Poem. History. Katie Lewington.

Carmen sat on the bench in her nightdress
Lips painted red, casting a shadow down into the ground
The rain fell,  hitting the leaves of trees in a hazardous way, as if a slapstick skit

Carmen lifted the dress from her slim brown body
Her breasts were round and the moon shone against them
The air spiked her nipples and made her nerves stand on end

The whole of her being wanted to be one with nature
She spread herself on the bench and groaned
As she ran her hands against her swollen clit

Now it has been two years
That bench shall always remain the property of her pleasure
A plague drilled into it to commemorate
Her life. 

K.L 2016 ©

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Book Review: The Memoirs of I. Yolanda De Iuliis.

The Memoirs of I is a book written in diary format, beginning on the 9th of december 2014 and finishing on the 9th of November 2015. During this time author Yolanda De Iuliis experiences many people, sights and emotions. It is self deprecating. I think the author and I may get along as we have attributes in common, such as feeling at odds in our families, sharing opinions on religion, are unable to rest without feeling like we should be doing something, being thinkers and so forth. The criticisms that I did have for this marvellous book have been addressed, as if she read my mind, in the writing itself.
The introduction has some of the best lines in the book and tells you straight away how the rest of the book is going to be.
This is a philosophical book, with plenty of questions being asked. Beware that this is a book with few answers. The Memoirs of I became tiring within the first hundred pages or so.  But with an entry for the 16th of April Yolanda somehow rescues this book by writing ‘it is getting harder to be inspired in the morning to write.  I do not know if you have noticed and I hope I am not slacking but I do stress that this is a difficult process that I am undertaking’ The book hits its stride after this entry.
In fact it happens on a few occasions that Yolanda becomes aware of how she might be perceived and of the quality of her writing and thoughts. She always managed to keep me hooked on reading.
This is ambiguous, Yolanda does not name the places she visits or the people she meets. There is a person that she writes to in some of the diary entries, an old love and are perhaps the weaker parts as the reader is not able to gauge exactly who is being spoken to and in what respect. This does still remain personal and The Memoirs of I has a warmth to it. I think, of course, her thoughts personalise this and her forthright manner of addressing more controversial subjects, such as euthanasia.
I do feel at times that the writer may feel superior to others because of her obvious intellect. She mentions frequently the 9 to 5 life and people not thinking for themselves, or at all, and I can agree with this but at the same time it can come across as cruel, demeaning even, to others.
I do feel that this is a book that will inspire anybody who reads it. This book could be dangerous, for it encourages people to look out for others, to think for themselves, and, how I interpreted it, to be bold. Yolanda seems like an amazing woman and her adventurous spirit is infectious and could encourage anybody to go out and pursue their own dreams. Despite this becoming heavy, subject matter wise, and feeling it was triggering for me into a depressive state myself, it is only the truth that I think is triggering for me because, of course, the idea that we can do and think for ourselves, to be told we can do that, by another person is liberating. I finished this book with an enormous sense of euphoria.
The Memoirs of I is a remarkable book and shows us what can happen when we sit down and form the habit of writing honestly to ourselves each day.

Buy a copy from Amazon,  direct from Lumphanan Press or through the Yolanda De Iuliis website.

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Poem. Excerpt. Katie Lewington.

She collects all of the wet from her cunt and wipes them around your anus as she lays across your chest.
She uses those fingers as lube to finger you and you lift up your head,  she licks your nipple,  increasing pressure on her fingers, sliding in further, you groan from the sensation and grip on the back of her neck, restricting her air supply.

K.L 2016  ©

Poem. Peak. Katie Lewington.

