polished?

This week, I wrote in a mail to someone explaining my bulimic writing process.  I'm from the vomit school of writing, I sit down and spew the stuff up, then tidy it up a bit.  Things happen in life, I swallow it all down, and then sick it back up, somewhat selectively.  It's not that life makes me sick, I just react to it stomach first.  My natural inclination is not to polish writing endlessly, to pick the perfect perfect perfect word because near perfect will do for me.  





So I was quite surprised to find how much I enjoyed the polishing up of a haiku series yesterday, adding pictures and creating a new Issuu "publication" for it.  Perhaps there is no thing as too much practice ;)  Click the picture to see the finished result!

Sins roundup

Well, the 7 Deadly Sins pieces certainly brought out a whole bunch of reactions over at 6S, mostly complimentary and all commented upon. 

I admitted to envy, wrath, pride, gluttony, sloth and lust, and to having an understanding of avarice even though it's not a sin that is particularly dear to me.  I was going to do a summing up of the comments, and try to create some sort of league table as to what people (albeit from an admittedly limited sample size) thought the worst sin was in general.

However, I got an over-reaction to dear Belphegor, the demon representing my most excessive sin, which completely skewed the results.  Even 6 days I'm still not entirely sure what prompted it, although I suspect my worst sin in this case was a half flippant/half exasperated 3 word comment ("Count to 6") on a previous post by the 'author', prompting him to a vicious personal attack. 

This 'author', apparantly stinging from some "carefully crafted cutting comments" which must have been made by others, called the moral majority to round upon me for having such wicked thoughts in the first place.  I was called a troll, and accused of being the sort of person that only finds validity through hurting others to feed my own super-ego; and told I must learn from the knee-jerk comments of people who had no understanding what my point was in the first place.

I'm not 100% sure why I am still dwelling on this, the 'author' has made a fractional retraction, in removing the original offensive post, although reposting it without the words he'd copied from me.  I think it's because, even though (I felt!) my words were explanatory, logical and not particularly inflammable, they failed to persuade.  In the words of a writer I respect deeply the 'author' is "an arrogant little fuckwad (sic) afflicted with an utter lack of sense regarding not only his, uh, moral righteousness" but I still feel a sense of failure in my inability to get him to see my point of view. 

I should be better.   





<--Back to 7 of 7

                                Deadly Sins summary                               

  Forward to 1 of 7-->

Open wide...

I've been writing on this blog for a while now, and I first started up so I could write things that I wouldn't like a whole bunch of people to see, mainly colleagues.  I have no problem with relatives since Mum was a reader from the start, and no-one else in the family is vaguely interested as far as I know.  Some of the adult content herein has been published at other adult sites, and some in 'normal' poetry sites, and some double blogs over at 6S where the wider audience has in general not fainted at my crudities... And over the months I think I did some OK writing here and now, modest as ever, I want to share with the unknown world.  I don't really know why... other than great immodesty, the world deserves to know my stuff (it was a bad world in a former life or something)



My other blog is streamed to facebook where anyone who was my "friend" or basically vague acquaintance could see the stuff I was writing if they could be arsed.  Despite it's accessibility it has unnaccountably failed to win me fame and fortune...  And, I think it unlikely that the little orange git in Amon is ever going to find this stuff, but why make it easy by posting it in front of a load of workmates that we have in common ;)  I hope the "nice" blog will continue not descend into irrelevancy as the more personal raw stuff is posted over here, though I know I already drifted down that route by posting about fluffy kittens this morning. 



There is a time and a place and at the moment this feels more like my personal place ;)

oh my dedication

yesterday he asked me to write something nice for him, to him; which really means something he would call nasty and something i would call raw, i guess, as natural sounds too insipid for the things he wants me to write to him.  something about sex anyway.  something for him to download and sneakily read, hunched over the computer like he sneakily reads the e-mails we exchange when it gets late at night and he won't be caught.  and i don't know what to write now, i could embellish the 'performance & cocktails' mini series a little more, he liked that, especially when i said penis in it and when i mentioned semen, but i think i am finished with those pair of characters now.  i could use one of the sleep.snort.fuck prompts to write something like i have been meaning to for ages but when it comes down to it i use up my inventiveness when i am e-mailing him and the words i write for myself afterwards are about flatness, about non-relationships.  sex on your mind, in your mind and oh it should not feel more intense and interesting touching someone only through words on a screen, it should not make the real world seem plain and dull and i don't know which came first, no not out of the pair of us responding to the words, i mean it's chicken and egg whether you turn somewhere unreal for excitement when real life is grey or whether the excitement you find makes real life grey.

so the dedication?  the writing of something nice because he asked me?  i guess i will dedicate the "post coming" to him since it is anyway about him but i think he did not read it so it will be new for him and i can save up, hoard my imagination until he will e-mail me again...

coping...

