Well, we're here . . .

Moved and back on the net. The last few weeks have been taken up with unpacking, shelf-building, decorating and sorting out various problems. So not much time for the finer things in life, like this, from Arte BDSM:


Hopefully things will resume soon.

Moving

Been busy packing and stuff for a while, so forgive the dearth of posts. We're moving 300 miles from our present town and, unfortunately, we won't be able to go online for 3 weeks (bloody phone and internet companies). So I won't be posting for a wee while.

But I will return. See you later.

This Is As Raw As It Gets

I've always loved the Blues. I love anything laden with passion and power, and no-one got that like those old bluesmen.

Here's just one of them. I'll post others some time.

The great Howlin' Wolf:

Ready . . .

. . . (presumably) willing and definitely able.


Click for bigger

Via Bondage Bunny

Story Time

I've had occasion before, to mention our dear friend Marianne. (here and here). She's a lady of many talents, one of which is writing. So I decided to post one of her stories, for your delight and delectation. And because I think they deserve a wider audience.

Enjoy:



So I'm walking back home, my bag full of the necessary things, like whiskey, tonic water and a good coffee. Two blocks from our flat I see her walking ahead of me.

Or rather I see her arse.

And who could fail to notice an arse like that?
In a skirt so short I can almost see the crease below her buttocks.
Tall and slender with sleek short black hair, she walks with a sensuous confidence, arms full of shopping bags.
And I find myself thinking what it would be like to see that arse bare, bent over in front of me, ready to take anything I could give it.
I feel a slight sense of disappointment when she turns left down the block before mine and out of sight.
I would have liked to watch that arse a while longer.
When I reach the corner I turn and look, and there she is, less than 10 feet away. It looks like one of her bags has split, there are groceries all over the pavement and she is bending down, her back to me as she picks things up. Her short skirt has ridden up and there, clear as day, I see it.

A long red mark.

Running from her inner thigh, across the very lower part of her left arse cheek.
I recognise the mark of a cane easily.
Hell, I should know, Ive given enough of them in my time.
I stop and look and she turns sees me and I ask if I can help. 
She shrugs in a non-commital way and I move forward and  help her to pick things up.
As we put the things into another bag I can’t help but keep looking at her arse, trying to see that mark again.
And she notices.
Demurely she pulls down her skirt, but not before I see her blush and coyly give me a sideways glance.
And then she thanks me, picks up her bags and walks away.

And now I'm home and hard as hell.
Barbara is sitting on the sofa, legs spread as she plucks her pubic hair.
I love to see her cunt bare, smooth and naked, my initial tattooed above her mound.
Walking in , I drop my bag, unzip myself and pull out my cock.
Without comment she takes it into her mouth and sucks me hard, sucks me how she knows I like it.
I stand savouring her mouth on my cock, until I need more.
Pulling out I order her onto her hands and knees.
And I bury my now slick cock into her arse.
As I start to fuck I tell her to play with herself, I give her permission to orgasm.
She leans onto the sofa, one hand supporting herself, the other slides between her legs and she begins to stroke and rub her cunt.
She asks me what has brought this on, and I tell her as I bugger her.
I tell her about the woman I was walking behind, the cane mark on her arse, and the thoughts it gave me.
I describe the woman and Barbara moans.
Tells me that she sounds lovely, that she would also liked to have seen her, would like to have played with her, would have liked to lick her wet eager cunt as I buggered her.
And then Barbara starts to come, her fingers rubbing and stroking her wet cunt.
And that is it for me too, I grunt and empty myself into her arse.


Two weeks later  we are off to London to the fetish market we go to now and then. Always eager to see whats new, to see what interesting items we can buy. Most is too expensive for us, but  its nice to look and dream. Its mainly stalls but there is a small private area for like minded folks to play.
There is a St Andrews cross, and usually a ready stream of willing participants to be strapped up and abused.
And of course a queue of men , and women who want to do the abusing.
I'm often in the queue to partake of the chance to whip a fresh arse.
As often Barbara is in the queue to be whipped.
I always swell with pride when she offers herself up.
Stands strapped, tied  and spread and takes the whip, cane or tawse.
Whatever the men want to wield.
Watching my beautiful wife spread out and taking it all.
Sometimes silent, sometimes yelping.
And seeing the look in other men’s eyes as they see what I have available to me any time I want it.

And then, she appears.
The woman with the short skirt and the cane mark.
This time she is wearing a school uniform
She is standing at the edge of the crowd, watching mesmerised as the man weilding the whip slices again and again againt my wife’s arse.
Her tongue slides along her lower lip and a hand slips down inside the front of her skirt. I move through the crowd until I’m standing beside her.
I ask her  "Do you like watching my wife getting whipped?"
She nods then turns to look at me.
I can see her look puzzled for a second then she says "Oh its you"
Then with a naughty grin she tells me "Its gone now, want to see?"
And she lifts up the back of her skirt so that I can indeed see that there are no marks.
I run my hand over it, feeling how soft and smooth it is.
She moans and leans forward sticking out that delectable rump that just cries out to be slapped.
And slap it I do, hard and severe.
She shudders and groans
Then I slide my hand between her legs, my fingers probe until I reach her cunt.
And it is wet, so wet, and hot.
I finger her for a few moments, my eyes never leaving the sight of my wife being whipped while my fingers probe this unknown woman.
I lean into her and whisper.
"Get your things together, you are coming home with us, meet us by the front door in 10 minutes"
She turns to look at me, again rather coyly.
"What will you do with me?"
I look into her eyes  
"Anything you want us to do"
I watch her lips curl into a smile, 
"Will you both play with me?"
I ask her if she likes my wife.
She smiles again.
"Oh yes, I’d like her to play with  me, I’d like her tongue on me"
Then she is off, saying, "See you both in a minute"
I watch her walk away. then turn back to what is happening on the cross set up on the podium. I stand for a second, my cock hard, watching Barbara still being whipped, see the adoring crowd also watching her, and then I stride up, stand over her and tell the crowd.
"Show here is over, its someone else’s turn."
I untie her and tell her we are going home and we have company.
She asks if she will like the company.
"Oh yes, I think you will"

On the way back we find out her name is Alex and she is actually 32.
And she really  likes having her arse spanked, really likes dressing in schoolgirl attire and had only ever been given that one cane slap and isn’t sure if she wants to do it again because it hurt so much, but I know before the night is out she will not only want to do it again but be begging for more.
I can’t wait to mark that pristine arse and more besides.

