Fridayam's BlogWinter is the dagger hidden behind
Summer’s back, ready to be deployed in some
improbable Fifth Act carnage that leaves a
stage littered in corpses and some
ingenue in charge of whom there will be
great hope but
little expectation.
Sometimes my house trembles
with the weight of the
Moon passing over
lifting it like a
tide of bricks and
dust.
When did love become a game?
Of two halves? Four quarters?
Five sets? Five days like a
Test Match? Is there a
referee, and is that person
impartial? Do I have to
suck an orange at half-time?
Are there training-camps? With
sit-ups and rabbit-jumps and
biometric measurements? Is it
something the unsporty are
excluded from? Can I be
penalized, sin-binned, cited?
Are there big-screen replays? Is
punishment retroactive? Might I be
banned? Permanently?
Prevented from playing?
Hang on,
have I ever been
shown the rules? And
wasn’t I supposed to just enjoy
taking part?
When all was said and done, the
corpse-candles burnt out and their
greasy puddles, their
smeared existence, scrapped from
calvaries and cenotaphs leaving them
pristine and exiguous and somehow
forgotten, I suppose I shouldn’t be so
outraged by that cap-badge, the
hammer and sickle aslant within a
five-pointed star, but
dead people by their millions keep
nudging my arm, shaking my resolve and
spilling my beer.
If all we are is stars, is
she then a supernova, he a
brown dwarf, they an
inchoate mass of gas
about to ignite, and is our
binary system stable or
unravelling into those
beautiful gaseous strands
beloved of those who
observe cosmic catastrophes?
Waiting is not just for rooms, it’s
done on windy streets trying to
light a cigarette, in
pubs eating meals you need but
do not want, in
corridors that end in
doors that won’t open, in your
head mostly, that other
larger chamber of the heart.
Maybe there is now an app to
appease my longing to know
where those high distant lights
are going, those
diamonds appearing
suddenly from the
pack of clouds, then
lost in the
shuffle of the sky.
I made a joke which
elicicted a
complicated smile that
bore within it the
ghost of the
simple smile of yesterday.
Sugar, spice, sultry, and nice...so very nice...
because the story must be told
Storytelling, short stories, fable, folk tales,...
Still hot. (It just comes in flashes now.)
The Anne Billson blog
Exploring Kink as a Monogamous Married Couple
Marriage with a Twist
Stories, Poems and Titillating Epitaphs
In happiness my words I lack, in grief they overflow.
The official blog of Lucy Gan
A Journey to a Healthier Me.
patiently observing silence
Creative Nonfiction & Poetry
Erotic Poet and Artist - Welcome to My Sensual World
A quoi servent les images que l'on ne montre pas ?
Dream. Explore. Learn. Repeat.. Let's traverse on the paths less taken and explore whole new worlds
Fridayam's Blog 
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