Hora slumbers

[1] The wise man fears as Hora
slumbers behind the mirror.
Her vengeance is such
that even Hahn sleeps
with one eye open.

From The Book of Cyrus, The Iliot, ch. 1, verse 1


Don’t explain

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Don’t explain, I don’t want to know.
close the door when you go.

It was your transgression that killed love
I wasn’t perfect, but you weren’t close.

Don’t explain, I don’t want to hear.
She was my friend, wasn’t that clear?

Our trust is a torn curtain, gone,
A broken thread can’t be rewoven.

Don’t explain, I don’t want you here.
I can’t stand having you near

You hardly knew her, or so you said,
Until I found her in our bed.

Don’t explain, I don’t want to know.
close the door when you go.


You never forget how to ride

Banana and Cherry by niguin (hide)

For just one dollar, you may ride our fastest yellow bullet train.  Yes, we invite you to be a passenger on our pink submarine.  Ooh, damn, my knickers are in a twist, all twisted up, left under the bed, lost and dusty, as I watch the funeral donkey pass, widow in black, soul in white.  Or is that a blackened soul and a passing white ghost – a white witch under Dorothy’s bedroom.  Uncle Elmer left me with a dollar in my pocket, just in case.  Take her back to the North for a dollar, save her from Dot’s wrath, give her Dot’s rash, run time backwards – feet curled up in stripey stockings.  Mine under the bed with my knickers, discarded after my last bike ride; he ruined them again. He ruined it, me, forever and ever, one nation … am I allowed to say that?  What does Congress say, the right wing red necks banning my ruby slippers, grounding my balloon flights with that sham of a wizard.  I’d rather fly with the monkeys, fly to the moon, to the stars, as the gold sun declines on the autumn horizon.  Soul and body fresh in the failing light and clear sky, dancing to the funeral march.  Laughing at the silly witch who got mixed up with her stripey twin, as our black cousin cackles in her black leather knickers, whip, and flaming broom.  I led the cortege through the creaky gate, naked as the day I was born – no, created – no human could bear me, especially when I haven’t taken my medication, today’s white pills sold for a dollar, I’ve doubled my money, so I can buy a blue, pink and white bomb pop, and drop it on Dorothy’s crushed house, riding my bike backwards, we go both ways, he said I’m ambidextrous, foreplay, afterplay, time in two directions, making the corn taller as it wilts.  Green stalks from green shoots, bang!, killed the white witch before Dot’s house landed on her, tied her up in the coffin – witches don’t die – the black witch cackles – watch witchy dig herself out of this one, buried in the cornfield on the horizon.  Make her walk home in her dirty white dress hiding her tail between her legs, her mother will scold her as stripey witch jumps up and down with glee and blacky strokes her monkey.  I’m curled up in bed with my bike, having forgotten about my knickers and socks, playing submarine – up periscope!


Mine removed

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I knew he would come,
our place since the beginning of time,
our time.

This is our watery garden,
our Eden without that damned tree,
pure and untouched.

He knows not why he is drawn,
pure as the driven snow,
in his dream.

When he last visited,
it was my dream,
his beautiful flesh,
my paradigm.

My spirit sat on this log,
here since ancient times,
but he couldn’t see me then,
not like now.

He can’t help noticing a woman,
naked,
the most beautiful he has ever seen,
as we were created for each other.

Forever I wait for him in the mountain tarn,
fed by a waterfall, borne of a force,
an underground river
bursting from a cliff face.

This lake is our love,
still and pure,
with its source from a higher power.

I will always love him because
I remember.
Everything.

He forgets until he sees me,
wonders at his newfound love,
One that he understands not.

Natural, yet he is Earthbound.
I will teach him again,
but when he awakens,
he will marvel at his dream.

He’s had one like it before,
I know because I know his thoughts.
They are mine, removed.


The Juices are flowing

I miss this place. I’m too busy with work to do much writing, but I’ve had an idea for a poem, which I will post as soon as it is written.