Back home I show her and my wife into the bedroom, no need to waste time on small talk.
I pour three drinks and take them in. They are lying on the bed kissing, hands roaming, fingers sneaking into cunts. I watch for a moment then set down the drinks and bark an order.
"Barbara, onto the Beast"
My beautiful dutiful wife leaves her play on the bed and takes off her dress, and of course she wasnt wearing anything but stockings underneath it.
She positions herself onto the bench I made for our play.
I call it the Beast, but in fact it is a beautiful thing.
Solid wood, covered in cushioned black leather, sturdy upright posts and lots of restraining points depending on how you lay upon it, and room for two.
She is on her back, legs held up waiting for me to clip her into place.
Scooched forward legs stretched up so both her cunt and arse are available to me. While I’m fiddling with the clips and chains Alex is sitting on the bed watching.
"Undress"  I order her.
She hesitates.
"If you want to play, do as I say"
I put a couple of fingers into my wife and she moans.
"Alex if you want this do as I say"
And I smile as she gets up and takes off her clothes. Oh, I think we have a good little slut to play with here. When she is naked I walk over, kiss her, pinch a nipple and slide a finger into her cunt.
She is hot and wet and squirms against me.
"Now watch, see what I expect from my women, but as our guest I will let you choose what implement I use first"
I gesture towards the array of toys, and we have many, soft rubber whips, canes, tawses, paddles, in leather and rubber, some studded, some plain.

I stroke my wifes cunt as Alex looks, feels and chooses.

A flail of many strands of thin purple rubber.
A good choice to begin with, it can be both soft and sensuous and yet painful if struck into a delicate place.
I motion Alex to come closer so she can watch us. And then I begin.
A couple of soft strokes of the flail against my wifes cunt, enough to make her moan and thrust forward, knowing I'm just playing, just teasing.
I hear Alex moan.
I can imagine she’s wishing it was her. She may rethink that thought later when I really get going.
I have a idea.
"Alex get up and kiss Barbara while I'm doing this"
And I'm pleased at how quickly she jumps up and obeys me.
I watch for a moment as their mouths and tongues meet.
I wait until I see Alex caress Barbaras face and kiss her tenderly.
And then I bring the flail down hard, really hard, right across my wifes cunt, Watch her jerk, watch her head rise, her teeth almost mash into Alex's, hear the air between them gasp.
Alex jerks back in shock, eyes wide, she looks towards the flail and watches it crash down again, hard and severe. and again, and again.
Alex looks at Barbara and I see her face wide with surprise when she sees the look on my wifes face, exctasy and then oh yes orgasm.
Oh yes Alex, you may have been spanked before, caned once.
But look now at what power is available to you, if you can take it.
If you want it.
And looking at the adulation on her face I think yes, she wants it.
I drop the flail and pick up a tawse.
And proceed to use it on my wifes arse.
Slap, slap , slap, one buttock, then the next, over and over.
I watch her cheeks redden, then begin to turn purple, watch her squirm, and then I pull down my trousers and plunge my hard cock into her arse.
"Kiss her again" 
And my cock is buried into Barbara’s arse and I pound away as I watch them kiss again. and I grunt as I empty into my tied up and chained wife, legs held up as she is being kissed by another woman, who will also get to be used by me later.

Letting Barbara down from the beast, we take a breather, time to have a drink, me to have a smoke. and I watch as they lie on the bed chatting and caressing each other.
Then I say "Enough of that , time for Alex to have some fun"
I put my hand under her chin, raise her face to mine.
"From now on it’s up to you"
"Whatever happens, if you don’t like it, just say so and I will stop"
If you say nothing, I will continue, do you understand?"
Alex flicks a glance at Barbara who smiles, nods and  reaches out and rests her hand on Alex's thigh.
Alex shivers slightly then.
"Yes"
"OK, your turn on The Beast"
I'm pleased that she does not hesitate and climbs onto it.
She does look unsure about how she is position herself onto it and I decide I want her bent forward, legs strapped straight down, secured at the thigh and ankles, her arse thrust out ready for me. her arms held ahead, pinioned against the sides. Once she is secured like that Barbara puts a black satin covered pillow under her head and chest. The leather can get very hot and sweaty and I’m touched she did that.
And then I realise I want to see Barbara also on the Beast, facing Alex. I want them both restrained, unable to do anything other than kiss.
In spite of what I'm about to do to them I want to see that tenderness as I have them both. And so Barbara is positioned and locked at the other end and I'm ready to begin.
I look at what is available for me to use.
"Fair’s fair Barbara, now you get to choose what I use on Alex first"
And she chooses one of the tawses, a nice one, not too severe, but guaranteed to have Alex squirming, perhaps even screaming.

I take a moment to look.
There are two very attractive women in front of me, both unable to move.
Both awaiting my administrations.
And I begin.

