http://slow.writerscafe.org/hjcm The original writings of author hjcm en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776163618 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 This rectangle of whitedoes not belongin the (gaudy) surround ofthe fireplace. Words fill each buttonholeof her jacketand line the slit of herpencil skirt,pressed and pinstriped.In these gaps, somethingis slipping;tailored garments slowlyfitting looser,and a s.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/1045566/ A flash-fire of burning desirecomes over me in an instant,before it all filters back throughand the feeling drains from my face once again.You are disabling to my knees -it's lucky I'm curled up on the sofawith nowhere to fall;but I'm already in free-fallas I set the glass down with a clinkand my ey.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/1021553/ If virtue is the mark of my honour,I must bear every degradation upon my soulwith strength; I must fold up my weak limbsand make a stone of my skin.The water will wash over my back.Stones will crumble -the old ways are nothing but dust swept away on a breezeor part of a beach somewhere, under t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/1010224/ Sit. Feel it.Bones on wooden chair.And there are so many lovers in countless rooms framed in windows(perfectly)doing what lovers do,making love or money.Or both.In the colour-struck sky I see the romance,tasting bitterness in the cold that immobilises toes.I used to be among the starry-eyed;trust, s.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/1010213/ I need eight cups of tea a day do let the cat out dear to keep mynerves in check I must regulate themto stop feminine hysteriaand make myself agreeable tohim garlic and ginger too chopped upand oh I must do the dishes nowand start on those cinnamon biscuitsto go with the tea this afternoonnew c.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/1010054/ Fences are made to encircle, protect,defend: privacy; possessions out of sight.Tonight; last night; tomorrow night;the glass of the cafetière.Mug: you hold the warm brown coffeesafe inside yourself (a ceramic blanket).I am kitchen cupboards. I am leaves of stories bound into books.I am a swad.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/1009985/ Blankets only borrow warmthfrom the life that beats under skin.Home doesn't come easily when there is only onesoul striving within. Drawers remain untoucheduntil you open them again, dishes linger,tea stains a ring into the bottom of the cups.It's a wintry existencein the height of sum.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/1008666/ The gaps between the rings grow longer,while the silence in the room rings louder,louder than the static in this one connection.Hours pass in irrelevance,minutes drag into lifetimesas I stretch across the width of the empty bed:my sea, my sand(while I am accused of being a prude)at such great distan.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/1007943/ Some benches have eyes -their wooden planks,knots that seeand cradle our recumbentforms.Chairs have ears(wing-backed, enfoldingour headsand absorbing conversation)and doors have nosesto smell your handsand dwarf your inferiorfingerswith a brilliant brass.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/739021/ A song drifts through mymindlike the waves thatmakes the barley sheavesto undulate;the train passesas we drink ina thousand golden faces,like suns,reflecting light back atus.Some hills are in shadow,othersshine. The opinionatedpassengerwith the hair .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/735599/ I am the hand of a clockas I lie on my bedturning constantly,(slowly to you);relative to the length oftimeI’ve spent thinking offaces,singing my emotions,reading words from another’smind,I spin quickly. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/735591/ You poured the water rightoutof that cup without asecond thought.Two eyes search throughpage after pageof photographsyou have madeand feel the permanence inthe texture of each.Some things don’t last;I will never recall whathappenedon the twenty-fourth .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/708063/ The sun is shining inApril,we’re here for someone’sbirthday;we laugh ‘til we cry andwe pour too much drinkand we write silly wordsin the sand. We’re walking along thepromenade,a gin-inspired swing in mystep;a man in a suit’s .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/706905/ The kettle boils.Remember when we were allkidsand we’d have adventuresin the sandand build indescribablethings with Legoand sculpt mashed potatomountains?I want to do those thingswith you.I tear the tea bag pairapartand put one into one cupand the ot.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/700919/ Got a guitar in my lapjust because it’s comfy;that feeling of being amoment away fromreverberating voice withinitsshapely body -yeah, it’s sublime.Like Pimm’s & lemonadewith strawberries.Deep funk. Feel that vibe.Evening creeps up. Street.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/700081/ toast t(w)o eggssprinkled withfresh-ground blackpepper, white and slightlybubbledready to oozeorange into the bread,accompanied by a richcreamy latte. And if this was mybreakfast every morning(and you were there tosweetly kiss my cheek)I would wish .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/699448/ The sun in spring was upbefore meand the first water of thedayfrom the showerhit my body in stripes.All I’m thinking ofis you.I’m hungry for veggiechilli and nachoswith homemade guacamole. Myavocados are ripening next to thesunflowerson my wind.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/699374/ Long jeans and naked toes;ironing my shirt for theday.Saturday has prepared agrey skyfor all to feel half-heartedunder.I’ve never been to thesouth of Francebut have a message in acard frommy old Latin teacher, uponwhich isinscribed “CANNES”. .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/699373/ Sorry for the way I breathe;I’m not an escape artist(binding me in ropes andclothwill hold me down helpless).I’m not without my historyand come fighting a battle;it’s been fought on morefrontsthan there are buttons onyour shirt. My sph.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/695614/ The swell of the waves in our ears, ripplingimagesover the veined veil ofclosed eyelid.The rockstextured with tiny limpetsspeckle our handswith a leopard'sspots. Beneath, seaweed curlinglanguidly in poolswith the light catching inits contours in points,.