I bet you have real chunky nipples. I cannot make out the shape of them underneath the thick woollen company jumper you wear but –
I bet you have real chunky nipples.
Ones I could supress with my fingertips,  that I could put between my teeth and give my entire tongue to.
You have short blonde hair I imagine to have the texture of candy floss and I want to kiss your forehead, unzip your jumper and help you from it-
Pull your t-shirt over your head and kiss your lips while I use a palm to smooth against the flesh of your navel and hips. 
Then unhook your bra, let your breasts breathe. I want to lick your lips and slip my tongue into the entrance of your mouth.
I need you to relax and to lay back while I release you from the trousers you wear. Press myself between your thighs and lay on top of you as I kiss every inch of your dry skin.
Wet, I worship your breasts, lick them and rub my tongue up, climbing the mountain and reaching the peak of your nipple, using my fingers, teeth, tongue to
make you come. 

K.L 2016  ©

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2 poems.  Ash H. 

Melted Ice:
I used to put
ice in my alcohol,
and sip it very slow.
That’s when I would drink
just for show; to prove
I was grown up (I wasn’t),
to show I could handle it
(but I couldn’t.) I vaguely 
remember the condensation
rings the glasses of alcohol 
left on whatever surface I 
“lost my drink” on.
Now, as an adult, I just take a
few slugs of warm whiskey
from a bottle. Many people
say it isn’t lady-like but it gets
the job done.

A.H © 2016

Yellow Lights:
I didn’t like
the color yellow.
Until I realized
it was the color of 
the moon, stars, and 
streetlights at night.
Yellow is a pretty 
color on a
drunken night.

A.H © 2016

More of their work can be read at Tumblr.

2 poems. Ash H. 

Pleasure From Pain:

I used
to get
pleasure
from pain.

Then I 
discovered
love, but
that still 
hurt me
the same.

I guess
you can 
say that
some things
will never
change.

A.H © 2016

Note to Self:
You won’t be happy,
or satisfied, if you keep
looking. Just breathe. Live.

A.H © 2016

More of their work can be read at Tumblr

Book Review : The Princess And The Clown.  Ian Thomas Malone. 

The Princess and The Clown is a parody of erotica, which I was looking forward to reading. I was quickly sucked into reading this book about a Clown and a Princess,  who meet at a children’s party they have both been employed to perform at. Of course, with a princess (a term frequently used in erotica novels) our clown narrator calls her it more than twice and sends up that particular cliché.  There are also foot rubs (or rubbing the bunions on her feet) and the mention of sexual diseases. The taboos of sex, even in the closest of relationships. You wouldn’t think it possible that sex could be that unsexy, could you? 
I like that the Princess is not your average woman, or at least a woman often written of. She is in her forties and has a muffin top and stretch marks, as well as being sassy. Similarly the Clown has not got a six pack and isn’t a millionaire.  
The conversation between the two characters is witty and there are some great one liners. Author Ian Thomas Malone is obviously a confident writer and has the capability to write humour, with what seems little effort at all. 
The genre of this novel has been turned on its head. 
My one complaint would be that this was too short and some of the characters sparingly used. 
If you are bored with the usual erotic literature then The Princess and the Clown will have your faith restored and will tickle you pink too. 

Paperback and ebook copies can be purchased from Amazon

Poem. Toothpick. Katie Lewington.

We sit in the half light, sinking into the settee.  You have drunk the contents of your glass and I am finishing mine, watching the shadows cross your solemn face.
I take up your cock in my mouth,  hollowing my cheeks and exerting my tongue.  I flip onto my side and you nudge open my legs, pressing your hand in between them.
You become so close inside of me I can hardly concentrate on sucking you –
Your silky smooth flesh brushing against my teeth.  The fin of skin, sensitive underneath the head of your cock,  rubbed between the gap in my front teeth. You use your fingers to push me closer to you.
I flex my muscles.  Then you begin to speak ‘tell me about when you sucked somebody before me’
This I can ignore and suck harder, hoping you are unable to speak soon and that you simply enjoy this. 
‘Make me feel good’ you say breathlessly. I could give up, I’m out of breath loving you.
I try to get into it. Sucking fiercely, battling against your gspot tussling. ‘make me feel good’ you repeat.
Ah fuck it, you aren’t ever satisfied.
I break off, close my thighs around your hand.

K.L 2016  ©

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