Thwack!
I bring the tawse down on Alex's arse, she squeals and bucks but of course can’t get away, and again a bit harder , I watch as she rocks sideways trying to escape, gasping, wriggling, but not as yet saying "Stop" 
Left buttock, then right, moving around so I never hit the same place twice in a row.
Watching how her arse gets redder and redder.
How she squirms and moans, her legs thrashing against the restraints. Leaning forward I slip my hand between her legs, roughly part them and slide a finger into her. She is so wet and pushes back against me.
"Not yet slut, you think a couple of slaps are enough?, I'll fuck you when you beg me" Withdrawing my finger I throw the tawse down and pick up a cane, walking round to the side so she can see it.
Her eyes widen
"No"
"Do you mean that?"
I can see uncertainty
I ask again
"Do you mean that?"
"Yes.....no, I dont know"
"OK I will ask you again in a minute, now watch"
And I begin to rub the cane along Barbaras back, lower and lower, across her arse cheeks, and then between them, pushing the edge of the cane between her legs, sliding it back and forth.
Barbara opens her legs and I begin to softly swish the cane against her cunt, slowly and gently, flicking it only a couple of inches away and back. Over and over. rythmically tapping the end against her clit. watching her arse rise and fall as she writhes  against the Beast.
Her mouth reaches out to Alex and their tongues meet.
I speed up the rythm, one hand weilding the cane, the other grabbing a handful of Alex's arse, kneading it, pinching it.
Slap slap slap.
And then Barbara explodes into orgasm, I can see her hands strain as she longs to grab Alex.
And I withdraw the cane and bring it down hard onto her arse.
Once, twice, three times.
Watch the welts bloom, then caress them , feel them blossom under my hands, hard and hot.
I'm lost in the feeling of them, running my hands across, feeling my wife still bucking under my hand.
And then Alex moans "Oh God, please, me, now"
She has her head held up as far as the restraints will allow, staring longingly at the cane.
"I want to try"
Then a pause ...followed by a plaintive "Please Sir"

Oh, good girl, I think

"You will have to wait a minute"
I sit down on the bed and pick up my glass, take a sip.
Light a cigarette.
The cane is still in my hand. I idly tap it against my leg as I take a long satisfied look at the two women tied up in front of me.
Take my time in enjoying the whiskey and the cigarette, knowing they aren’t going anywhere. They will be  wet and eager when I'm ready for them.
 I could actually thrash Alex's arse right now, but I savour the moment, I watch her squirm, knowing that soon she will be squealing and taking whatever I give to her.
Stubbing my cigarette out, I take another sip of my drink and stand up, flexing the cane.
"Now, are you ready?"
Alex looks scared but her rump thrusts out and she whimpers "yes"

I think, should I start slowly, build her up, or go for the kill straight away? No. lets test this slut out, see what she can take. And I bring the cane down hard, the sound it makes as it swishes through the air is nothing compared to the sound as it makes contact.
Alex screams, her arse convulses, her body writhes in agony.
Yet the sounds that come from her mouth tell a different story.
Her agonised yell dissolves into an exstatic moan, I see fluid gush between her legs, coating her inner thighs.
And I bring the cane down again, and yet again.
After every few strokes I run my hand over her red hot arse, soothing, just for a moment, then start afresh.
I feel myself stiffen as I see the marks appear, see her grind her body down into the Beast, moaning and writhing,then  her face reaching towards Barbara, her mouth clamping against my wife’s as I continue to severely cane her, each stroke harder than the last.
And she never says "stop", she lies there and takes it, the cane viciously slamming onto her, bruising her, hurting her and she just groans and writhes.
And now its time to give her, her reward. So I unclip the thigh restraints.
Standing behind her I push her legs apart, and push my thumb into her soaking cunt, slide it in and out, my fingers rubbing her clit.
She rocks against me, moaning until
"Oh god yes"
And I feel her cunt convulse, her clit become a hard little knob, throbbing against my fingers, and my hand is soaked. I keep holding her like that until her breathing relaxes and so does her body, slipping forward onto the Beast. Then my hands are grasping that arse, pulling it open. Using the juice on my hand to lubricate her I slide my  cock in. One of my hands lifts up her head and forces it towards Barbara.
"Kiss" I growl
And they do.
And I pump my cock into her, one hand on her head, the other stroking the welts on her arse, I pound against her, my balls slapping between her legs.
I look at these two amazing women, both bearing the marks I gave them.
And with a hard grunt I come.

And I hope this isn’t going to be a just one-off.
Then seeing the way they are looking at each other and then at me, satisfied and knowing smiles, I know it won’t be.
I'm looking at two women who want more.

And I'm more than happy to oblige . . .

Shivers

We watched Shivers again tonight (well, again for me, Mocuar hadn't seen it) and I'd forgotten how good it was.

Supposedly a horror film, to me it has a strong Thelemic subtext. To quote one of the characters:

Everything is erotic, everything is sexual. You know what I mean? . . . even old flesh is erotic flesh. That disease is the love of two alien kinds of creatures for each other. That even dying is an act of eroticism. That talking is sexual. That breathing is sexual. That even to physically exist is sexual.

I've always liked Cronenberg's films. Even the most grotesque of them is essentially life-positive, if you look beneath the surface.

The Dynamic Duo

As one wanders along the path of one's sexual and magickal quest, there are experiences which are pleasant surprises, experiences that are joyous expectations and occasional disappointments (which one learns to accept philosophically ).

And there are things which are desired.

One of those for me, was the dream of having two subs to play with. I left it in the lap of the Gods, and sure enough, the Gods, in their own good time, delivered.

A year or two ago, Mocuar and I went down to a friends house for a session with some willing subs. and A Good Time Was Had By All.

The high point, for me was having Mocuar attached to R, a game girl, and being able to wander around them applying whatever I wanted to their conjoined bodies.

Talk about your proverbial child let loose in a sweetshop.

Here is a pic of the occasion:


Click for bigger

In between them enjoying kissing each other while being whipped at the same time, I instructed them them to look into each other's eyes while the crop was being applied. Submission is not in the body, it's in the eyes. And subs very rarely get a chance to experience seeing that. A lot of energy can be built up in that way. Mocuar described it as being 'very powerful' and puts it high on her list of great S/M events, One that she would really like to do again.

I certainly would.

OK, Gods, it's over to you . . .

Happy Crowleymas!

Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.

Mocuar and sunlight

Click for bigger


Yum . . .

