Category Archives: Work

Script

In the search for raw truth, all those

carefully chiselled words, all those

site-specific stage directions went

out the window to flutter like

confetti in an

empty churchyard.

The Canonical Hours of a Working Man

Matins

In the ghost world the

ghost girl dances her

ghost whirls enlacing me in

veils so seductive I

sometimes pray the

dawn won’t come.

 

Lauds

But dawn does come with the

prayer my feet will

find the floor and that the

floor will bear my weight so I

will not start the day

flat on my face.

 

Prime

If there is a God it is coffee-coloured,

coffee-flavoured, dark-roasted,

perking like heavy breathing, its

consort sizzling in the pan, the

toaster popping its prize with a

sigh like a prayer.

 

Tierce

In the mad rush of the studio I

see something, take my chance,

get the set rebuilt and

knowing it will take time

slip out to light my

prayer to creativity.

 

Sext

Shall I make this poem a pun on Sex? But

lunch is when I have a moment to

lust over those who, at work,

I respect, would never dishonour, but

at quiet times imagine

undressed, themselves lustful.

 

 

None

Mid-afternoon is a sigh—no, a

yawn into the vast face of the work we’ve

chiselled all day into something we

pray is vaguely human, vaguely

real, vaguely worth all that

spent time to achieve.

 

Vespers

Outside the lamps are lit just as we

switch ours off and head away home

praying all is well with those

work has cut us off from, lit

phone-screens in the car-park evidence of

love, concern and care.

 

Compline

Fed and watered—ok, wined!—I

wend my way to my hotel, call home,

check the news, reply to emails,

clean myself, resign myself to bed

praying the ghost girl will still be

whirling in her ghost world.

The Band Room, Pinewood

In the shadow of the gargantuan stages,

I worked in one of those

fathomless spaces which seem to

sum up time and

seam it in its walls: where

big bands rehearsed for

big musicals; dancers

warmed up at now-rusty barres;

where the mechanics of my business exhausted

enthusiasm, energy, blood; where

despair sometimes stuck you to its

sweat-stained, tight-beamed floor; where

once an unknown man

hung himself from one of its

high substantial stanchions;

where now is the home of the

nostalgia of Science Fiction; where

sturdy security guards shiver on their

late rounds when the

memories drift down

like dust.

“By Cock, they are to blame.”

Each night I dread putting on that costume,

pulling on that character, her plain

shift, knee-length stockings, the hated

“pair-of-bodies”, farthingale, bum-roll,

petticoat, kirtle, partlet, all topped with the

splendid silk gown and for “authenticity”

no knickers, so that I feel

naked despite so much clothing, so

obsessed with my bare sex, so

alive to “country matters”.

 

I think of the boys who played my part but

with a part I didn’t have, dangling—

did they have some codpiece, some

protection I am not allowed?

“Beginners” doesn’t mean me so

finally finished I can look at myself:

I am 26 but look 16 so if I were her I

could be married and

dead of my fourth child by now and

I think of it…..No

 

I think on’t. Think of being just a

poppet (but a poppet with thoughts and

hormones) bred to be bred,

pimped by my family for favours,

being prim and proper yet

panting like a bitch in heat when the

moment was propitious, and it doesn’t help that the

hero is hot, the lights broiling, the

clothes heavy and my inner nakedness a

weight within me, like lead.

 

The words strip me, stripe me: I look

66 in the mirror as the dresser

removes the baggage, leaving me my

shift for modesty, though what

modesty is left after such shredding?

Later there will be a club, me

rubbing myself against my boy, trying to

rub her off me, be 16 again, alive,

unharboured anywhere, an

ocean calling me.

 

But he will pull me to him, whisper

“Ophelia tits?”, snigger, and I will

suddenly be back on that stage in my

wet shift, amongst all those

other dead bodies.

Dub

In a dark sound-neutral room we

layer a drab impasto of everyday noise—

doors opening and closing,

footsteps up and down stairs,

dogs barking somewhere,

trains, distant traffic, sirens,

absent babies gurgling or crying,

absent teens characterised by what

thumping music leaks through a

ceiling—all to scumble the

over-clean Hi-Def images we have

slaved to create, far sharper than our

eyes or brains require, trying

desperately to re-impose the lost

messiness of real life.

Natalie Breuer

Natalie. Writer. Photographer. Etc.

Katya Evangeline

From Missionary to Sex Preacher and Loving It!

Sara in LaLaLand

Welcome to my world.

LittleSwitchBitch - An Irish Lass blogging about all things sex

Irish Sex Blogger • Lover of Kink, Lingerie, Strong Coffee & Sunshine •

cleareyedgirl

moments : words : images

Are You Thrilled

because the story must be told

Lapsed Catholic Wife

Rediscovering pleasure. 2016 Adventures of an Ashley Madison female

Surviving the affair....the cheaters perspective

I cheated. Yip I did it, I am not proud of it, but that won't change a thing. This is my story of me trying to survive one day at a time. No guarantees....

Back in Stilettos Again

diary of a San Francisco serial dater

Let It All Go

Leaving behind the expectations of pure innocence in these musings.

Sex Is My New Hobby

does what it says on the tin... (18+)

vpache

This and That

My First Five Years

My first five years in Shanghai

The Other Livvy

My secret alter ego...

Being Blacksilk

Real sex, real kink. Erotic fiction, photos and drawings. Sex toy reviews.