tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42328933029033824872011-07-08T00:44:33.467+01:00Shot out into the etherDisconnectednoreply@blogger.comBlogger111100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4232893302903382487.post-85102189768459309892010-07-12T09:38:00.001+01:002010-07-12T09:40:35.594+01:00

The blog has moved to:The blog has moved to forpuck.wordpress.comJust because wordpress lets me see if anyone has been reading or not.

Disconnectednoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4232893302903382487.post-74247966855013362502010-07-06T18:47:00.001+01:002010-07-06T18:47:55.907+01:00

Almost never cut itYour arguments weren’t validHours melting like snowflakesWhile we were living in squalorAlmost but never cut itYour body a prize to die forThe powerful wear stilettosI could never afford itAlmost never, so cut itEscape is also an opiateStranded I turned to vilenessRespect for nothing but powerI almost never did cut itRiding in on a donkeyMy dismount was left unnoticedIn rags

Disconnectednoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4232893302903382487.post-66701505717385015422010-07-02T10:31:00.008+01:002010-07-03T09:30:14.666+01:00

Sagacity was Ellen's friendShe often went for older menThey would be sternAnd wine and dineTheir thoughts would set her sex on fireTheir voices deep, their gazes strongThe list of her demands was longHer foot was arched, lips ruby redShe listened, giggled, gave them headHer life was rich, the men were oldO, glory to the young and boldOne night two men of Ellen's metIt was an accident, KismetFirst

Disconnectednoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4232893302903382487.post-58169433617190891442010-06-30T11:56:00.003+01:002010-06-30T11:59:03.113+01:00

Go back to summer daysWith breadcrumbs on your dressAnd angry geese and beer and ticksAmid the heat and hateOf men creating fame and moneyI water flowers on the windowsillSubmerged in cityAnd the bark of dogs and peopleMy chest is bare because of heat. Is yours?

Disconnectednoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4232893302903382487.post-19886960737351555922010-06-27T21:30:00.003+01:002010-06-27T21:40:45.875+01:00

She chastised me for metaphorsAnd offered her body as proofAmid heat and jackhammer noiseWho was the puppet this timeOn strings made of comeAnd bitemark dials on skinWe lost momentum quicklyOur diaries written in silenceYou the artist; me the slut

Disconnectednoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4232893302903382487.post-60264744991340612482010-06-24T22:25:00.004+01:002010-06-27T20:26:40.100+01:00

Maria sangAbout true beginningsHer hair was stripy with sweatComing backCalling out from the hazeWhere longing is fueled by cheap wineYou are lateAnd so am I againThese moments never truly happen

Disconnectednoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4232893302903382487.post-22727430264836499752010-06-22T11:33:00.005+01:002010-06-23T16:40:48.841+01:00

We were always out on TuesdaysWe fled from the glareAnd our waters never brokeWe never hesitated to lose the momentWe rode in on elephants at sunsetAnd conquered both sunlight and fleshNothing was coupled with anythingOur swansong was gossamerBut our fists were clenched

Disconnectednoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4232893302903382487.post-55158498017821352312010-01-07T20:49:00.000Z2010-01-07T20:51:24.940Z

Let's drink to end this year, so many endsOur closest dreamers turning dry and bitterOur hands reach nothing, all we get is glitterWe strive so hard, but cannot make amendsLet's dream to end this end, so many yearsSo many drinkers turning spry and boringWe're out of drugs, they even stopped the whoringBut we shall force our way to joy from tears

Disconnectednoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4232893302903382487.post-41759088605218797652009-10-25T23:14:00.003Z2009-10-25T23:21:04.535Z

It was an evening in October. I was back in the country for another ten days for work. It was dark, cold outside. The dog was on the kitchen floor. He had already entered his last phase – sleeping, being petted, peeing and eating. Not that he ever was a playful frolicking dog, but now he was moving on, he knew the deal. Everyone else was gone. Was Lex eating? I can’t remember. I think we were

Disconnectednoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4232893302903382487.post-84796766532829168812009-09-30T00:39:00.000+01:002009-10-09T21:40:10.136+01:00

She is sitting at the kitchen table perched on a chair, feet tucked in. The cup of coffee is standing in front of her, ringlets of steam curling upwards in a slow, gyrating stream. The smoke takes me back to a memory of her hand holding a cigarette, smouldering and trailing smoke - it is winter, and we are both shivering as she is speaking excitedly, while we stand outside of the shabby looking

Disconnectednoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4232893302903382487.post-35796816022863513782009-09-27T13:38:00.000+01:002009-10-09T21:26:10.921+01:00

The recollection came as a shock, a snapshot suddenly projected into the insides of my retinas. Cold, as a central theme in one of my earliest short stories. It was, for me, vividly autobiographical without having to do anything with reality; a view into a dream landscape through the eyes of a boy. I may not have been a teen particularly full of angst, but there was enough to dream up a story of

Disconnectednoreply@blogger.com0