Stripes

Click for bigger

Lovely . . .

from Erectus

Portrait Of My British Wife

There's been a wee bit of controversy in the press recently about this photograph:

Click for bigger

Portrait of My British Wife by Panayiotis Lamprou is on the shortlist for this year's Taylor Wessing photographic portrait prize.

The debate is, of course, about the clearly displayed cunt. Something which always gladdens the soul, as I've said before.

For example, this article in the Guardian. I found all this 'when does art become voyeurism' stuff very amusing. Isn't all art voyeurism of one sort or another?

The thing I found myself drawn to when I first saw it was the casual erotic power in her pose and expression. There's a total lack of the coyness often seen in explicit photos.

She just is.

The Quiet Mind . . .

The Things That Cause a Quiet Life

My friend, the things that do attain
The happy life be these, I find:
The riches left, not got with pain,
The fruitful ground; the quiet mind;

The equal friend; no grudge, no strife;
No charge of rule nor governance;
Without disease the healthy life;
The household of continuance;

The mean diet, no dainty fare;
True wisdom joined with simpleness;
The night discharged of all care,
Where wine the wit may not oppress;

The faithful wife, without debate;
Such sleeps as may beguile the night:
Content thyself with thine estate,
Neither wish death, nor fear his might.

A translation of Martial, Epigrams, X, 47.
By Henry Howard, earl of Surrey (1517?-1547)

Sometimes you just feel like that . . .

'Remould it nearer to the Heart's desire'

Since Mocuar’s heart attack (she’s recovering well and is pretty much back to her old self) we’ve used the time to have a hard look at what we’ve been doing and where we’re going. A few nights ago she had a thought which triggered a long discussion, leading to a realisation of something which, when you look at it, seems bleeding obvious.
It’s simply this. For some years now we’ve been working an M/S magickal system, but we’ve seen it as something which we fit within the framework of a conventional marriage. So first and foremost we are a married couple. The Master/Slave element of our relationship is secondary to that. This means that the ordinary daily stuff we do has priority and we ‘insert’ the sex magick when it’s convenient. Not only does this reduce the power of what we do, but it also determines the way we see ourselves as individuals. I’m a husband first and a master second.
This has to change. We’re both convinced of this. We looked back on times when we felt the flow was there and we were more in tune with each other and what we were doing and on each occasion it was when the M/S aspect was fully connected and the husband/wife stuff simply faded into the background.
Not that the conventional marriage aspect isn’t important. It is, we need it to negotiate the conventional world, but it’s only a surface covering, a persona. So it has to be M/S primary and marriage secondary.
Having come to that conlusion we’re faced with how to do it. Because at the heart of it is a major shift in the way we see ourselves. Both of us have been in conventional marriages and relationships before and the pattern was deeply ingrained, we slid into it without really noticing. Perhaps we need to break down marriage primary before we can install M/S primary.

Or, as The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam has it:


Ah Love, could thou and I with fate conspire
to grasp this sorry scheme of things entire.
Would not we shatter it to bits and then remould it nearer to the heart's desire.

Spiritual

A couple of pics from Erectus:





(click for bigger)

the title of this post does, of course, refer to the second picture.

Rammstein

We saw them live a few years back. One of the best rock gigs I've ever seen.

Here's a recent ditty of theirs:

(can't embed it so you'll have to click on the link)

Pussy



And here's the excellent 'Sonne'

Matters Arising

You will have noticed that I've not been posting much lately.

This is because just over a month ago, Mocuar had a minor heart attack. She's OK, was only in hospital for two days, though it was a scare the day it happened.

She was taken into hospital and underwent one of those procedures where little balloons are used to open up the arteries and some sort of gizmo was placed in her heart to keep the artery open. The procedure lasted for about an hour, she was conscious throughout and was flirting outrageously with the medical team.

That's my girl.

Since then she's been recovering, more or less back to normal, the main difference seems to be that she tires easily. As she's someone who's always been very active, she has a tendency to overdo it, and I have to make sure she rests. At times like these, being a Master has it's advantages . . .

My overwhelming priority at the moment is to take care of her and this means some major life changes to work patterns and so forth. But we're getting there.

So my posts may be irregular for a little while but normal service will be resumed. Promise.

Marat/Sade

We recently watched Marat/Sade, I hadn't seen it for years and had forgotten just how mind-blowingly good it is.

See it if you can. Unforgettable.

I can't resist quoting this:


When I lay in the Bastille for 13 long years I learned that this is a world of bodies: each body pulsing with it's own terrible power. Each body alone and racked with it's own unrest.
In that lonliness, marooned in a stone sea I heard lips whispering continually and felt, all the time, in the palms of my hands and in my skin, the need for contact.
Shut behind13 bolted doors, my feet fettered, I dreamed only of the orifices of the body, put there so one may hook and twine oneself in them.
Continually I dreamed of this confontation. it was a dream of the most savage, jealous and cruellest imagining.

Marat, These cells of the inner self are worse than the deepest stone dungeons. And as long as they are locked, all your revolution is but a prison mute, to be put down by corrupted fellow prisoners.

Aleister and Avalon

I've recently been enjoying two books by Paul Weston: Aleister Crowley And The Aeon Of Horus and Avalonian Aeon.





Paul has a knack of making connections and pulling ideas together in a way that defies description. You have to experience it yourself. Suffice to say that I think anyone would come out of reading these books with a very different mindset to the one they started with. Highly recommended.

You can buy them from Paul's site which is always worth a visit.

Crazy and kiss

I seem to be in a very musical place lately. But what the fuck, if it works, work it.

so here's 'Crazy'- always liked this:




And then there's this - more passion than you can shake a stick at:

Master Song and more

Bloody great.

As is this: ( I first heard this when I was 17. I didn't understand the thelemic nature of this song at the time, but I knew there was something about it . . .)



which, naturally, leads me to this:



Doncha just love chains of association?

Read this book (2)

An excellent companion volume to Dark Moon Rising. They broadly cover the same ground, but from different perspectives. Lots of hands-on stuff here (in every sense of the phrase).

