Desires that you can only tame to know by Ivan Donn Carswell

"Zipless sex"one cynic called 

this festival of fornication,
this celebration of new-found sexual strength 
and urbane honesty, of sex for sex as sex alone 
and not a public test of latent puberty.
These damsels riding hands and heels 
pursue their prey with crop and spur 
for prizes that are neurons firing salvoes 
in their bellies, not weary, vintage clichés 
or semen spurts that stain their pubic hair.
Theirs’ is a mindless drive to join 
the trigger of the spasms 
stirring powerful surges in their loins, 
of reaching an orgasm.

A drama in a field I saw before
while walking near the horses. A filly
frisked and nipped the stallion sore
until his thick, black rod arose
all of a metre long,
and he mounted her and rudely thrust it in
with heaves that drove her flanks apart.
His nostrils bulged and flared
in the frenzy of his ride until she twitched,
disgorged his shaft and cantered off aside.
He followed, softened cock a sway,
flopping side to side, a comic sight,
unfinished in his business, intimidated
by her flight. She lead him far and teased
him every turn, standing quiet to take his shaft
a moment, half a thrust, a touch, and fleeing
as of whim. She milked him dry and raw,
his rod withdrawn, her cleft engorged
and glistening while I watched enthralled.
Her wanton wiles and artist's touch had stirred me deep,
it was a game she played so well
I only wish her season never ended.

There is faint motive in your hunt of sexual game,
of craving for extension, of seeking out exotic fruit
emboldened by invention. Life's cup spills diversions 
in a bounty that confuses, you savour without style,
relentless urges palter, you are afraid it seems
to counter this inanity in case it proves a dream. 
A weakness of your yielding flesh, 
the treachery where wit cannot compel 
it quiet, clouds the nature of reality, and
drives this single-minded search
where each new conquest proves you right
and fuels desire that swells until it hurts.

You are the matriarch, aloof and desolate,
a valkyrie to consummate the chosen sons,
anoint their swords in sacrifice and dub
them heroes of the night. They rub
and plunge without their eyes for miracles
you promise in the valley of your thighs.
Yet this vision of a vamp arcane confounds urbanity,
invites derision from its very source. You seem distraught,
elusive passion cedes your nerveless grip
and you wield your body in erotic seas
as a rudderless, sensuous ship.

We are the watchers stirred to witness sex,
thrilled with sympathetic energy
which quickens in our breath;
but other forces guide your bodily design
and moisten nether lips in unctuous flow
without correction. Your cerebrum in muzzled
with sensations, you are coming with your mind aglow
in riot of desires you can only tame to know;
and in the mellow ebb of truth you find
that passion's flight has left you, too, behind.

When she rises in the morning I linger to watch her; She spreads the bath cloth underneath the window And the sunbeams catch her Glistening white on the shoulders, While down her sides the mellow Golden shadow glows as She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts Sway like full blown yellow Gloire de Dijon roses. She drips herself with water, and her shoulders Glisten as silver, they crumple up Like wet and falling roses, and I listen For the sluicing of their rain dishevelled petals. In the window full of sunlight Concentrates her golden shadow Fold on fold, until it glows as Mellow as the glory roses. -D H Lawrence

Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul. -William Ernest Henley

Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months. Oscar Wilde

The most urgent necessity in human life is to be able to face life victoriously. For many are living mentally, physically, morally and spiritually defeated.

Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay, Within that temple where the vestal flame Was wont to burn; and, passing by that way, To see that buried dust of living fame, Whose tomb fair Love, and fairer Virtue kept: All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen; At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept, And, from thenceforth, those Graces were not seen: For they this queen attended; in whose stead Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse: Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed, And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce: Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief, And cursed the access of that celestial thief! Sir Walter Raleigh

Ahh! The temperature is 19 C :-) Just cool enough for wearing a light sweater at night. Will see my Houston friends tomorrow night for a welcome party. Maybe post pics if I take them

Kids messing about in the backs of cars Can sometimes cause accidents to happen While accidents in the backs of cars Almost always cause kids to happen

Что же мне делать, слепцу и пасынку, В мире, где каждый и отч и зряч, Где по анафемам, как по насыпям - Страсти! где насморком Назван - плач! Что же мне делать, ребром и промыслом Певчей! - как провод! загар! Сибирь! По наважденьям своим - как по мосту! С их невесомостью В мире гирь. Что же мне делать, певцу и первенцу, В мире, где наичернейший - сер! Где вдохновенье хранят, как в термосе! С этой безмерностью В мире мер?! What can I do, blind and outcast In a world where all are fathered and sighted, Where passions go over anathemas As if over embankments! Where a lament Is called - sniffles! What can I do, by rib and Providence Singing! - Like a wire! Sunburn! Siberia! I travel my delusions - like a bridge! With their weightlessness In a world of weights. What can I do, singer and firstborn, In a world where the blackest - is gray! Where inspiration is kept, as in a thermos! With this infinity In a finite world?!