January 11, 2020

When we love, when we tell ourselves we do,
we are pining for first love, somewhen,
before we thought of wanting it. When we rearrange
the room we end up living in, we are looking
for first light, the arrangement of light,
that time, before we knew to call it light.

Or talk of music, when we say
we cannot talk of it, but play again
C major, A flat minor, we are straining
for first sound, what we heard once,
then, in lost chords, wordless languages.

What country do we come from? This one?
The one where the sun burns
when we have night? The one
the moon chills; elsewhere, possible?

Why is our love imperfect,
music only echo of itself,
the light wrong?

We scratch in dust with sticks,
dying of homesickness
for when, where, what.

Carol Ann Duffy

own me in lust

December 26, 2019

I could feel his whole body trying to claim me, want me, own me in lust, and it made me feel so valuable and wanted. As I was bent over the table, I felt like I was the world to him, and he could think of nothing else,  could feel nothing else:  he was consumed with my body, dedicated to exploring my female sexual power and energy, and his desperate hitting of me with the belt felt like he would rather die, than be without the chance to connect with me in sex.

Fiona Thrust
Naked and Sexual

No more than friends

November 3, 2019

It is so quick how we forget
The very first time we met.
My heart skipped a few beats
As I tried to catch my breath.
I looked softly into your eyes.
I knew that very day
That I was in love, but the wrong way.

I saw you look at me
With those eyes and a smile so boldly.
At that time you were not free.
I knew that this could never be.
My heart sunk to the floor.
I stared through those eyes of yours
And thought to myself, I will never be yours.

I kept my feelings deep inside
To remain just friends….
That was how it was going to end.
I knew just how you felt.
I could feel it burning inside
That the love we shared could never be.
No more than friends,
Which is exactly how it began.

Sopheap Cabaniss

bone-deep security

October 24, 2019

There is a primal reassurance in being touched, in knowing that someone else, someone close to you, wants to be touching you. There is a bone-deep security that goes with the brush of a human hand, a silent, reflex-level affirmation that someone is near, that someone cares.

Jim Butcher
White Night

Dirty Valentine

October 15, 2019

There are so many things I’m not allowed to tell you.
I touch myself, I dream.
Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending
that this skin is your skin, these hands your hands,
these shins, these soapy flanks.
The musicians start the overture while I hide behind the microphone,
trying to match the dubbing
to the big lips shining down from the screen.
We’re filming the movie called Planet of Love –
there’s sex of course, and ballroom dancing,
fancy clothes and waterlilies in the pond, and half the night you’re
a dependable chap, mounting the stairs in lamplight to the bath, but then
the too white teeth all night,
all over the American sky, too much to bear, this constant fingering,
your hands a river gesture, the birds in flight, the birds still singing
outside the greasy window, in the trees.
There’s a part in the movie
where you can see right through the acting,
where you can tell that I’m about to burst into tears,
right before I burst into tears
and flee to the slimy moonlit riverbed
canopied with devastated clouds.
We’re shouting the scene where
I swallow your heart and you make me
spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls
right out of my mouth.
You swallow my heart and flee, but I want it back now, baby. I want it back.
Lying on the sofa with my eyes closed, I didn’t want to see it this way,
everything eating everything in the end.
We know how the light works,
we know where the sound is coming from.
Verse. Chorus. Verse.
I’m sorry. We know how it works. The world is no longer mysterious.

Richard Siken


December 24, 2017

On the divan, against the wall, on the floor, bent over, wrapped around, upside-down, downside-up, fast, slow, gentle, rough, deep, hard, loud, quiet, kicking over the lamps, wild, while Paris burns, again and again until there is no more breath in our bodies, that’s how I want you.

Christopher Moore
Sacre Bleu


October 9, 2016


I love kissing so much: it can be soft and romantic, or hard and passionate, or lazy and sleepy. Then you want the person and they want you because you’re kissing and it’s just you two and you can close your eyes and there will be nothing in the world except that. That and nothing more.


August 31, 2014


The man who drowns himself
then lives wants me
but is frightened. He fears
the dark pools he has to swim
through to find me,
imagines them bottomless
and thick with strange fish.
He fears leaving his house
behind, or worse, trying to strap
it to his back and losing
it midway, watching it sink
to purple depths,
small girlish fingers
slipping out of reach.

(Rachel Kerr)

listening to the rain

July 11, 2014


I lie awake listening to the rain.
The skylight is broken and
drips fall into the bucket below.
I breathe with them,
holding in the air,
watching the trembling drop,
exhaling when it plops in the pail.

A flash outside.
The bare lemon tree illuminated.
A Polaroid second
white against black.
I pull the cotton blanket high,
counting for the thunder.
It’s close, three elephants close.

She comes quietly
small feet tiptoeing on wooden slats,
slips into my bed without a sound.
Curling – her thin body rolled –
chin, elbow and knees against me.
I stroke her yellow hair
behind the ear where she likes it.

‘Get closer,’ I say.
As her tiny sweet arms clutch,
my breasts ache with dryness
‘I want you,’ she says.
So we lie, no air between us.
And I think that these times are becoming rare.
I am a giant in Lilliput. Stumbling.