From her Lady.

From my Lamb.

"What a terrible and awful thing absence is! I tell myself that half of my existence and happiness is in you, that for all the distance that divides us, our hearts are untied by indissoluble bonds, yet my own rebels against destiny and in spite of the pleasures and distractions that surround me, I cannot overcome a certain secret sadness which I have sense at the bottom of my heart ever since our separation. Why are we not together as we were last summer in your huge study, on that blue sofa, the 'sofa of secrets'? Why can I not, as I did three months ago, draw new moral strength from those eyes of yours, so gentle, so calm, so penetrating, eyes that I loved so well and seem to see before me even as I write."

Leo Tolstoy
War and Peace

200.

The Immortal

Death (or its allusion) makes men precious and pathetic. They are moving because of their phantom condition; every act they execute may be their last; there is not a face that is not on the verge of dissolving like a face in a dream. Everything among the mortals has the value of the irretrievable and the perilous. Among the immortals, on the other hand, every act (and every thought) is the echo of others that preceded it in the past, with no visible beginning, or the faithful presage of others that in the future will repeat it to a vertiginous degree… Nothing can happen only once, nothing is preciously precarious.

Jorge Luis Borges

Into Dust

In Paris With You

Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
I'm one of your talking wounded.
I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.
But I'm in Paris with you.

Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess I've been through.
I admit I'm on the rebound
And I don't care where are we bound.
I'm in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy

Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There's that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I'm in Paris with you.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.
I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I'm in Paris with... all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I'm in Paris with you.

James Fenton

Diss.

'Perhaps these reactions are as spiritually immature as those of a nine-year-old child on first hearing of the pleasures of sex: could it really match marbles, or chocolate?'

Alvin Plantinga.

Don't Think Twice

Rarrr.

Have Confidence In Your Competence.

A poem for swingers, a poem for the playgirls of the universe

I like women who haven’t lived with too many men.
I don’t expect virginity but I simply prefer women
who haven’t been rubbed raw by experience.

There is a quality about women who choose
men sparingly;
it appears in their walk
in their eyes
in their laughter and in their
gentle hearts.

Women who have had too many men
seem to choose the next one
out of revenge rather than with
feeling.

When you play the field selfishly everything
works against you:
one can’t insist on love or
demand affection.
you’re finally left with whatever
you have been willing to give
which often is:
nothing.

Some women are delicate things
some women are delicious and
wondrous.

If you want to piss on the sun
go ahead
but please leave them
alone.

- Charles Bukowski