Hora, the black heart


[1] The whore perverts all things.
What she thinks is love is mere folly,
A folly she passes on to boys that catch her eye.

[2] Hora is the bane of man,
Thief of the soul,
Reaper of the weak.

[3] Naively, she plucks Cyrus’ son
from the pyres, and ruins him –
ruined like all men born of woman.

[4] Hora is the fall of man,
The evil temptress,
The black heart of womanhood.

[5] Blinded, the son of Cyrus is enslaved,
Lost in her false beauty and wicked heart.
He will serve her until the end of time.

[6] Hora is the seed of fancy,
Stealer of sanity,
Phony redeemer of her sex.

From The Book of Cyrus, Songs of the Tioch, ch. 1, verses 1-6


Mine removed


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,
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.

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.

Less is more, more or less

The last couple of months have been a nightmare, as far as work is concerned. I’ve had almost no “freelance” work, but my “part-time” teaching job has temporarily become more than full time. I seem to spend all my waking hours teaching or preparing to teach (for a fraction of a full-time salary), and my horn gets little attention.

Writing? That’s getting even less attention right now, but the end of term is on the horizon, and my creative juices are simmering. (I can feel it in my panties! … black today, if you were wondering.) I don’t know whether to work on my long term projects or finish putting together my anthology of “not-quite-erotica”… let’s just call it erotic fantasy, for now … or literary (erotic) fantasy. Most of it is available in some form on the Writerscafe.org, but not in the final edited versions.

I think Ezzie Dryar is having difficulty sleeping again, so maybe she will make a reappearance, too. Her tarot cards are feeling neglected, so it might involve another tarot theme.

I’m surprised how popular my last post was, considering it really was just one word. Maybe I should contemplate minimalist poetry.


my love


lilies bloom



rose garden



I’ve decided to start posting some of my poetry, since that was the original purpose of this site. This is my first ever poem … well, since adolescence. Please comment.


They said I sucked on my toes
as long as my mouth could reach them.
You know the magic I wield on yours.
I sucked my thumb until I was six,
still do when I’m not being watched.

The horn was the perfect instrument for me:
French horn, French kissing,
left hand playing the valves,
right fist rammed up the bell.
Practice, practice, practice.

I love the taste of salt,
all tastes, tart, sweet, savoury.
The only way to eat oysters is live,
slimy all the way down. Yum.
I lived in the mud puddles as a girl,
now I swim in the lake every day.
I’m a child of water, of the moon.

You ask why I give your fingers so much attention?