Quote

. . . For all you slaves and subs out there.

"Most welcome, bondage, for thou art a way, I think, to liberty."

Shakespeare - Cymbeline Act V, Scene IV

How come I missed that?

Pic of the day

It's called Idol of Perversity.

Fair enough.


Click for bigger

From Sexoteric Blog

Shadowy

I rather like this picture, from Spanking Art Blog, one of the sites I regularly call at for a bit of refreshment.

There seems to a story here, but what is it? Is the shadowy figure doing the business and holding the torch (I particularly liked the torch) an intruder who's tied the young lady up and got on with it?

Actually I think it's a roleplay, this is something set up between them. the expression on her face as she looks out at us seems to betoken some sort of shared experience, shared between them and with us as the viewer.

Well, that's my reading of it . . .



Click for bigger.

Gaga (and I don't mean the singer)

As a person of mature persuasion (or an old fart if you like) I'm not terribly up on contemporary pop music.
However my attention has been drawn to a recent Lady Gaga video, which has upset the Catholic League in the US. Now I apply a rough rule of thumb which says anything which outrages christian loonies has probably got something going for it. So I had a look at said video, and yes . . . it has it's moments. And I must admit that the tune is a somewhat engaging ditty which has parked itself in my head.

Judge for yourselves:

Quote

"It takes courage to push yourself to places that you have never been before, to test your limits, to break through barriers. And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."

- Anais Nin

Pic of the day

This is nice . . . sorry I can't provide a source for it because I can't remember where the hell it came from.


click for bigger

Rope

We've bought some bondage rope recently. I've always found rope bondage quite fun to look at:


(click for bigger) From Bondage Bunny . . . mmmm . . .Yummy

But it looked a bit complex to me, all those knots and things (OK, I'm lazy). However since we went to a fetish event and Mocuar got roped up by someone who really new what he was doing, she's been keen on the idea.

So, Noblesse Oblige and all that, I ordered some rope - it arrived yesterday and I've started looking at how to do it.

I shall keep you posted.

Colin Wilson

Just reading my way throughColin Wilson's recent book Super Consciousness and very good it is too. I've been reading his books for nearly 40 years now and he's undoubtedly been a huge influence on my thinking.

He writes a great deal about what he calls 'faculty X', 'the Peak Experience' or 'Super Consciousness'. The ability we have to see beyond the ordinary and trivial, those moments when we have flashes of insight that give life a sense of 'meaning'. His premise is that we can generate this insight as an act of will, it involves discipline and a certain amount of dedication, but it is possible. He explores this basic concept in a number of books and novels. In his novel The God Of The Labyrinth , for example, he writes about the idea of using sexuality as a means of raising consciousness. In other novels he uses a science fiction form to process the same idea. I find myself going back to his books repeatedly, I find they recharge my batteries . . .

So here's my basic Colin Wilson reading list:

The Occult
Mysteries
Dreaming To Some Purpose (His autobiography, excellent)
Super Consciousness (This might be a good one to start with, it lays out his essential ideas)

Novels:

The Mind Parasites
The Philosopher's Stone
The Space Vampires
The God Of The Labyrinth

He's also written books on Crowley and Gurdjieff which are worth reading.

A website about him here.

Quote

Why should you study and practice Magick? Because you can't help doing it, and you had better do it well than badly.

From Magick Without Tears

Couldn't agree more.

Assume the position

When I saw a link to a site called Sexual Witchcraft I thought 'With a name like that there must be something interesting on it.'

Sure enough:


Click for bigger

Life is full of these small delights if we are prepared to look for them . . .

Killer Wolf

Due to the good offices of Shakti Force, I've been listening to Danzig recently.
(have a look at the video for 'She Rides' on Shakti's blog)

Here's 'Killer Wolf'. Enjoy

RIP Frank Frazetta

Just found out he died recently. Some of his work can be found here.

Such as this:


click for bigger

'The lust of the goat is the bounty of God' - William Blake

An illustration from 'Lost Girls' (see previous entry). Pretty good.




Click for bigger

Comic Magick

I've loved Alan Moore's work ever since I read the wonderful V for Vendetta. Recently I found Cobweb - Brighter Than You Think , a part of the Lost Girls book (well worth a read in it's own right).

'Cobweb' is a brief story about Jack Parsons. Very tasty. Here's an image I rather liked:



click for bigger version.

We bought a camcorder . . .

, , , so I just had to film a little moment with Mocuar and share it with you . . .



When Mocuar first looked at the clip she was concerned in case the cane marks weren't visible enough.

She's a dedicated girl.

Ready

From Nick The Dick

Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll

Just watched Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll about the life of Ian Dury. Brilliant. It's worth it just for Andy Serkis' performance. Totally convincing. See it if you can. Here's Ian himself with the anthem:



Aahhhhh . . . Lovely . . .

The way it's said

A slightly silly Clerihew I penned some years ago:

Aleister Crowley
Thought his magick was progressing slowly
So he made a memorandum
To try Per Vas Nefandum

(If you don't know what Per Vas Nefandum is, google it, then go off and do it)

For this to work, 'Crowley' has to rhyme with 'slowly', and that is indeed the way his name was pronounced. In one of his own poems he rhymed his name with 'unholy' and I've seen interviews with people who met him - they always pronounced his name in that way. The evidence is irrefutable.

So why the hell, after knowing this for years, do I still say it as if the 'Crow' part of his name rhymed with 'cow' or 'now'?

I have to make a mental effort to pronounce it the right way. Usually I don't succeed.

I'm sure there's some deep psychological/magickal truth to be divined here, but I'm damned if I can figure out what it is.

Gimme Shelter

For me, the Stones' music always has a Thelemic quality.

Here's one of my faves, the sublime 'Gimme Shelter' a really kicking live version. This is the best quality video of it I could find.

Is it just my perception or is there something very Babalonian about the backing singer?