You have knocked the life out of me,

I shovel dead things into my mouth

but I only taste the fermented stuff.

Honesty looks good on me, but on you?

I didn't need to know how easily

you put me out of your mind.

You made me feel alive and I hate

to think how long ago that was now,

I want to quicken myself but it does not come,

I can not come, it is an exercise in friction and

though the flesh is willing the mind is freaked.

Reject, side dish, bit of fun, reject,

slut, tease, reject; words bicycle in my head.

Dead mould, mushrooms for tea.

Yes, on the side, by the pallid fish flesh.  I will

shrivel up in the non-weight of your disregard.

This time, can I make the silence stick?

Can I pour in enough alcohol to make

me tongue tied and not voluble? 

Bitter exudations, oozing failure, and

in the morning, sweet rancid sweat. 

Success and failure both are counted

by apathy, not talking to you. 

Your life goes on, maybe to her you will

seem a little distracted, maybe? 

Maybe not even that, after all, she didn't

even notice when you went to her,

rubbed raw from our exertions. 

I try another tentative rub, but no,

rejected by my own flesh.  To drink

to sleep; to sleep perchance to weep.

You have knocked the life out of me,

and now half digested dead things

come back out of my mouth.





Also published at The Camel Saloon

next poem-->

each time...

I think I am safe still, safe from being drawn back in to actively yearning for you.  You log in on your "secret" ID, known only to me, just so you can chat with me.  I sort of want to be just friends now, but I still want you to lose your reason over me.  Among other things.  So you grow hard as you pick up on my inneundo, your pants bulge in your mother in law's study while you talk to me and then you tell me it is only your cock taking over your brain.  And that, honestly, you do respect that I have a brain...

is someone else here?

Yeah got a chick lined up for tomorrow night, sure need to get my rocks off for real in a warm sweet wet cunt, my cock is red and aching from all the jacking off I been doing recently.  Couldn't help it I just got addicted to it this last week, there's this girl, no I've not met her, she's like another writer, in Europe somewhere and man she writes some hot stuff. 

-

"I'm out on a date tonight," I tell my flatmate, "You know with Martin?  The writer guy?"  I am kind of in awe of him he's published a book and he runs a magazine, how cool is that?  I'd love to write a novel you know, they say everyone's got a novel inside them and I want the world to see mine, see how creative and cool I can be!

-

Oh I love hearing from my favourite correspondant; right about now he should be checking out the mails I sent to him last time, asking in my faux naive way to tell me about how it feels when a guy is ready to come.  Time for another e-mail conversation which will end up with us both sticky and wet and satiated.  I love that he jacks it off at his work for me.  I even sent him some pictures.

-

Thing is, we have these conversations and they make me so fucking horny, and cos there's like a time difference she's playing with herself at home and I'm in the fucking cubicle and every day this week I had to get up and shuffle to the mens room to jack one out quickly but when I get home she's gone to bed but I can read the mails over again and again and I feel so fucking horny all the time at the moment.  So it'll do me good to get out there in the real world with, um, yeah Trish.

-

"We're gonna meet up at that new bar, you know, we all talked about it last week?  Apparently it's only a couple of blocks away from his apartment..."  I want to tell her not to wait up but he might not take me back there.  I'd like him to, it would be pretty cool to introduce him to people as My Boyfriend, The Writer.  I'm sure I could be creative, I mean my brother has a blog so it must run in the family.  I could be his muse!

-

I know I told him it had to be virtual only.  I think I said my head was pretty messed up with an ex and hinted that things were messy in real life.  I thought if it was only virtual, only make believe then I wouldn't be prone to all the worry, the neediness, the wondering if I had done something wrong when the beam of attention is not on me.  And writer guy did oblige with the attention, I could not complain about that.

-

It is loud in the bar, one of Andy's mates runs it and Andy had a spare couple of VIP tickets which is bound to impress, isn't it.  We drink little bitty fizzy cocktails in a raised area with squishy black leather sofas.  Trish is cute but a bit enthusiastic puppy.  The noise means conversation is difficult but she keeps at it, along with peeking up at me in a come and get it way.  Which is good.  I'm fucking dying to grab a hold of her and her all american sweetheart tits.  Push her down onto the sofa.

-

Wow, we sit in the VIP area and the bartender brings Champagne Charlies.  This is what it will be like all the time when he gets famous!  Well I will smarten his clothes up a bit, it's alright to look boho and geeky when you're just starting to get known, but nothing says success like a well dressed guy, you know?  I'm so glad I put this dress on, it makes me look sweet and sophisticated at the same time.  He isn't saying much, but he's enigmatic like that.

