La Dolce Vita

I’m in the mood
for a frothy kind of moment,

wading into the Trevi fountain at dawn while early tourists gawp

and the water rolls off my skin sweetened by a feast of Italian pastries

the disbelieving, laughing sparse crowd disappears as it is all for your benefit

For you,
who is unlike anybody I’ve ever met,

and for you

I am a goddess made of pale flesh, a temptress in a black dress

though Fellini is long gone, the cameras stopped rolling at a point in time when the world gave up, the colours bled out and la dolce vita died

except in crooked hearts like mine

La notte—dark as tar, I would be blind if it wasn’t for the light in your eyes,
reflecting my image a hundred times—
a dreaming woman materialising out of film stills, in black and white

How Long does it take to write a novel?

My brilliant friend Tom on writing: a kickass post by a kickass writer (with kickass hair)

Idle blogs of an idle fellow

The short answer is bloody ages. I should know. The Life Assistance Agency loitered in my life with the entitlement of sullen teenagers at a bus stop. It was long enough to be transferred from at least two computer hard drives. For many writers, looking too closely at how long it takes to complete a book is inadvisable without emergency services on speed dial.

As already blogged about on here, one of the popular questions people have for writers is ‘are you writing another one?’ which makes you wonder why you started all this nonsense in the first place. Despite your wildest fantasies, there’s no sea of adoring fans at Red Rocks under a blood red sky or name drops from major interviewees clamouring for another book, there’s simply people idly wondering if you’re going to write another, as though it’s on par with eating a few more crisps at a party.

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“She’s gay and you’re straight, she loves you ‘that way’, you like men, you think you can be friends? Blah blah blah…”

I wonder about those who look, stare intently and yet see nothing. What of them?

Pity and fury require too much energy, disdain demands a little caring.

They think of it as a game of chess, moving pieces on the board,

I want to jump and dance on the dark squares waving my hands in the air

let the pawns do as they will,
be static,

I know only one thing, I am not willing
to sacrifice my queen, won’t have her or me reduced to our sexuality. Is it such a wild thing to believe—imagine—we are much more than tits on a stick?

She is passion, and maybe in another dimension I like pussy and we align perfectly—maybe—gotta throw something to the gossip

She is strength, she is the sun rising in the east, the hopeful flower burgeoning too early in the spring

She writes words on small paper boats and sends them down rivers, whether they float or sink without a trace does not fucking matter

in the slightest, because she dares, and cares

She sees with her eyes closed
much further than most, even them with their night vision goggles

There was no need or craving, but so much room for her

when she appeared

and instantly took a place that was hers, as surely as if her name had been carved there before birth

See, us?
It’s our story: she’s gay, I’m straight and we love each other—
talk about it, analyse it, make it sordid, seedy, do whatever but…deal with it, yeah?

Because, you know? We don’t really give a shit what anybody else thinks.

Sisters last longer than lovers, we’re gonna be laughing together forever.


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He was wearing a pair of geeky specs, there was a battered book peeking out of his pocket, Baudelaire, no less, Les Fleurs du Mal—in French—a significant detail and the perfect conversation starter…that, and the shared cigarette…so, anyway, in a room full of people, we fucked—with words—we didn’t touch each other, except at the end, when he whispered against my neck…and, well… I don’t have to tell you the rest—I’m pretty sure you can guess.


It is dark, dark, dark
But I know you’ll find me
Your need
The scent
Pervading the atmosphere
Emanating from deep
Inside me
To the beatings of my heart
The sound of my lips parting
As suddenly as the Red Sea
Exhaling desire
A wild frustrated fire
Come to me
Just one spark
In the dark, dark, dark
For the night to burn
And dawn to turn
Away from us heathens



This knight follows no Lord
By his side a trusty steed
Wearing an old saddle
Adorned with a single white rose
And a sword
Never drawn
Honour or love dictates
As Proud is his heart
Pure is his soul
Mighty is his power
When he weaves words
To while away the hours
Waiting for the one queen
Of his love worthy
The one he will climb mountains
Fight dragons with iron scales
And red fiery breath
Some don’t believe he’s real
They assume he was borrowed
From some far-fetched fable
Tales told around a fireplace—
In hushed whispers
The language of the dreamers—
A fantasy given life and form
In volutes of ethereal smoke
Giving rise to a humble hero
Make no mistake
He’s no mere story
No figment, no trick
His name is Eric
My modest lines do him no justice
Not legend or myth, the reality is epic

*I wrote this for the lovely Eric @ My Sword and Shield… whose birthday it is today (and since we’re in different time zones, it is now the 13th for me if not for him quite yet) Eric’s birthday comes straight after mine and we are both Pisces, just another thing we have in common. You all already know I love this man, he has the most wonderful heart and his writing is out of this world.
Thank you for being such a special friend, Eric—wishing you a fantastic birthday! 😘💜

Image Credit: It had to be John William Waterhouse whose work I absolutely love

Anniversaire – toujours

So, since apparently the selfies are not p*****g people off too much…and I am still celebrating my birthday…and I am hesitating between outfits (though narrowed it down to two) for today’s shenanigans…I am shamelessly leaving these here…and anybody who might feel compelled to help me decide…thanks for your help! 😉

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