I wondered if these

brain-babies would be

born deformed with all this

Thalidomide I’d ingested, or

whether they’d just be

differently-abled, better

perhaps than my old self at

working out who or what or

where or when or



“Ow” wasn’t quite cutting it, wasn’t

getting my point across, and

modulation, tone, timbre all

ran like raindrops off the

PPE surrounding me until

my body twisted my “ows” into

bellows which cowed the

bustling E.D. into an

unnatural silence.

“Ridi, Pagliaccio….”

Fridayam's Blog

Some days, on a day like this,

I feel the coarse stuffing coming out

of my side and torn places like

tissues someone’s wept in.

Whenever I look there’s a

miserable offstage harlequin

sharpening his knife,

looking for his wife.

I know I could kill him

just by laughing at his jokes,

but I don’t want another body floating

in the false-blue pool in the backyard.

Days like these are like a long Unseen,

a test with no answers, taken endlessly.

I would go out but the streets are full of

pretty girls striding with a masculine gait,

aggression oozing from each drop-dead pore:

I’d kiss you but I’d cut myself!

So, it’s another shitty day in Paradise

where even the flowers smell of nothing

and great causeways of silence cross

the still lagoons of afternoons.

I will offer my ghost a drink but not a chair

for ghosts don’t…

View original post 3 more words

Life Curves

Fridayam's Blog

Life Curve

I knew behind those clouds were

stars, just the ones I could see, and

behind them stars and stars and

yet more stars

but so what when

life is almost but

not quite, close but

no cigar? Well maybe

half-empty or half-full

life curves away from

mystery to the

stone kicked, the

moment we have all felt when

our dreams must

give way to a

different reality.

View original post


Fridayam's Blog

I’ve read your palm so many times:

holding your hand on that first date and

now walking London streets; after

sex when touch seems so much more

intimate; even now when

intimacy has gone but your

slender hand seeks mine in the

silence of sleep but despite

knowing it so well I still

cannot read your future, nor


View original post

White Noise

Fridayam's Blog

Each flake absorbs one

microdecibel of sound

squeezing the air silent

all the botheration

compressed by coldness into

white noise released

distortedly in the

sharp crunch of a

well-shod foot.


View original post

At the Dark Ends of the Day

A very early poem

Fridayam's Blog

At the dark ends of the day I burn dim lamps

to bathe my face in the refractions of an empty page.

This eucharistic light, these cigarettes, quieten me,

though candles never yet raised a corpse.

But if I should sleep the pasts close in,

heavier than blankets, more stifling than Summer,

from which world I return haggard

as from the Harrowing of Hell.

So each cigarette is my prayer (should God exist)

to let me rest or let me write, while the

shape in the bed mumbles, “Come and sleep”,

and my body trembles at the summons of my Queen.

But the King must answer the endless question,

“Sit I thus upon my throne and cannot rule my page?”

Unanswered, I find myself praying,

“Lord of all I don’t perceive,

receive me now.”

View original post

The Realm of Sleep

Fridayam's Blog

That day, run ragged by rugby,
telling my mother I just needed a
moment’s rest on the sofa, sleeping like
sleep was newly invented and I was
taxed with testing it to destruction,
waking a day later, life having
manoeuvered around me as I
ran riot in the Realm of Sleep.

View original post

New Music

Fridayam's Blog

You complain that my music is

too loud, too discordant, too

new, implying that I am an

old fool fumbling to stay hip,

whilst you embalm yourself in the

music of your youth where you are still

golden, naked and available with

none of our history ahead of you.

View original post


Fridayam's Blog

I wondered if my mind would

mind my desperate attempts to

find, amidst the flotsam of

jottings, the flutter of

post-its stuck everywhere,

unsticking whenever I

open the door,

littering the floor,

whatever it was I

set out once to do.

View original post


Poems and psychosis.

Lindsey's Erotic Word Weaving

Sugar, spice, sultry, and very nice...

Charlotte Newings

Romance, erotica and criticism.

Are You Thrilled

because the story must be told

A Voice from Iran

Storytelling, short stories, fable, folk tales,...

Temperature's Rising

Still hot. (It just comes in flashes now.)


The Anne Billson blog

A Submissive Wife

Exploring Kink as a Monogamous Married Couple

Life of a Kinky Wife

Fact, Fiction, Fun

Works of an Unsettled Mind

Stories, Poems and Titillating Epitaphs


In happiness my words I lack, in grief they overflow.

Lucy Gan

The official blog of Lucy Gan

My Liver's Trying to Kill Me!... Oh Wait.

A Journey to a Healthier Me.

The Wild Heart of Life

Creative Nonfiction & Poetry

Veronica Love-Wylde

Erotic Poet and Artist - Welcome to My Sensual World


A quoi servent les images que l'on ne montre pas ?

Jupiter's Lair

Because a dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste...