poem pietistic

You can fool pretty nearly every other medium. You can make a poem pietistic, and still it will be a poem. You can write Hamlet in drama: if you wrote him in a novel, he’d be half comic, or a trifle suspicious: a suspicious character, like Dostoevsky’ s Idiot.
D.H. Lawrence, The Novel


David Cain - author, photgrapher, rapscallion

Literary Erotica
By Lord Malinov

I was working as a waiter in a cocktail bar when I met June. A suburban pub with low lights and a dance floor, we hosted an older crowd and packed them in on the weekends. The first time I saw her, an attractive middle-aged housewife, she flirted rather brazenly with me. Leaned over low, baring the deep vale of her well-developed décolletage, I couldn’t help but show an interest and considered my chances. A gentleman showed up and after a few turns around the room, buying drinks for one woman after another, he settled on June, spoke a few cheezy pick-up lines and took her away. I felt a bit crushed, a bit disappointed, seeing the woman I had laid claim to in my mind won over by some random schmuck. He was well below her threshold, I thought, but there is no…

View original post 901 more words

ultimately called

Like a monarch who, hearing that a city is to be built in his kingdom, meditates whether it would be well to grant the privilege, and hesitates; and finally goes forth to see the place and finds there a great powerful city which is finished, which stands as though from eternity with walls, towers and gates, so the world came when ultimately called to the completed work of Rodin.
Rainer Maria Rilke, Auguste Rodin

never discuss

Mother’s main vice in those dark days was alcohol, but to her credit she never let her drinking interfere with her ability to work and keep a clean house. The gin was never opened until I was in bed and to this day it is a subject we never discuss.
Mackenzie Brown, Lost Boys

racing heartbeat

I got it,“ said Steph, breathing hard and holding up the small grey camera. Liz grabbed the offered device and dashed down to hall. Steph leaned over, putting her hands on her knees and smiling while she tried to steady her racing heartbeat. “I can’t believe I did that.
Lord Malinov, Journals of Lord Malinov

with tenderness

They talked together for hours, of literature and sculpture and painting, amusing themselves with Flaxman and Blake and Fuseli, with tenderness, and with Feuerbach and Bocklin. It would take them a life-time, they felt to live again, IN PETTO, the lives of the great artists. But they preferred to stay in the eighteenth and the nineteenth centuries.
D.H. Lawrence, Women in Love