Battle stations


Enter a caption

Pant, drool, wriggle, gasp
sheets eschewed, thrown on the floor
up for air, submerge


Photo by Jorge Fakhouri Filho from Pexels

laying flat,
my arms outstretched
for you
waiting, ready

an open book
I’m yours
when you need me

the wolf calls,
dear moon mother
lights the
silvery path,

journey within,
follow, submit
gateway of joy

I am She
fulfillment pure

you are He
my sweet delight
indulgence mine

My ashen heart

Photo by Lina Kivaka from Pexels

Boiling, toiling
the world spins with want,

Carnal fire within consumes
all rational thought
becoming need.

Where is the soul that quenches,
the burning flesh transformed
to the pure spiritual?

My marrow smolders black,
blood scalding hope,
desire drenched by desertion.

Absence darkens love,
obscures the craving,
of my ashen heart.

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (8. Upon Reflection)

Allen sent me a brick … err, an email today. Without specifically referring to my transgression, I could tell that he knew about Max. His tone was measured and non-judgemental. He apologized for being so inattentive these past few months. Apparently, work has been strained lately, and his company has needed to shed some of its workforce. He’s taken on more duties and is less able to travel than in the past.

That was a polite way of saying, “Let’s take a break.”

KNIGHT of SWORDS. Allen, perhaps … delicate and courageous, skilful and clever. He’s a thinking warrior.

Thinking that Allen would soon whisk me off my feet, I haven’t really made many friends here, yet. Of course, there are a few other musicians in the orchestra, and the rest of the horn section (but I must say they don’t always get along very well). I only became friendly with Max because he had no one else to talk to. Well, he came after me, very subtly, and timed so that he would leave me wanting more. In fact, inexplicably I want more every night after I shut down our Skype session.

I hate him. I hate what he has done to me. I hate how I feel about myself when it is over, and I hate how much I weed … seed … um, NEED it. Not him – it.

I’ve never been so full of hate before. (I don’t think I’ve ever really hated before.) I hate crying so much and worry that my tears might short out my keyboard as I write my blog. Yes, I’m crying now. I have been ever since Puddle-duck humiliated me tonight, ever since the others laughed, ever since I wore that Cool Whip bikini. (I would never have bought it if they didn’t demand it. I’m a Devon Custard girl – something I can’t find in St Louis.) I hate that I’ll be running out to buy a vat of corn oil and a rubber mat tomorrow, and that I’ll be sitting on that mat in front of my laptop around 11 pm waiting for their Skype request. I hate …

I hate.

I hate receiving emails from my Mormon cousins, not disowning Max’s obscure sect, but correcting my impressions of their faith. Yes, they are blood cousins. I’m descended from some of the first Mormons, although my branch of the family (through my mother) has been Roman Catholic for many generations.

On a positive note, I have an idea for another wank … whinge … err, story. This one is about a Scottish clan heiress who falls in love with a married man, and discovers she isn’t the first. Like me, she’s obsessive about her online life, although unlike me, she’s obsessive about Facebook and Twitter. (She’s pretty OCD altogether.) I might start up a separate web site for it and serialize it, as I don’t see it being long enough to be a novel.

It will be a little risqué, so maybe that will cheer me up.