January 18, 2020

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don’t regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You’ve travelled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken axe. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering any of it.
Let’s stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

Dorianne Laux
The Book of Men


November 19, 2019

What a strange word.
Night’ I get.
But ‘fall’ is a gentle word.
Autumn leaves fall, swirling with languid grace
To carpet the earth with their dying blaze.
Tears fall, like liquid diamonds
Shimmering softly, before they melt away.
Night doesn’t fall here.
It comes slamming down.

Karen Marie Moning

The Captured Goddess

October 26, 2019

Over the housetops,
Above the rotating chimney-pots,
I have seen a shiver of amethyst,
And blue and cinnamon have flickered
A moment,
At the far end of a dusty street.

Through sheeted rain
Has come a lustre of crimson,
And I have watched moonbeams
Hushed by a film of palest green.

It was her wings,
Who stepped over the clouds,
And laid her rainbow feathers
Aslant on the currents of the air.

I followed her for long,
With gazing eyes and stumbling feet.
I cared not where she led me,
My eyes were full of colours:
Saffrons, rubies, the yellows of beryls,
And the indigo-blue of quartz;
Flights of rose, layers of chrysoprase,
Points of orange, spirals of vermilion,
The spotted gold of tiger-lily petals,
The loud pink of bursting hydrangeas.
I followed,
And watched for the flashing of her wings.

In the city I found her,
The narrow-streeted city.
In the market-place I came upon her,
Bound and trembling.
Her fluted wings were fastened to her sides with cords,
She was naked and cold,
For that day the wind blew
Without sunshine.

Men chaffered for her,
They bargained in silver and gold,
In copper, in wheat,
And called their bids across the market-place.

The Goddess wept.

Hiding my face I fled,
And the grey wind hissed behind me,
Along the narrow streets.

Amy Lowell

Forty-four, divorced, mother of three daughters, a professional dominatrix is carefully squeezing Deep Heat into a condom. She is standing in her ‘playroom’ in a London suburb. Her current client, male, nude, hands cuffed securely behind his back, stands facing her.

‘This’ll be fun,’ she said. ‘Not for you, of course, no, but for me to watch.’

He groans as she slowly rolls the condom on his stiff sex. After a few minutes, the first signs of discomfort show as the burning slowly creeps over his cock and the fear appears in his eyes; then the writhing commences…

She laughs, truly amused by his obvious discomfort; he falls to the floor, curls in to a whining foetal ball of shivering muscle spasms at her feet…

Part way through his terrible ordeal, her face twists with intense feeling. She pisses a little as she orgasms in her leather pants. Despite his obvious discomfort, her client’s bone-hard cock spurts cum into the condom and tears run down his cheeks.

From out in the hall she hears the grandfather clock chiming two o’clock. She has plenty of time to clean up and have coffee before her next client arrives…

*Be aware, boys & girls: DON’T try this at home, it is intensely uncomfortable – unless, of course, you boys wish to be condemned to walk round with a bright, glowing red, and semi-erect penis for the rest of the day! Play safely.

…Louis used to rape me on the porch swing after Dorothy had driven into town… he was a jumbled agony of tears and lust and the seat cover fabric was a mesh of wild pink roses that Dorothy had embroidered at nights and I counted the roses and the stars in the sky…and I rented out my little pussy for no money and afterwards he always wept and tried to untangle the knot of chewing gum in my hair…

Sara Stridsberg
The Faculty of Dreams
Trans. Deborah Bragen-Turner


July 29, 2018

Accomplices in darkness, we were united in the taste of tears

Food for Thought

March 23, 2018

She could use her cigarette as a weapon. She would touch the glowing tip to the most sensitive, intimate parts of a naked body – male or female made no matter to her. Smiling as she tapped ash into an ashtray. She took such delight in her victims tears, their writhing as she touched the cigarette to smooth skin, and to the wildness she witnessed in their eyes. It was as if she inhabited a cave of forgotten wonder. Here, she saw restrained bodies in turmoil and pain, and could indulge herself for as long as she wished. Beyond the casement window a pale topaz sky above wind-swept moorland. The tip of her cigarette hovering, she could feel her own crises growing within – like a wave, a Tsunami of pleasure that would leave her ruined, broken. She crushed the cigarette against tender flesh, surrendering herself to the great tidal wave and the shrill scream of her victim –


March 25, 2017

It had been a night
of silence
thought and of quietness
making love
no talking or speaking
unsure of intentions.

I cried
and in the love,
on that night
it was as though
neither of us were
not quite sure

Until now.

And if I weren’t sure
I would have told him to
take his crescent wrenches
and fuck off,

…he was crying too
he doesn’t cry
I cry, not him.

So, I slid into bed next
to him…

I let my pretty petite cousin spank me with a switch multiple times when we were teens. She knew all my “sins” and threatened to tell my mother if I didn’t let her. My mother was a sadistic, religious psycho and did a lot more damage than my cousin could. It hurt my bare bottom and I cried but not a bad as mom would have done to me. My cousin was embarrassed when I reminded her of this the other day. Even though that was 27-28 years ago…

Source HERE