-

But when he told me he was going out with some chick tonight I felt a stupid pain.  I know it's really nothing to do with him and all to do with the ex, but I still felt it.  The pain of being left behind, the self-disgust at being taken again and again for a cheap fuck to be kept apart from a person's real life.  I'd been kept apart from his real life containing his marriage that was so fucking sacred that I was the third person he'd cheated with in less than a year.  Hmm, and as for writer guy, well I should be rational.

-

Gotta get out of here, I got her a load of them cocktails and she's sure enthusiastic now, couldn't manage more than three or four myself, too sweet and fizzy.  Cute dress she's got on, white and sort of lacy but more like embroidery, pretty, and fucking love the way it rode up those thighs the more she talked and drank those cocktails down.  "Hey, lets grab some fresh air and starry night," I tell her, and hand her up all gentleman like.  She wobbles a bit on her heels and clings on my arm.

-

He does like me, people are looking at us I bet they think we look really good together.  Oops, little wobble there!  Coffee at his place is such a good idea.  We'll sleep in the same bed, and kiss and cuddle and stuff but nothing full on until I'm sure he likes me in the morning.  I am a little tipsy and he can read me his poems while I fall asleep and he can stroke my hair and in the morning we'll have more coffee and the sun will shine and he'll tell me he thinks he loves me.

-

I should be rational about him going on a date but I am not.  He doesn't know that I do know him in real life and the reason I insist on it being virtual is well, complicated.  He thinks I am some girl in Berlin that he would never meet.  I love it that he thinks I am a girl, and that we can talk and meet mind to mind even though I am starting to suspect that he's only interested in the fucking talk, not in me, or any personality behind the words.  If I was a girl waiting on the end of the line for him I guess I would be disappointed.

-

Fuck this isn't going too well, I got her back to the flat and the bedroom fine even through all her "baby we'll do this when..." and "baby when you are so famous..." stuff.  And she did look so hot laid out on the bed in that white dress and the long legs but when I crawled up on the bed behind her and kissed her neck and rubbed my hand along those legs she crossed them and my cock is not even properly hard she's just too much of a good girl.  I leave her on the bed to sleep while I grab a beer, and I can't help it, I turn the computer on to see if Berlin girl has sent me anything new and if not I can read one of the old conversations and jack off and the night won't be a total failure.

-

His flat wasn't that nice really.  A bit small and cramped.  And instant coffee, how cheap was that!  And he had been a bit presumptuous, taking the coffee straight through to the bedroom but then the main living area wasn't really much more than a sofa, a dining table and a tv in the corner.  Some bookshelves, yeah.  But he got more presumptuous, sliding his hands between my legs as I lay sleepily on the bed, so I wriggled them closed and pretended to fall asleep because I didn't want to fuck him there and then, suddenly wondering what if he didn't get to be famous?

-

I needed a distraction, I turned on my computer even though I knew writer guy was out on his date, but it would pass the time.  I called my sister for a chat, even if she is a bubble-headed gossip she can be fun in small doses, but her flatmate tells me she is out on a date.  With Martin, you know, the writer guy? 

Fuck, fuckfuck, fuck fucking fuck. 

How could she have got to him?

And then a mail comes in from him, "Are you there Berlin Girl?"





with apologies to "writer guy" for taking something out of context as inspiration ;)

published at new wave vomit here

confessions...

I have 76 e-mails in my inbox from today titled "oh fuck fucking fuck"

With this level of attention, I don't feel the pain of his absent minded good wishes so much; I can rein in the level of neediness I display to him and of course it has obvious results.  I withdraw, he pushes harder.  He withdraws, yeah you guessed it, Pavlov's dogs, bitch in heat stuff.

I can imagine fucking someone else now.  I haven't told him that, that someone else is throwing those switches in my mind, I want to hug that secret from him.  I do imagine fucking someone else.  But I still imagine telling him about it.

Oh fuck fucking fuck indeed.

I lost my voice

I did not speak with anyone yesterday.  I could have picked up the phone and called a friend but I didn't, a delicacy that prevents me intruding on normal people's lives.  People who have lives don't want me bothering them.  I did speak out loud, I said "Miaou, Miaou," and "Get down," to the cat.  He didn't do anything though.  I did e-mail people.  But the ones I wanted to hear from did not e-mail back.  I went onto the social networks but they were as usual full of strangers grasping for your friendship to win points in games.  I got e-mails from them, telling me what they wanted from me, which button to click to give them their virtual rewards.  I got sucked in and asked for non-existent stuff too.  I managed not to talk to any inanimate objects.  I read blogs.  I read books.  I wrote stuff.  Did I talk to my reflection in the mirror?  I don't remember now.  I wrote comments on blogs and people wrote back on a couple of occasions, I could pretend a conversation almost got going.  A conversation did not happen.  Except in my head.  There were several going on there so I lost track of them in the end.

