It’s late at night and I had a thought, it’s not the first time I’ve had it.
I’m thinking of bed now, thinking of having you in it, thinking of passions so hard and deep they bring tears to my eyes, my fever is fired and rampant yet goes unfulfilled, I am lost I am lonely I am loosing lucidity…. I am……
I feel you roll your eyes in the pain of a distance that you can’t remove, sympathetic vibrations rock the air waves reduced to only a ripple by the miles but the sentiment is full, the sentiment is received, your sentiment is felt as if you were almost here in person. I smile at the memories of heat and sweat and penetration to the hilt of ones resources and sleep…. I am….
I write this for you my sweet lover man and bid you good night and like you…. I am….
The emotion of close, touching flesh,
heat exchanged through moist breath
Why would a lover leave?
From your arms they reluctantly heave
Despite attentions where you tease and smear
Far outside these comfortable walls
Waitrose creed is soon spent
M&S food halls have catered
How can penetration compete?
Alone now, the passions of copulation retreat
and you lay curled in the half-filled bed
running the events back excitedly in your head
and reluctantly you react again,
will your true desire be fully fed?
Despite what you think,
reality joins you at the sink knowing,
They’ll be back.
This is the first of a number of pieces I have written in 99 words, an idea I have unashamedly cribbed from another well know blog, but then what is truly new…. perhaps just different and I hope you enjoy them from time to time.
The tapping passed into reality and he came face to face with the swan’s black and orange beak beyond the boat’s glass where the water level gave level eye contact with the milky white creature.
Recognising the sideways nod, the man slid off the bunk and padded to the rear doors, still stiffly aroused.
Drawn not to the water but the shadowy towpath, the luminescent but unmistakable outline stretched its long neck tall as it transformed into a more familiar slim shape, a wide wing melted into an arm, a slender finger called them both back into the dream.
This is a piece that I wrote while having a bit of a writing ‘crisis’ questioning the subjects and styles that I was writing in and about and wondering if readers and listeners were getting what I was going on about. I think I’m more confident because of this self examination.
Why do I write
when it’s sometimes a fight
to get out of my head
what I want to be read.
To make it light
but when in plain sight
it’s reads mostly trouble
and sometimes a muddle
of things that you hope
people may find easy to cope…
with when they read
while inside you just plead
that they take it on board
as you meant, but they don’t applaud
as its dark and unfit
and may drop you in the shit
from a mind that has contracted…
into itself, a brain now so impacted,
those lost cares and sensitivities
banished by many odd proclivities.
So which part of you is real,
why do you deny what you feel
in a world that berates
all the things that it hates
Why is it hard to command
a body that has craving…
for things, as plain as paving
but, what it real?
when you must lie of how you feel.
To the few that still care,
are you being very fair
to them or yourself…
or should you put it high on a shelf
in a dark cupboard, locked…
safe away, saves being mocked
and then live out the lie
to the day that you die.
Soon you must make your choice,
decide now on which voice,
the one that is kind,
making noise, beating in time,
made of sugar and spiced…
puppy dogs tails, happily spliced
into a nice little boy,
only this one riddled with ploys,
where you hope to win favour
only really it’s never…
going to work
when a menacing dark
oh so close,
tarnishing the crown
that you wear as a cowl…
to yourself, still crying foul.
Now, it’s time to either put up
or shut up,
try to sit,
try to fit.
Is it done?
Yes, it’s done.
This is another extract from memoire that I have recently completed,
‘A Fruit Cake Just Exploded’ ;
the book is available on Lulu.com and also Amazon.
This piece is the account of a
13-year-old pubescent boy having a close encounter with another.
Being at that peculiar age of 13, I had no care for the sacrifices that my parents made. It was my father actually who amazed the rest of the family when one afternoon he asked if anyone was ever going to notice that he had given up smoking. It had been two weeks and no one had. In the early 70’s it was still socially acceptable to smoke although I was the only one in the family that never did. With suitable mock horror and exaggerated surprise, we all pretended that we knew all along, but of course we didn’t. Being suitably uninterested in how my father had managed to give up his 40 a day habit from well before his RAF days, the important result for me was that he had been putting the cash equivalent away and, after a few more months of frugality and healthy living, I got to go on the school cruise.