A feast for the ears

Steven Ashe reading The Book Of The Law (first chapter and a bit of the second)

Rather well done, I think

Pic of the day

From Erectus

Just because . . .

'The gunsights aligned effortless in the beam of his power'

Ted Hughes. Possibly the greatest English poet of the late 20th century. He had an ability to connect to raw nature magick that was unique. No-one comes anywhere near him in that.

Here he is, reading 'Lovesong', I don't think I've heard passion and sexual power better expressed:




And this is 'Wolfwatching'. If I could write something this good, I'd die happy.


Wolfwatching

Woolly-bear white, the old wolf
Is listening to London. His eyes, withered in
Under the white wool, black peepers,
While he makes nudging, sniffing offers
At the horizon of noise, the blue-cold April
Invitation of airs. The lump of meat
Is his confinement. He has probably had all his life
Behind wires, fraying his eye-efforts
On the criss-cross embargo. He yawns
Peevishly like an old man and the yawn goes
Right back into Kensington and there stops
Floored with glaze. Eyes
Have worn him away. Children's gazings
Have tattered him to a lumpish
Comfort of woolly play-wolf. He's weary.
He curls on the cooling stone
That gets heavier. Then again the burden
Of a new curiosity, a new testing
Of new noises, new people with new colours
Are coming in at the gate. He lifts
The useless weight and lets it sink back,
Stirring and settling in a ball of unease.
All his power is a tangle of old ends,
A jumble of leftover scraps and bits of energy
And bitten-off impulses and dismantled intuitions.
He can't settle. He's ruffling
And re-organizing his position all day
Like a sleepless half-sleep of growing agonies
In a freezing car. The day won't pass.
The night will be worse. He's waiting
For the anaesthetic to work
That has already taken his strength, his beauty
And his life.

He levers his stiffness erect
And angles a few tottering steps
Into his habits. He goes down to water
And drinks. Age is thirsty. Water
Just might help and ease. what else
Is there to do? He tries to find again
That warm position he had. He cowers
His hind legs to curl under him. Subsides
In a trembling of wolf-pelt he no longer
Knows how to live up to.

And here
Is a young wolf, still intact.
He knows how to lie, with his head,
The Asiatic eyes, the gunsights
Aligned effortless in the beam of his power.
He closes his pale eyes and is easy,
Bored easy. His big limbs
Are full of easy time. He's waiting
For the chance to live, then he'll be off.
Meanwhile the fence, and the shadow-flutter
Of moving people, and the roller coaster
Roar of London surrounding, are temporary,
And cost him nothing, and he can afford
To prick his ears to all that and find nothing
As to forest. He still has the starlings
To amuse him. The scorched ancestries,
Grizzled into his back, are his royalty.
The rufous ears and neck are always ready.
He flops his heavy running paws, resplays them
On pebbles, and rests the huge engine
Of his purring head. A wolf
Dropping perfect on pebbles. For eyes
To put on a pedestal. A product
without a market.

But all the time
The awful thing is happening: the iron inheritance,
The incredible rich will, torn up
In neurotic boredom and eaten,
Now indigestible. All that restlessness
And lifting of ears, and aiming, and re-aiming
Of nose, is like a trembling
Of nervous breakdown, afflicted by voices.
Is he hearing the deer? Is he listening
To gossip of non-existent forest? Pestered
By the hour-glass panic of lemmings
Dwindling out of reach? He's run a long way
Now to find nothing and be patient.
Patience is suffocating in all those folds
Of deep fur. The fairy tales
Grow stale all around him
And go back into pebbles. His eyes
Keep telling him all this is real
And that he's a wolf--of all things
To be in the middle of London, of all
Futile, hopeless things. Do Arctics
Whisper on their wave-lengths--fantasy-draughts
Of escape and freedom? His feet,
The power-tools, lie in front of him--
He doesn't know how to use them. Sudden
Dramatic lift and re-alignment
Of his purposeful body--

the Keeper
Has come to freshen the water.


And the prodigious journeys
Are thrown down again in his
Loose heaps of rope.
The future's snapped and coiled back
Into a tangled lump, a whacking blow
That's damaged his brain. Quiet,
Amiable in his dogginess,
Disillusioned--all that preparation
Souring in his skin. His every yawn
Is another dose of poison. His every frolic
Releases a whole flood
Of new hopelessness which he then
Has to burn up in sleep. A million miles
Knotted in his paws. Ten million years
Broken between his teeth. A world
Stinking on the bone, pecked by sparrows.
He's hanging
Upside down on the wire
Of non-participation.
He's a tarot-card, and he knows it.
He can howl all night
And dawn will pick up the same card
And see him painted on it, with eyes
Like doorframes in a desert
Between nothing and nothing.

There's an interesting page on Hughes' magickal side here.


Check out his writing. Absolute genius.

Bookplate

I really like combining my pleasures (as in Shakespeare with Spanking )
So being an avid reader all my life, I couldn't resist this:



(From here via Spanking Blog )

A little something . . .

. . . from Arte BDSM.

I love the 'old comic book' look of it.



PS: (about 15 hours later)
I posted the above pic in the early hours of this morning while watching the election results come in. I was idly wandering around, looking at BDSM art, saw it, liked it, and posted it without much thought (being knackered and brain dead at the time I wasn't capable of much thought). Looking at it again today, I realise that the young lady as depicted bears a striking (pun intentional) resemblance to my good friend, the lovely Shakti Force. Oh yes, she really does look that good . . .

The Wizard

I feel a slight case of early 70's cosmic prog/rock floating it's way up into my conscious mind.

Sometimes you have to just go with it, you know how it is.

So here's the magnificent Uriah Heep and 'The Wizard'. This looks like it's from 'Top Of The Pops'

Ye Gods, those clothes!



Ahhh . . . me youth . . .

