, you can hear the crying voices of drowned sailors, poor devils sunk here on these treacherous rocks so many years ago.

“And, as their splendour flashed and failed,
We thought of wrecks upon the main,
Of ships dismasted, that were hailed
And sent no answer back again.”

No one ever comes here, to this sheltered, secluded spot. Most of the locals think this beach can only be reached from the seaward side, by boat. Not a place to walk the dog, or play catch with little Dick and Jane. But a beautiful stretch of beach when the tide’s out, and the tide is on the turn just now, it will slowly roll back in during the course of this sun-soaked afternoon.

We sit naked on the lazy sand, she with a dream in her eyes, sifting sand through her fingers. We make love. Our bodies become crusted with sand as we roll about. We splash in the sea after, out laughter echoing up to the high gulls nests in the cliff face above.

“Oh plunge me deep in love – put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.”

Timeless moments. We want them to last forever, but, of course, they cannot. They are as transient and elusive as the sand running through our fingers.

“Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am’rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp’d power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.”

Embracing in the surf, carefree as children. The salty taste of her nipples in my mouth. Her touch…slender fingers searching…guiding me again…to that “ rose wet cave” of hers, that place of mysteries and ritual secrets. I can almost feel her arteries glowing in my grasp. Then, clinging to me like a vine, arms about my neck, legs up my back, she cries at the gulls, at the sky. Her face turns aside as if experiencing great, great pain.

She is such a beautiful, wide-spread fire. A split conch-shell griping like death. Impossible, but inciting my body to riot. It would take a God to hold back from her demanding grip – and I’m no God. Root tangled in the sand of her flesh. Smell of sea and salt in my nostrils. Swimmy-headed with this insistent demand –

We collapse, finally, exhausted on the sand, panting from joint exertions, eyes raised to the raw fissures in the rock above us. Unstrung, for now, by passion.

Eventually, recovering bruised senses, we talk about love, our strange life here…Especially about our damaged ‘menagerie of three.’ Words spoken casually, but packed with meaning for us both.

Take all
For you have taken everything,
save the broad ledge of sea.

Then, to change the subject, I talk about extreme psychic states and their relationship to reality. She talks about ghost…

Later we park beside the small hotel above St Nectan’s Glen. We follow the path through the Glen: here, there are trees and tangled foliage and wild flowers. The shrine for St Nectan stood hereabouts in the 6th century; his cell is supposed to be at the Hermitage at the top of the glen.

We reach the waterfall that plunges through a rocky arch to the basin forty-odd feet below. There’s definitely an air of mystery about this place – enchantment becomes more than just a possibility – or so you begin to believe! The veil between worlds is paper thin…Legends are birthed here, and spread. Tales of valiant knights, of vigils, of quests. And of fair maidens in distress…

Back in the car, she kisses me. Teases me. Her fingers insistent…

‘Watching them’s aroused you,’ she says.

She’s referring to two young woman talking on the farside of the carpark. One them is in a flesh-coloured bikini top and shorts; the other in a baggy open neck blouse and micro-short skirt, that looks more belt than skirt. Both have long, bare legs.

‘Your fiddling about’s made me like that…!’ My protest is in vain.

‘Don’t you think that’s a bit pervy…?’ She giggles, teases more. ‘It’s unfaithful, is what it is. Watching them’s going to make you come off, I reckon…’ Her hand is a fist, tugging through my shorts. ‘Oh, look at her bend over for her bag…’ Quick exclamation.

The girl in the skirt is bending forward, lifting a holdall. I have an uninterrupted view for several seconds of the backs of fine, shapely legs and the string-like crotch of her orange panties.

‘You can see everything she’s got…’ Mock horror and disgust. ‘The hussy…’

‘Best stop…’ Reaching quickly for her wrist, but she shoves me away.

‘Oh no you don’t, Mr. You deserve punishment. You’re going home in creamy wet pants if I have anything to do with it…’

The girl takes something from the bag to show her friend, but fumbles, drops it. She bends again. Almost involuntarily my eyes are drawn to the smooth curve of rump before she rises. I grip the steering wheel tightly. But my treacherous body spasms, anyway…

‘There, told you! Dirty, dirty boy. No self-control at all – ’


April 17, 2015

Camel Estuary - Daymer Bay, Polzeath, North Cornwall

Yesterday: sunshine and heat, like the middle of summer. Walked along the cifftops, listened to the breakers booming down below, then descended to the bay. Wild flowers: bulbous buttercup, oxeye daisy, thrift or sea pink. A riot of colours. Saw a blue butterfly, a silver-studied blue (?), I think. A curtain of mist hanging far out to sea. Wild, impossible tangles of gorse on the path down to the beach.

During the winter we made love on the ground around here (discreetly, out of sight). That had been a cool dry day, and no one about to speak of. Happy memories…

Purchased ice cream and 7up from the beach shop. Walked a ragged path through a tangle of evergreen, Alexanders here in wild profusion, pungent scent (stink), bitter vetch and bittersweet here also. Still too early for bluebells, but plenty of Daffs about.

Sat on a bench and watched the sea. Tide in, but slowly retreating and leaving crabs stranded in the many rock pools. A few people in wetsuits, dogs cavorting, happy as children splashing through the waves. An idyllic time…


Sea foam on sand. Gulls fighting over discarded chips in a greasy bag. Two fine bodies entwining on this narrow strip of abandoned beach. Firm roundness, split rock lips and fluttering eyelids. Milky pearls of perspiration on foreheads and upper lips and between gently curving breasts. Facing me, but apart. Always apart.

Their hunger is more than apparent, even to one as dull as sundrunk me. Shoulder blades and bone, mound against mound; lips brushing greedily, selfish children tonguing ice cream…

Oiled Legs tangling, flesh slaps against flesh. The urgency in their expressions is unbearable. Both faces flushed with sun, with the calamity of love, sliding down and riding the crest to the summit, faces between fleshy earth, a misty spread of trembling young limbs, beneath craggy cliffs and slowly circling gulls.

And I?

I remain this immobilised wanderer, caught in silver silken webs of sunshine at the edge of that moment of time. Unable to go, unable to look away. The eternal voyeur, trapped forever in the Sargasso stillness of yesterday…