Leaving the chill of a very British February, we flew out to Naples and then spent 14 days visiting Italy, Sicily, Crete, Turkey, Greece and finally flying back home from a very wet and cold Venice. It was a whirlpool of culture, sightseeing, sea sickness and stupidity. Despite all that or perhaps because of all that, I am left with what is most likely, a rather rose-tinted memory of having a splendid time. Dozens of rolls of film, copious notes and drawings, every daytime minute filled with history and histrionics, trips and trivia. These generally good things thankfully managed to overshadow the more difficult aspects of mass living that I had never experienced before. Dormitory sleeping arrangements, intense airless sweaty heat, constant crowds and noise plus the diabolical food managed to cripple my already fragile confidence. While I lost about two stones in two weeks, not that it should have done me any harm, I did decide that if this was being part of society, mixing with fellow humans was not going to be something I could relish.
The night times were always the worst nightmare; for me anyway. Having hardly ever had to share a bedroom at home I was not used to sleeping with other people, let alone this company of hormone brimmed boys. As you might imagine, night-time was not necessarily for sleep not with all that fun and freedom to be explored and exploited. The teachers were billeted just across the gangway but only made token attempts to control the mayhem.
My role in this chaos seemed to have been decided very early on in the trip, from my already dubious reputation I was the marked the miserable one, the too serious one and in the end, I thought I played my part very well. All I wanted was to sleep and not get into trouble, but it hardly ever happened without one big fuss or another. Eventually, very eventually, the self-styled pirate hoards and their merry followers would get just too tired, fall into their bunks and drift off to the steady rocking of the ship and the background hum of the engines only a few more decks below. It was in this relative quiet of the night that my most feared and yet deeply desired dream nearly happened; it might have actually been a dream but it was certainly very real at the time.
This particular night, everyone was settled although you could always find someone getting up or quietly moving about. Thinking that it was just another toilet call, I lay there and hoped for sleep to finally fall. My assessment had been right and I listened and pictured the relieved bladder as it came back into the cabin and padded quietly, feet slapping gently on the hard metal floor. What I wasn’t expecting was someone climbing under my blanket at the other end of the bunk. Peering tentatively over the edge of the covers, the dim night-lights allowed me to recognise one of our own boys. One of our classmates was a sleep-walker. We all knew about it as it had nearly stopped him being allowed to go on the trip altogether. He lived in the same village as me and was unfortunately, one of my early somebodies on whom I fine-tuned my voyeurism; mainly because of his tightly curled beautiful blonde hair. This now unkempt hair settled itself down seemingly with no notion of where he was, I couldn’t help wondering if this was my reward for being patient or if it was just one big sleep walking mistake.
Not knowing what to do nor wanting to miss any chances, I could only lie there and wait to see what might happen. So I waited; and waited. He made himself comfortable and that was it, so what was I going to do now? As I had no frame of reference, I still did nothing. No one else seemed to have seen him get in the bunk or be bothered about it if they had. Silently, although almost forgetting to breath, my heart and head were getting close to a state of pure panic. Frozen to the sheets rather than animated by my fears I tried to take in what might be happening.
His breathing had slowed and his warm smooth weight had settled comfortably against my legs. He didn’t react as I eventually managed to lift my head up enough to see if there were any clues about what I should, or even could do next. His eyes were shut tight in his angelic face and the blanket gently rose and fell over the contours of his rounded torso, he was fast asleep.
The bunks were narrow but long so although so we were very snug, lying head to toe there was no other option than to be touching at several points along our length but. Despite my normally fantastical imagination, my fear, if that was what I was feeling, couldn’t contemplate any action.
