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

Maybe this time...

Being in a play is wonderful. Being in a play in the Edinburgh Fringe Festival is just amazing. But as a consequence, albeit a painful one, when it is all over, the mysterious and heartbreaking Post Show Blues arrives. I can't say I miss the actual show, I will personally never mind if the words 'cerulean blue' are never uttered by my mouth again.

But I am missing the constant company, the hugs on demand, late night reading and bed-shaking giggles. Most of all, I am missing the singing. The spontaneous, inappropriate solos that quickly turned into chorus hits, you were never left singing alone.

I post this video in the hope that one day, we will actually know the words.

Oh darling little blog, I miss you so. Even now, I'm really struggling with just typing this tiny bit. I hope that this block goes away soon.