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Saturday, November 08, 2003


A woman
Waits for me

Your beauty
Is a beam

Wanton pride
Of Hercules
Cruel sweetheart
Dainty grace

Your waist reflects-
Years of skilled labour
Your body molded ever
Since Eden- breaks a vow

Had I but words enough
To court your hungry mind
I would be keeper of your bush-
Guardian of bliss and restraint

Make me your fringed apprentice
A shepherd in late bloom
Skillful in the art of passing
And forgetting

Love is both legal
And lawless
Her flaws are charted
Out of court

My bed is disarranged
My dreams- shiny shells-
Rally between indifference-
Illusion and grief

Love is a monster brand
An emblem rife with perjury-
Intoxication and abuse

-Slowly floating adrift-


(c) Walt 2003

posted by Walter at 11/08/2003

Monday, November 03, 2003


“Behold, I have a weapon”

From: Othello- by William Shakespeare


Eskimo Nell

“It was Eskimo Nell who was first to speak,
In accents clear and cool,
“You cuntstruck shrimp of a Yankee pimp
Do you call that thing a tool?”

27th stanza of “Eskimo Nell” – anonymous


The Wingless & The Winged

The wingless thing

Most men use their cocks
For two things only:
They stand up pissing
& lie down fucking.
The world is full of horizontal men-
Or vertical ones-
& really it is all the same disease.

1st stanza of “The Wingeless & The Winged” by E.E.Cummings


My Father Moved through Dooms of Love

My father moved through dooms of love
Through sames of am through haves of give,
Singing each morning out of each night
My father moved through depths of height

1st stanza of “My Father Moved through Dooms of Love” by E.E.Cummings


She and Jung

She and Jung are in a huge bed together caressing eachother’s right forearms, he is in his eighties; she in her thirties. I won’t make love to you, he says, unless I can be sure of your respect and commitment.

Dinah Hawken

From: -Soho Square IV- 1991 Bloomsbury Publishing


Narcissus Woman

“One day I came home after spending ten days at a commune. It was my final attempt to establish a love bond-with somebody else. Eight of us lived out those ten days together, four men and four women, women, we paired off with this person, that person, women or men. At the end of ten days, I was frazzled, exhausted, grown weary of everyone, still unfulfilled and worse; bored! There was nothing left to try in sex, I would shut myself up in my house and vow never again to go out.”

Teresinka Pereira


Odd it is so easy
When it was hard
And tonight it was so hard
When it was soft

Tom Stothert



It is said love is a tug of war- a battle of the sexes that drives for the rush of hot blood and the thrill of conquest. Love’s epic battles are fought one on one- in urban areas- in ski resorts- on the backseat of cars- in attics- raves- in virtual space- and on the beach.

Sans pareil- love remains the most successful existential lubricant- sustained by the indefatigable engine of lustful appetite and the arts. Love is the drug of choice when plain sex has spent its magic- its enduring quest consolidates a magnum opus of grand delusion.

I looked for narrative and poems which dwelled on the trials and exploits of love- expressed by cynics and believers- winners and losers- the limp- and angst-ridden males- and their perilous muses- the undauntable and feisty amazons- executioners of ever engaging lovecraft.


A Silent Movie

How dare you make love to me like that,
In that cold, silent, uncommitted way,
Using your prick like a mechanical pumping-engine
And thinking of P l a y b o y

I’m hot and wet, man
Opening like a Venus Flytrap,
Streaming from all orifices
And screaming with agonizing
Life-enhancing, mad, entrancing
And there you lie,
Worrying about the next-door-neighbours
And wishing the bed springs wouldn’t creak
And refusing to bloody well SPEAK.
And when I bite your thighs
You’re praying that the marks won’t show
When you have to strip for your daily drip
In the city gym-
(must keep fit)-
You hypocrite!

I want your rough beard
To lacerate my breasts, but you turn away
And you prefer it the back way,
That’s fatal
Because it’s so damned good
I’m shouting more and hotting up the pace,
But at least that way
I cannot see the fury on your face.
You Woman hater!