Someone else got out of bed a few bunks down and also went to the toilet, passing right by us as they did, fortunately neither of us moved to attract attention until they had passed. This terrifying moment for me did prompt Owen to roll over, still asleep, to face my legs curling and sliding his one leg up over mine and planting his foot unintentionally in my groin. The move had me completely pinned down. As there was little that I could seem to do, I was interested to find that some of my fears were being calmed by this rather intimate contact. To add to the confusion I could feel my groin expanding at the gentle attention of this soft warm foot. Equally mechanically, I felt the added pressure of his not inconsiderate genitals pressing against my knee; I had no idea what was I going to do with it.
We were both in our fully enclosing night-clothes but this degree of closeness was something that I had longed for and had dreamed of so many times, I couldn’t believe that this could actually be happening, not here, not now! Despite my visualised and now potentially real pleasures, I couldn’t find the strength to make any kind of action. Being so close and yet so, so far from something turned out to be far worse than having nothing at all.
Eventually because of the pain building up in my extremities, I did slowly move my one arm from beneath his outstretched and rather heavy leg. With this one piece of freedom I desperately wanted to reach out to at least make myself more comfortable but the inevitability of touching my soft erection. My rather darker consciousness was pushing for me to reach out further and touch him instead so I did; not being able, or even wanting to resist. A tentative and gentle touch to the back of his enfolding leg didn’t seem to get any negative reaction. He stirred a little but to my surprise, not very much. He rocked a little from side to side to settle himself further and he was now facing down over my outstretched legs and I felt the twitch of his penis against them which in turn stimulated mine even more.
After what seemed like a lifetime, I slid my arm further out into the covered darkness and it met with the firm but relaxed roundness of his buttock cheek. Beautifully warm, it clenched up firm and round to the almost feather light touch of my palm and finger tips. The minute but perfect movement moved more than the earth of my obscure erotic fantasy and I had to quickly grab my now solidly erect member to stop it from exploding its sticky mess over both of us.
With my legs tensed against the possibility of ejaculation I hoped that the immediate danger was ebbing, Owen rolled back off me with a soft groan. His hand brushed against mine as he searched for and then stroked his own tented pyjamas. Knowing that I was closer than I had ever been to another fully erect and seemingly compliant contemporary, I couldn’t move the last few millimetres to actually touch the enticing member. He moved again and I pulled my free hand away as he slipped sideways silently onto the floor from under the blanket; fortunately we were on the bottom bunk. Even in the dim light I could just make out the shadowy outline of his still distended pyjama trousers. With the coldness of the floor his eyes flickered open momentarily before closing again as he made his way silently back to his own bunk just opposite mine. All I could do was lie there, disappointedly gazing out into the gloom as he settled into a deeper unknowing sleep, leaving me with improper hopes and dreams dashed and a puddle of now cold seamen sitting in my hand.
I wrote and performed this piece for a Valentine’s Day public presentation on the theme of ‘Love’ given by Writers Without Borders, 14 February 2015 at the Library of Birmingham.
In this world there’s a love that still dares not speak its chill name
yet is still spoken freely by those glinting in dull or dubious fame,
yes there’s renting of cloth and the odd muffled cry
but it’s mostly all bluff when you look deep in their eye.
History rich has its queens but acknowledged only after…
they are dead and then couched just above the bear bater.
But in these decades, pseudo modern, where man’s closet should be open
he’s still akin to a sleeping dog that’s only safe for not pokin’.
Pink triangles which when worn to the gas chambers horrified…
the world but what lessons did we take, most are lost or now nullified.
Be it culture, religion a personal preference or just nature
what’s so bad with being us, to make a man’s man turn into a hater.
In the gloss of god-fearing fervour some rules do get adjusted
but attrition still sees bodies bashed and sweet heads bloody and busted.
The laws may have changed but who sticks to the rules,
and like witches of old, some would have us still, drowned in deep dark pools.
Life in the world of the many, amongst the plain and the dull
it’s a much different take where, if you feel like fighting for a full…
life if still shrouded in shadow, it’s more often the fear
that a misguided comment will mark you unacceptable, a dirty queer.
People tell you they don’t mind, if you’re light on your toes
as long as they aren’t asked to be sat next to ‘one of those’.
‘Keep your backs to the walls lads’, the air’s freely washed with your shame
for being locked in a love that still daren’t speak its bone chilling name.