One sultry desert morning

With longing earnest

Pries he, her belly button.

Every time you sulk…

Can’t live up to them –

My bloated self,

Your spewing expectations –

Every day

Another pound or more

Of cakes and ale

Maugham armed you well

“Bitch!”

Whose?

Stuffed.

The tasting organ

Filled up

All over again.

To be seaweed would be infinitely more liberating than being a bird. Birds, like people, have places to go and the will to get to those places. Seaweed is a wanderer and content being so, because its life does not depend on its going somewhere.

F was right

February 23rd, 2007

F always said: Home is where you live.

I always countered: Home is where your family is.

F was right. The individualist self-seeker is honest to himself and everyone else when he looks only for his own self-interest. The collective selflessness fed to us is a farce at best.

Anonymity

January 21st, 2007

If all characters were mentioned in the third person pronoun, including the author, then the virtue of cyberspace would be preserved – absolute secrecy and inconsequential interaction. The dividers between fact and fiction, fiction and fantasy, narration and commentary would all collapse. She mulls over the idea and settles on this course of action.

Him and her

January 20th, 2007

When the lull sets in, the so-wanteds sneak in with it. They sit her down in a corner and force her into conversations she’d rather not have. The dark fiend watches her closely, poised to slither its way around her heart. She’ll slide into the covers unsuspectingly, until the inexplicable wretching takes hold of her.

He lies not with her tonight.

Swathed in torquoise silk, her unpregnant navel is probed by a yearning finger.

She dreams not of him.

The older man. The familiar dear. The older man. The fleeting and temporary. The older man. He inhabits her. Completely.