Gimme more (reprinted from WC blog, some adult language)

Well, the answer, in short, is no.

A number of people have expressed a desire for me to go deeper into sex scenes, or to provide more detail in them. My point is the plot, not the sex. Yes, I like to talk about sex, but in my opinion what defines the difference between erotica and pornography is what is described and what is hinted at.

I write erotica, and while it is meant to titillate, I consciously avoid crossing the line to where it becomes gratuitous. Discussing what a man does with his penis is not plot significant beyond a certain point. Erotica, to me, is all about foreplay (or consequences/afterplay), not about the act.

Let’s discuss erotic art for the moment. And when one does, the first name that comes up is Maplethorpe. I just had a quick look at the portfolio on his website, and it is notable for what it doesn’t show. It doesn’t show genitalia, but that might be partly for legal reasons, reasons that we should probably heed on this site, since there are members as young as 11 here. More importantly, what we see is suggestion, no physical acts. That is erotica. Start the mind racing, but let the viewer/reader fill in the blanks. Give them a push, but let them run where they want to.

The sexual experience is different for each of us and what drives me might not appeal to you, and vice-versa. The moment I begin to describe in detail a sexual encounter, I will lose a reader or two, or more. How many people found my story “In Come” disgusting? Some said I went too far, either with the sheer quantity of cum involved, or by the fact that I allowed my theoretical reader to pleasure me. Of course, I didn’t describe what my reader did (specifically). My intention was to let you imagine what you might do to me in that situation, your arm shoulder deep in cum.

I would rather describe what one feels, not what one does. To me, that action (in most cases) is porn. Erotica is about the senses, not action, so next time you get to a point in the story where I’ve got you hooked and then fade to black on a sex scene, play it out in your head. Don’t ask me to sully my page with it.

I remember reading The Time Traveller’s Wife the first time and getting to the sex scene. It pushed me right out of her narrative. I just didn’t see the point. OK, they had sex. So? Cock and cunt just didn’t fit in with the rest of the story, and it took me a while to settle back into it. (I have some grammar issues with her writing, too, but we’ll leave that for now.) There have been so many times where I’ve used the words screw or fuck where people said it bounced them out of my story. They are right, although there are some times when the words are appropriate.

Rather than bumping you out of the story, I would rather lift you to where you can take flight, fueling your fantasy, not lose you in a dark corner of mine.


No Turning Back

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Setha’s destiny lay in Monchellis. The three month trek on horseback from Abereth had proven difficult. The natural blue pallor of her skin hid a close brush with frostbite. Spring had taken hold, bringing daily storms and a treacherous channel crossing, but that wasn’t what she feared. Her delicate gossamer wings would mark her amongst the Averoigna, a ruddy race with feathered wings better-suited to flight in the tropical climate. Her own couldn’t withstand high winds or long distances.

Absently clutching the silver dagger holstered between her breasts, she patted Tona’s flank for the last time. A gilded mare, Tona would return to her rightful owner, but that wouldn’t lift the price from Setha’s head, certain death if she returned home.

“I have waited long for this day,” spoke a voice from behind.

It seemed Monchellis had come to her. “My liege,” she replied, kneeling before him. Gazing up at him, her heart skipped a beat. Unlike most of his people, his face was pure and boyish, his muscled chest untouched by manual labour. Lazy red curls disappeared beside the golden sword between his wings. This god could easily have flown the channel.

“Stand, child,” he said, gesturing her closer. “You are a beauty. Your arrival was foretold. I have come to carry you across to Averoigne.”

Setha cursed the weakness of her race. She could marry Monchellis as her father intended, bringing peace to the Islands, a conciliation that came at a cost. Their marriage would subjugate the northern provinces. “I come in peace, my liege,” she whispered, stepping forward.

Monchellis stooped to kiss her forehead, “Submit to me, bride.” No sooner had the words passed his lips than he slumped to the ground before her, Setha’s poisoned dagger in his heart.

Disgust had reawakened her resolve.


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