Oh, I’m really away now
(bugger the neighbours!)
Your piston-engine prick
Is tearing the living daylights out of me
And I’m wild with it,
But why don’t you bloody swell
Are you enjoying it, damn you,
Or are you just a machine
That’s wound up
And forgotten the words?
I remember past loves,
Past beds,
And the torrent of fire and honey
From the mouths of the wild
And wonderful men
Who knew to love
With lungs
As well as loins,
And the sticky plethora
Of kisses over an under
Drowning sounds
So lewd and beautiful
That all my heart and cunt
Were burning equally.

Oh you cold, stingy
Uptight, unyielding sod,
How do I know
Whether my ecstasy
Is boring the pants off you
(forgive the pun),
Or whether your fastidious
Distaste is aimed at me
Or at the whole race of
Swallowing, wallowing women
And wanton cunts,
Or whether you yearn
For an ice maiden
Or a marble goddess,
Or for that dreadful Mrs Lloyd
Who wears hats
And doesn’t like it.

All right, you’ve come now
And you’ve shuffled off
Looking slightly out-of-sorts
And embarrassed by that
Ill-bred piston-engine which will
Take you unawares
Despite your finer feelings.
And of course you wouldn’t kiss me
Or say it was wonderful,
But hurried off to wash,
Remembering germs
That lurk in private places
And nasty notices
In public lavatories.

I’m clean, damn you,
But I won’t be for long
If you go on insulting me
With your cold and disapproving
I’m still going, still
Coming, still pounding out
Gorgeous obscenities
In our sweaty, unhygienic
Incorrigibly creaking
And there you are
Washing my cunt away
The taste of me
With Dettol.

Look here, old sport,
I warn you,
When I’m through here
I’m going to sleep with every
Man, boy and tramp
I can lay my filthy paws on.
Painters, plumbers
Unshaven bummers,
And Irish labourers
And men who read meters,
I’m going to drain their last-gsp drop
And make my life’s work
Having it away,
And let’s hope, by God,
They know their way about a woman
And what’s a damned sight more mportant,
They don’t forget
The words that fit the play.

Wendy Perriam


That Portion of a Woman

That portion of a woman which appeals to man’s depravity
Is constructed with extraordinary care,
And what at first appears to be a simple cavity
Is really an elaborate affair.

Now doctors of distinction have examined these phenomena
On numbers of experimental dames,
And classified the organs of the feminine abdomina
And given them delightful names.

There’s the vulva, the vagina, and the jolly old perineum,
And the hymen in the case of many brides;
There are many other gadgets you would love if you could see them,
The clitoris and lots of things besides.

So isn’t it a pity when we common people chatter
Of the mysteries to which I have referred,
We should use for such a delicate and complicated matter
Such a short and unattractive little word.

Anonymous 20th century


Here ends this canto-Need I sing, or say,
How Juan, naked, favour’d by the night,
Who favours what she could not, found his way,
And reach’d his home in an unseemly plight?
The pleasant scandal which arose next day,
The nine days’ wonder which was brought to light,
And how Alfonso sued for a divorce.
Were in the English newspapers, of course.

George Gordon, Lord Byron

From: Don Juan- Last stanza from Canto 1


Love Again

Love again: wanking at ten past three
(Surely he’s taking her home by now?),
The bedroom is hot as a bakery,
The drink gone dead, without showing how
To meet tomorrow, and afterwards,
And the usual pain, like dysentery.

Someone else feeling her breasts and cunt,
Someone else drowned in that lash-wide stare,
And me supposed to be ignorant,
Or find it funny, or not to care,
Even--- but why put in into words?
Isolate rather this element

That spreads through other lives like a tree
And sways them on in a sort of sense
And say why it never worked for me.
Something to do with violence
A long way back, and wrong rewards,
And arrogant eternity.

Philip Larkin

From: Collected Poems- Marvell Press- 1988


Love Poem

When we are in love, we love the grass,
And the barns, and the lightpoles,
And the small mainstreets abandoned all night.

Robert Bly –From: Silence in the Snowy Fields- Weslyan University Press- 1982


On Woman

May God be praised for woman
That gives up all her mind,
A man may find in no man
A friendship of her kind
That covers all he has brought
As with her flesh and bone,
Nor quarrels with a thought
Because it is not her own.

1st stanza of –On Woman-

William Butler Yeats -From: The Fisherman- McMillan Co- 1919


All (unless mentioned otherwise) from: Making Love- The Picador Book of Erotic Verse-
Edited by Alan Bold- Picador Pan Books 1980


posted by Walter at 11/03/2003