Monthly Archives: December 2012

Beneath the Mountains of Mourning

Beneath the Mountains of Mourning I

prefer to keep my gaze down at the

trodden path, hoping that this next year

won’t be another trek of hardship and

famine: won’t be worsened by illness or

disability; won’t be marred by

maliciousness or, maybe worse,

indifference and neglect; that the

Sun will shine when it should and the

rain fall in the night; and that the Moon

will witness no more

sighs in dark rooms.

Moon’s Morning After

The Moon’s surrounded by a

penumbra of cloud, the edges

nicotine-stained from her

60-a-day habit, and they’re

going so fast the stars seem to be

speeding, making that

third G&T feel more and

more like a mistake, and she’s

vaguely aware she has a date with

Mars sometime soon, supposedly as a

sylph and frankly that is the last thing

she feels like.

Surface Tension

Some people bring water into the house

leaving a gelid puddle wherever they step, and a

fine mist of breath in the air like

needles in the lungs, a

rime of frost on surfaces they touch, even

things they handle lovingly, not knowing that

once the water seeps in it won’t let go

like droplets hanging on a washing-line or

beading a spider’s web which they hope the

sun will burn it off but it leaves a

crystalline residue they can’t see and the

crunch underfoot is often


Circular Breathing

Where did our air come from when we

kissed so much but from each other’s

lungs, each nose compressed against the other’s

cheek, tongues blocking breath, and yet we

fed each other recycled air full of

hormones and pheromones and the instinctive

pleasure of saliva.

We were like jazz musicians, our mouths

stuffed with instruments, blowing and

sucking and singing in the heart’s

sublime chorale,

but still, I don’t

remember breathing.


I stare and stare and crane my neck and

know that the moment my back is turned

two or three will streak across but then

when bed and a last cigarette

calls I will see one brief flash

one bead of sweat

run down the face of the

hard-working Universe.


« Prends-moi ! Je suis ta Pérsephone » André Gide


Eventually every Mother has to let her

little girl out to play and some,

like me, don’t come back but,

raped into darkness, abjure daylight

preferring the gloom of closed curtains until the

pounding on the door lets me know my

Mother has found me, admits her to his

dark bargain, to my place in his bed as

I get to go out and play again, leaving her

waving goodbye with her feet in the air.



And hey! Spring begins and

men are easy at any time but

especially when they see me as a

field of flowers just begging to be

pollinated, and so willing! Well it is my

métier to be fruitful but did

any of them ever wonder

why, as I wafted out with their seed, the

vase of wilted flowers bloomed again and the

black bananas in that ugly bowl became

yellow and ripe?



So many beds, so much seed to

germinate, but Spring and Summer

never last long enough do they? Too soon the

nights draw in and I am drawn, unwilling, to that

surprisingly mundane semi to take the place of my

Mother on the crusted bed, contemplating the

cracked ceiling, the cycle of the Earth, the

chance of seed taking, the

myth behind reality, the

reality behind myth.



I was the seed, the pomegranate, the

sour grenade you thought was safe, until I

showed you the pin between my

perfect teeth.

Early Music IV

“My Lady Carey’s Dump” (Anon. reign of Henry VIII, possibly written for Mary Boleyn)


 A dump was a mournful piece of music, remembered in our expression “down in the dumps”


My Lady Carey won’t be cheered nor

humoured by her Fool’s feeble follies; her

taste is not tempted by her Cook’s

herbs, spices, syllabubs; her fingers

freeze mid-stitch when at her sewing;

she has not been abroad since April and now

November numbs the gardens;

even the House feels barred and barren; and she

will not dance to my

gaillards, courantes, almains,

insisting always on the dump I wrote to

explain my silence at her sorrow, which I

regret now as I look at her

etched, averted face seeking

something lost in the

cold dawn of another long day.


I wish I had written something else since this is

all I now play, though at least it

makes her speak, if only to say

“Slower, sir, if you please—


A Valediction, Forbidding Morning

Let not this moist cavern of tangled limbs and

sweat and the sense of sex ever

evaporate but distil its latent power to

banish break of day so that

night and silence can reign in the

banked heat of skin on skin.

Temperature's Rising

Sexy Times ~ Warm Feelings ~ Hot Flashes ~ All That


The Anne Billson blog

A Submissive Wife

Married Submissive, Exploring the kinky side of life.

Life of a Kinky Wife

Marriage with a Twist

The Weaver of Words

"Poetry is what happens when your mind stops working, and for a moment all you do is feel." -Atticus

Works of an Unsettled Mind

Stories, Poems and Titillating Epitaphs


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

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

A Journey to a Healthier Me.

The Wild Heart of Life

"He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life." ...James Joyce

Veronica Love-Wylde

Erotic Poet and Artist - Welcome to My Sensual World

my controlled ascent

living and loving as a married submissive in my D/s marriage


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

Jupiter's Lair

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

A Quest for the Uncliche

Dream. Explore. Learn. Repeat.. Let's traverse on the paths less taken and explore whole new worlds

Sex Matters

Don't Lose it