Identity and the Magickal Personality

We’ve been watching Dollhouse recently, and great fun it is, too. A fairly well-written sc-fi series about people who are ‘imprinted’ with a complete personality and sent out to do various jobs. The drama arises out of the ethical problems arising from this and the ‘dolls’ having touble with different personalities surfacing at different times. There’s also stuff about nasty corporations etc, which can only be a good thing.
OK, this is just a piece of dramatic entertainment, but it has started me thinking about identity (or identities). Most of us have a concept of the ‘real’ me, with various aspects of that trotted out at different times. So Mocuar and I are husband and wife, we’re also parents and grandparents, Master and slave etc. These multiple facets exist in one form or another for must of us, and that’s pretty much the way the world goes.
It becomes a bit more complex when we start to work on the magickal personality (MP). Googling around for a definition of the MP, I found this. It's written from a wiccan point of view but it can be applied to any belief system. This paragraph puts it accurately, I think:

It is simply the creation of an alternate personality. In some ways this is a controlled schizophrenia. There is an occult philosophy that states that we are more than just body, emotions, subconscious and conscious. They include a spiritual part of our being that exists beyond the physical plane and our own perceptions, This is called by many names including our "high self". By creating a magical personality as a psychic reality we are also giving our "high self" a tool to use to communicate with us and to function with on this plane.

The key word here is 'controlled'. The MP is something we flow into, or invoke, at will. But before we can get there, we have to set it up. The first step is to find out what we really are and want to be, or if you like, our 'true will' (That can take some time!) Then we create the MP which matches that. In practice, I've found that the more honest and aware of myself I am, the easier the MP comes into being, almost as an organic process rather than a conscious creative act. Eventually the MP assumes it's own reality, it becomes, in effect, a person who's always there, the voice of our magickal selves.
What often happens then is that there may be a disconnect between our 'ordinary' self and the MP. This is because the MP can be a real smart-arse at times, always pointing out uncomfortable truths or directing us towards courses of action which we know to be right, but we still fight them. And the the resistance to the MP is always, and I do mean always, our hangups. This is particularly true of any sex magickal stuff. The hangups are more deeply rooted. Bloody Judao-Christian 'morality'. As it says in the Book Of The Law, 'I spit on your crapulous creeds.'

So in my case, the MP is The Master. Not just a master on a purely physical/sexual sense which I'm quite happy to see as part of my 'ordinary' self, but The Master. With capital letters.
I've mentioned this before, particularly my tendency to be over-cautious. Now The Master hasn't got a cautious atom in his being. He simply doesn't give a shit. He points me towards the goal and says "just do it". And that's OK, most of the time, but I sometimes find myself having reservations and pushing him away as a result. He doesn't care. He just sits back, grins and says 'Fine, do what you want, but you'll find out, sooner or later, that I'm right' And the damned annoying thing is that it always happens that way. Whenever I've given in to my caution I've always regretted it, and whenever I've gone with The Master, it's always worked out, even the failures have resulted in me learning something important that I otherwise wouldn't have done.
Smug bastard.

Or as the Book Of The Law says:
If Will stops and cries Why, invoking Because, then Will stops & does nought.
If Power asks why, then is Power weakness.

So who is the 'real me? My 'ordinary' self? The Master? The answer, of course, is that they both are. It's about where we place the emphasis. The ordinary me is fine for daily wear, as t'were, and as time passes there is less division between the ordinary me and The Master. So I try and ignore any resistance to The Master whenever it crops up. I find that works.
Mocuar often refers to her MP as 'being in my power'. When that happens, the different aspects of the self seem to work together, rather than being in conflict with each other. Things are cleaner, simpler and a hell of a lot more easy to do.

Many years ago, an old man I worked with once said to me "When you're old and looking back on your life, the only things you'll really regret are the things you didn't do" and he was right. Listen to that part of yourself that wants to go forward, to do the outrageous thing, to take the risk. You won't regret it.

Happy Beltane!

A little rhyme someone quoted to me some years ago:

Hip hooray, it's the first of May!
Outdoor fucking starts today!

It may be lacking in lyrical finesse but it gets high marks for spirit and enthusiasm.

Personally I always think this picture captures the spirit of Beltane:



But then again I would, think that, wouldn't I?

(I've just realised that if you click on any of the pictures here, you get a larger version.)

Found another one

Damn, there's some good stuff out there. I could spend my entire life on the net. Which would be an admission of sad bastardness. Nevertheless, I feel that it's incumbent of me to inform you, dear reader, of any juiciness I find.

So:
Chross has so many good things to explore on it that it's going to take me weeks to work through it all. Have a look.

Mocuar, gift-wrapped

In these cases, I enjoy doing the wrapping, and playing with the gift . . .

Shakespeare with Spanking

I normally detest reality TV and talent shows in all of their revolting manifestations. But I couldn't resist this.

Two of my passions in one go.



Here they are , you'll have to wait a bit for the fun to start, but never mind.

Interestingly, they chose to do the prologue from Henry V, not as good as Jacobi doing it but it has a certain something . . .

Inviting

What more can I say?

from Like A Bike Seat which tends to feature the rougher end of the BDSM experience. You have been warned.

The Sea

Music has always been important to me. I can chart my life through various songs. Every type of music. Now and again I come across a piece of music or a song which stops me dead in my tracks, and for a brief moment, connects me to something else, another place. Of course this is highly subjective - one person's transcendent music is another person's tedious, but hey, all I can do is offer my own experience.

One such piece is from the great and incredibly missed Sandy Denny


In 1970 she formed Fotheringay and I first heard the album when a friend of mine brought it round, sat me down, and just said "Listen to this" The first time I heard 'The Sea", the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Flawless. The lyrics, Sandy's voice, the playing, it all comes together to make something that is so much more than the sum of its parts.

It still has that effect on me 40 years later.

So here it is - this is the only video I could find. Nice pics but I advise you to ignore them and listen.

Just listen.

Fun

BDSM sex is,of course, dark, dramatic, kinky and very erotic.

