Fridayam's BlogWe all like to think we are alone on that
divergent road amidst the dark trees with
night imminent and only our
fears, hopes, dreams, the
Moon and stars for company but
pull a little at that thread, that
tremulous fabric and we see instead a
superhighway of foot-beaten earth
miles wide with
comfort-stops aplenty and the sense that it
goes on forever.
“Don’t let the cat come between you”,
the old woman winked and nudged the
blushing man whose eyes reflected
his young bride’s puzzled look.
They’d dragged themselves from bed
barely long enough to marry, and their
bodies itched for the scratch
only sex could assuage.
And so it was until the work began,
and the kids mauled at tender breasts,
and the frets of age vied
with the fizzle of health.
They neither fell asleep nor woke together,
but one day when they did
they found that the
cat had come between them.
The marks of her clothes
slowly fade from her body
as I watch and she falls
solemnly asleep.
There’s been no sex
for she was tired,
and in the clammy night
there are no sheets,
so unfettered limbs
reveal their weals,
the blueprint of
her public form.
The face you wore tonight is now
smeared on my sheets, my
pillow, my face, and your
parloured hair is decidedly
unkempt, your sleepy eyes
between locks accepting this
new openness, this
new nakedness.
We start off paddling in shallows,
uncertain of what is under our feet, but
bemoaning the lack of depth.
Then the sand ends in sadness, a void,
head under water, cursing
never learning to swim.
Somehow saved, we sit on the beach
drawn to death, mesmerised by the
pull and repulse of the waves.
Slowly we learn, study, copy
back-stroke, breast-stroke, or
just using our hands to stay afloat.
People pair off, swim strongly away,
suddenly gone, yet their strange happy
yelps echo over the horizon.
The laughter out there sometimes
bursts like fireworks, and sometimes it
fades faster than a tropical sun.
Some come back singly, shake their
wet hair, seek another swimmer
unbothered by the slow fat drips.
Others stalk up the beach to
hide in the trees, their run-off
making metaphors in the mud.
Emerging, chastened or just bored, the
lone ones see other singletons
silhouetted against…
View original post 23 more words
Poetry can be long-ships in deep water
full of foul-mouthed horny sailors
desperate to take continents
village by village, pillaging
words, leaving readers raped and
pregnant with strange thoughts.
Poetry can be paper boats floated by
shy exhibitionists, hulls packed with
love, lust, loss, lost as
paper perishes and
blood and ink become
commingled with dark sea.
There’s a confusion between
dark and light in Autumn,
sharp sunshine sometimes
warming my face, then a
sharper shower, laundry
drying in the breeze
suddenly scooped in,
something soothing on the
stove smelling
sweet and strange, my
hands hesitating to
draw the curtains while the
sky is still coloured-in and there
remains one last
glimmer of the day.
Squalls precede the storm, a
skirmish-line shaken out by the
dark host over the horizon
whipping itself into action, sucking
resupply from salt-water and
riven air with bagpipe blasts to
terrify, brigades of rain
beginning the bombardment, seeking
weaknesses for the penetrating wind to
infiltrate, develop, envelop, create a
Cannae of Air against Earth, but like
Schlieffen’s Plan it will all come to nought,
in a day or so Earth will remain,
battered, scarred but still there and the
storm will be spent, leaving
skirmishing squalls and rainbows.
Is there an end to things? Can you feel it?
Rounded and smooth or
jagged as though broken off
roughly, or in anger?
Maybe it’s just a butt
trodden on outside some
seedy joint from which
I am excluded.
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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