Category Archives: Work

Old Dogs Still Have Teeth

Do you see us as

dogs learning new tricks,

desperate to please

new masters?

Was your new world

designed to exclude the

grey-haired masters and

mistresses of

old-world thought, those who

solved a problem before you could

develop an algorithm?

 

Your biggest mistake?

Making it too easy for us

old, clever folk, so we

slip into the booth

beside you and smile and you

can’t escape.

A New Way of Working?

We have to make drama where

no one can come near,

no one can touch,

shake hands, hit or even

kiss: Shakespeare, his

playhouse stricken by plague, went

home to Stratford and

wrote sonnets but

somehow we have to

make this work in the

here and now.

 

Wish us luck.

Decompression

After so long in hotels working with

images and actors my

home dreams are full of

half-shot scenes,

half-digested books,

half-read newspapers:

Scorpions and Hawks; ships

sighing as they turn turtle and

vent air; a tear down a

dusty face; someone calling my

name; strange shapes against a

purpling sky; the

unmistakeable sensation of a

mouth on mine, its

tongue alive; the

desperate wave of my hand

seeking solidity; being lost and

wanting to be found.

Dimensia

Since childhood I’ve felt

objects approaching me

unbeckoned but

indisputably on a

collision course I somehow

cannot avert.

 

So many spillages,

so many apologies,

so many blushed replies because

this is England after all and

spillages are assumed to be the

fault of both parties.

 

Oh and I also trip over cables so

don’t let me anywhere near a

studio despite it being my

place of work.

Frayed

Frayed Richard Potter

I’m frayed but

unafraid of being

battered by elements

as long as one

strand will bear my

bare footprints

long enough to be

seen before the

high tide comes.

 

(Photo with the kind permission of Richard B. Potter aka The Subtle Penguin on Twitter, and go see his lovely work)

A Tree Grows in Manchester

It’s raining again so it must be

Manchester and it’s late and my

tram also so I am

leaning against this tree in

St. Peter’s Square watching

late trams pass, their

cargoes tired (though

that girl is pretty even as

she yawns), when the

tree’s sap seeps through my

sodden shoulder making one

vein of brotherhood, one

lone tree bearing me,

lonesome and needing someone to

lean on, something

alive.

 

Your roots are tight-bound in an

iron grid bespeckled with butts

but you seem to thrive so

perhaps you like all this

noise and bustle, and maybe the

sap from shoulders seeping into your

tough veins, some

symbiosis of the city.

 

My tram hoots up from

Piccadilly, my cold bed calls.

Bud well, buddy, and thanks for

your support.

Juliet’s Balcony

Coming through London

I pass those half a

million pound flats with their

Juliet balconies so

beloved of architects

crammed with suitcases,

laundry, bicycles, kids’ toys,

unopened (unopenable) boxes,

rows of ironed shirts

awaiting another

ironed day,

garden furniture with no

prospect of a garden, indeed

no room for a

Juliet to shriek her love

lost in the roar of

London’s traffic from this

ruinously expensive but

well-placed favela.

Paper-Cut

The Producer wanted blood and

the writer added a bandage but I

persuaded them that a simple

plaster plucked from rawness

better revealed the inner pain

like a paper-cut

like a poem.

Professionals

Because the people who

think they know will

always prevail, we who

do know approach the

shoot with faint faith and

little hope, determined to

do our best whilst

praying for the dubious

charity of our audience.

Scorn

My business has many ways to express scorn:

the Lighting Cameraman who couldn’t

light a box of matches; the

Director who couldn’t

direct traffic; the

Producer who couldn’t

produce his prick from his trousers.

 

But you have refined scorn to a

simple glance.

Temperature's Rising

Sexy Times ~ Warm Feelings ~ Hot Flashes ~ All That

MULTIGLOM

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

Upashna

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

Filimages

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