Measure for measure

She sat down at the computer to wait for his e-mail to feed the latest obsession the explicit and horny sexy e-mail conversations with a stranger she had read his writing and he hers and they had looked at and liked each others blogs and now each night for the last three nights they had exchanged flurries of mails in linear and forked conversation strands and played with words and she had played with herself as he told her about playing with himself.

While she waited she played the damn facebook games that she had been so enthusiastic about the week before in the absence of the fucking talk she robbed properties and did jobs for dons and fought yakuza and sent virtual gifts for virtual chop shops and weapons depots and when she had run out of energy and stamina and had to wait for time to refill those she went to the farm and planted tomatoes and helped virtual friends raise barns and fed their non-existent chickens.

While she waited she recalled the mails and the mood from the day before OMFG to use one of his acronyms but the words moved her beyond heat she loved the way his words made her feel and the way her words did too and in some ways she didn't really care that she would probably never meet this stranger especially as this stranger might not be the same as the picture of the stranger she had in her head from reading his blog he might be a completely different virtual stranger.

And OMFG his mail came in and the conversation started again and when he typed how much he wanted to ram his thick fat cock into her she felt herself responding and typing back that she wanted him to she wanted to feel this lust rising she wanted to feel the strangers lust wanted to feel that there really was a person at the other end who wanted to turn her onto her stomach and pull her arse cheeks apart and dip his fingers into her juices and spread her legs apart and work his enormous cock deeper into her and she slides her own fingers into her folds and feels the stringy wetness and thinks of him sat at his desk at work with his hand in his pants too.

Oh she is warm and wet now and needs more more stimulation needs to feel the push of something inside her and as she types about his thick cock stretching her walls she finds the wine bottle is empty how did that happen but its good and in a quick break from the screen she rinses the bottle and pulls her trousers and knickers down and places a towel on the chair underneath her and rejoins the one handed typing as the wine bottle takes the place of her fingers down there she tells him where she is at the conversation forks again one half still in fantasy and the other half describing what she is doing feeling and are both strands fantasy for him or is one of them real and she has to stop typing and finish herself off.

And after she is done he types that he is not yet so she asks him to tell her about his thick cock again and then the new obsession is kicked off for he believes in driving a specific bargain and tells her his cock is 6.5" in girth and at first she cannot imagine how big this is then she finds a tape measure and makes a loop with it to see how big it is but a loop isn't very easy to imagine pushing at you so she measures the wine bottle and fucking hell 6.5" is way bigger than the neck of that even though it wasn't a champagne bottle it was only 3.5" around and though there was a little room for manoeuvre she thinks double that size is really too big so she looks around for more objects to measure.

In her bathroom she finds the deodorant stick, short and stubby but at it's widest only 5" although an interesting shape she sees the travel shampoo but no don't bother with that it is no wider than the wine bottle the shower gel looks huge but it is only 5.5" it looks as big as she imagines she could take and it is nowhere near the 6.5" she can't imagine how fat the strangers cock must be there is the bath foam but that is eye wateringly big and and there is no way that would fit her.

She imagines wandering up and down the supermarket aisles with her tape measure inspecting the various bottles and jars on display looking for the perfect fit and the shop assistant watching as she wraps the tape measure around them but she measures the bath foam and that is still only 6" and she measured it even though she thought it was too big and now she is a little sad for if she did ever meet the strangers cock it would not fit her the owner of the cock with his fantasies is too big for her she has an inadequate cunt she is too small for something that size although then she thinks maybe because if she met the stranger his cock would be flesh and blood and filled with blood and therefore flexible and not the planar smooth unyielding surface of a bath foam bottle and maybe it would work.

But if even the strangers cock was flexible it was still 0.5" bigger than the bath foam bottle then she was still too tight for the strangers cock even if she was hot and wet and yes in theory she knew they were capable of expanding to the size of a babies head but how much work would that take and maybe the stranger had exaggerated his size after all men do that all the time she wondered if there was a graded scale by which men did exaggerate so that if the stranger said 6.5" then she could look at the penis girth exaggeration (PEG) scale and know that he would really be (in the norms of statistical distribution) somewhere between 4.75" and 5.5" and then having a tight wet cunt would not be so much of a disadvantage after all.

Sometimes she wished she had majored in something other than Mathematics.

Also published here

words

He says my cunt mound is soft and the folds are fleshy and he can stick his tongue in there and get lost until he finds the hot nub, a homing device, an addictive taste that he will never want to leave alone...

I say I love the feel of the weight of him, pushing at the entrance to my insides, my cunt, the filled stretched glutted feeling of his cock pushing inside me...

We both say how the other makes us feel, how we feel dirty sexy horny excited ravenous dirty longing greedy sexy dirty.

Minds and words meld.  I don't know if I would ever meet him one day for real?