Sometimes, though, it can be hysterically funny. Not that this in any way detracts from the experience, it can, in fact, enrich it, unless you fall into the dreadful crime of taking yourself too seriously. Which is always bad karma.

For example, last year our good friend Marianne paid us a visit. Now Marianne is a game girl and, like Mocuar, is a bisexual switch. Both of them have done a fair amount of yumming the yoni and giving and receiving whippings in the past, so when the three of us get together for a bit of a play, the potential variations are quite interesting.
On the night in question we’d got to the point when Marianne was knelt on the floor, presenting her arse for a good whipping and ready to rock. Mocuar was doing the honours with various toys and I was filming (occasionally we changed places).

Then it happened. Marianne got a fit of the giggles and couldn’t stop.

No matter how hard we tried with the tawse, a couple of floggers and a rubber paddle (which stings like hell) she just kept laughing. Soon Mocuar and I started and the three of us were in hysterics even though we kept on going. After a while we were whipping her as hard as we could just to see how long she could keep up the merriment.
For the record, it was about an hour or so, finally we used our rattan cane, which has a very sharp bite, and the giggles turned to yelps.
By the end of it, her arse was liberally decorated with welts and bruises and she found sitting down slightly uncomfortable for a day or so.

We still look back on that as being one of the best experiences we’ve had.

"I Don't Know Much About Art But I Know What I Like"

Ah, the joys of the internet.

Yesterday I had a few hours of link-clicking just to see what would appear. I started from one of my own links on the right and followed stuff at random. Eventually I encountered Spanking Art Blog, which contains a wide variety of interesting artwork.

Two examples:

I like this one because of the position she's tied up in (how inviting is that!), and the bag of goodies under the bench, suggesting some more creative developments . . .



This is lovely in it's simplicity. An object lesson in how to say a great deal without having to go into too much detail.



Have a wander around the site. It's good.

Handcuffs

This is only a short (7 mins) film. But it's very stylish . . .and very sensual.

Will Power

As you probably know, it's Shakespeare's birthday (and the day he died)

I consider myself fairly easy-going, everyone's tastes are different, whatever floats your boat etc. etc.

But I have to confess that I can't, for the life of me, understand how anyone doesn't 'get' Shakespeare'

As far as I'm concerned he's the Man. Possibly the greatest writer ever and maybe the greatest Englishman.

The problem, perhaps is that too many people read the plays, rather than seeing them. He didn't write them to be studied and analysed. He wrote them to be performed. His audience were people off the street who'd watch King Lear or Othello stood in the crowd with a bottle of booze in one hand and a whore in the other. It would have been vibrant, raucous and exciting. More like a rock gig than a theatre performance as we know it.

I've been fortunate enough, over the years to see some amazing Shakespeare on stage. When you hear an actor who really can do the text, it lifts you. The power of the language is literally magic.

Here's Jacobi doing the prologue from Henry V. It doesn't get much better than this.



I also like the sonnets. Here's a good take on sonnet 29:




Finally, some advice:



Go to it!

Clear

By Kelly Padrick.

The Horned God (and friend)

That's my kinda God!
(You could print this out and colour it in - what jolly smashing fun!)



from the formidable Arte BDSM Worth a visit.

Collars

As previously stated, Mocuar is a collared slave. She also likes likes variety in most things. So she has different collars for different moods and occasions.

This is her 'day collar', the one she wears most of the time:





This is useful for more robust activities:




A 'play' collar I made for her:



Something a little more decorative:



Simple and classic:



A couple of 'Spikeys'



A bit more heavy duty:



Such pleasure in such simple things . . .

Punishment

Mocuar committed a minor infraction yesterday. This, of course, meant some sort of corrective measure. On the spur of the moment, I decided to spank her arse.

Not something I've done much of previously, except with an ex from many years ago who was quite fond of it. Noblesse oblige and all that. But I must admit that the flesh-on-flesh nature of the experience was quite pleasant.

I normally favour the cane, it's more of a precision instrument, it's more aesthetically pleasing and I just love those marks (and the little yelps which accompany each one). And I don't suppose I'll be changing that preference in a hurry. But I may slip in an occasional spanking now and then.

Which leads me to the entire concept of punishment. When we first entered into the whole Sub/Dom thing, at that stage where stuff was being negotiated, I asked her if she wanted the concept of punishment brought in. After some thought, she decided that she did. "It wouldn't be complete, or fair without it" was her comment. Not that she enjoys pain for it's own sake. For us, it's not a part of S/M play, We use whipping for magickal purposes, and pleasure, with a number of different toys, but punishment is a deterrent. Ideally, it should never happen. OK, I enjoy it when it does, but I 'd be happy if Mocuar was so well behaved that it became unnecessary. Not that it happens much, she's a good girl, by and large.

I Want To See the Bright Lights Tonight

No video as such but a great song!

Mr Crowley

I was going to write something on Aleister Crowley, trying to summarise my views on him. then I realised that Paul Weston, on his brilliant blog Avalonian Aeon has already done it far better than I could.

His post on Crowley is here. Probably the most simple and accurate analysis of Crowley and his work I've ever seen.

The rest of his stuff is damned interesting reading, too.

Abrahadabra Thelema!

Layout

As you can see, I've been playing around with the layout. I wanted something more dark, sexy and dramatic (Mind you, that statement could be the Story Of My Life).

It's a wee bit frustrating to be a relative internet and computer novice.

I find that I have an pretty clear idea of what I want but I can never quite bring it into manifestation.
(Thinking about it, that also could be the Story Of My Life)

Well, stap me vitals, it just goes to show that doing even the most simple things can pitchfork us into a philosophical reverie.

'Every intentional act is a magical act' . . . Ain't it the truth.

Prufrock

One of T.S.Eliot's better moments. Probably his best moment. Beautiful and sad.In my mind it's a companion piece to Tennyson's Ulysses Both about growing old but from very different perspectives:

The Love Song Of J.Alfred Prufrock

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.



Superb.