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/695557/ pool of eyedepths that I cannot tellbut I eventually got therein a whisper and now I simply want youme and some guitarsamped up in a hallsinging about anythinglaughing at the skybirds and campus gulls this is how we sew anafternoon into an ev.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/695338/ Corner-light on thebuilding injectingcolour into thedusk-chilled sky;skeleton tree;in this worldbehind blinds(for we are indoors and speculatinglike old women overg&tsof limbs disturbedbeneath feet daily rootedto grass‘neath a bench in the old.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/684434/ Hearing your name on thelips of a strangerwho didn’t know you,hadn’t felt the touchof your tongue, unravelleda large section ofher embroidery; delicateand spidery, the piano unfurled a tinkling chord,levelled my rockypath, and surprised mewith its simplici.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/680670/ Two setsof glasses, straws forminga letterwhere they cross. LastnightI turned over and over,hand curled arounda heartbeatless fabric tofinda position that wascomfortable without you there. Cutlerylying side-by-side like wedid,lying still in the morningof.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/680237/ Skin covers so much more than flesh, bone, muscle, the organs with which Ilove; it’s easily broken ortainted when someone carelesslyshoves past, when bodies are in closequarters, and then it exposes what I try to keep hidde.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/678444/ Batteries all runout, conditioner and an empty takeout box used for keeping food fresh. Iwish thatfor onceI would become the small thingyou holdsoftlybut I’m beginning to stopthinking of you like that.You don’t trust me (andwell, I suppose I di.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/678443/ Shadows of dancers in the window, painted in club lights, moving to the beat at my back. (The patterns grow prettier with time,instead of ugly ballpoint scribbles.) Each colour-washed touch a treachery,&nbsp.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/678439/ I am ugly I need you you don’t reply I don’t complain I feel hollow I want a child you’re off somewhere else I pass the abandonedbuilding I wish for once on mycorners that I wasn’t so proudthat I can’t ask for you to hol.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/676831/ Long hallways andhigh-archedwindows fringed with richdrapery.Silver laid out on thetableready for luncheonwhile outside the childrenrun with the dogswatched by asevere femaleeye; groundsresplendent withspring flowersand somethingmore prettyth.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/676804/ The sky outside isdawnwash purple;puddles cradled into dipsand niches:the relicts of yesterday.The old widow walks on by.She is no longertroubled by his brain,which used toopen up and unleash allits stormy grey upon her. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/676803/ Light shines throughcurtains that can’t hold back thelight for too long. There’s a shape of themorning outside and I’m within, cold. I survey the damage I’vedone to my duvet, no cornerstouching the edges of the bed. My arm is tender where I.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/675886/ Feel salt in air.Walk out in front of van;potential for unsung lifeto be ended.Dog hangs out back oftruckgazes over; dark eyessmellsadness. Sky full anddull. Morrisons packed. Peopleeverywhere. Avocados.Check flesh aisle for discountson vegetarian f.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/675776/ Cleaned.Hands dry, itchy,yet with skin feelingswollen with waterand cleaning irritants.I let my hair down and puton my shirt.There’s a lingeringchlorine smellin my hairand before I know itI am crying, letting itall outas Suzanne Vega singsjust .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/675760/ Will it matter what myhair looks like tomorrow, or whatclothes I wear? Why do they say thethings they do? I feel unpinned.I tripped on the hem of my skirtwhen I took the path to the field whenthe moon shone lonesome in themorning air. No matter howmany .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/675150/ I like it better this wayjust because it’s easier.No mistakes to make, nogains, no chance of accidentaloffence. That won’t happennow. There can’t be an apologybecause you won’t care forone,and I could sing until I’mblue in th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/674377/ The car raspsas it turnsout of the car park, andclutters off into the distance, itsexhaust pipechoking. You with the seagulleyes, youstare, play an unrehearsedtunewith your tongue as if youknow, andtry to catch my attentionAs if. The waves beatrhythms that.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/673769/ A kissrenders all words spokenbeforefoolish. It isinfallible:a new world with new rulesand newtastes. It extinguishesthe meaningfulness oflanguage,for as communication itexceeds all.A kisscan be plantedanywhereand can germinate into so manyseedling.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/673762/ Bits of glass bottlesrolled upon the wavesuntilsmooth as small pebbles: these are little pieces oftime,memories hazed to gloriousmoments,the stories I formed whenI looked into your eyes and felt my own pain. Theydon’t reflectnow, these fr.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/669851/ She has bones like birds’;stepping into the streamof water and letting it all fall over her, she wishes forsomeone to comb her hair for herand soothe her tangledthoughts into liquid silk.Last night’s bruises glowdarkly underthe surface of her skin.Her angl.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/669707/ Jiffy bags strewn on thebedspreadgape emptiness. The theatre lightinghanging above hauntsthat voidsome room. Coldair and hearts flutter. Dregs of coffeesit in the cafetière; spiton a wet pavement.Pens scribble. Outside acry from aninfant’s lungs. Ha.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/668820/ I like the smoothness ofmy new rum.It’s Chairman’s Reserve,don’t you know:the finest St. Lucia hasto offer,apparently. I’ll taketheir word for it. It’shoney-coloured, gold likethe money Ibought it with.I saymy taste’s good. I .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/668434/ A kiss on the cheek aftera night of coldness.She still feels that chilland it shudders through her limbsand films her eyes over with sea.Escape in the waves.Not a soul about,people with ghost-facesso stand-offish in their silencepassing her byand her beat-up instrument.A crab she'll be.Hermit-like a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/665422/ Air the room with a candleand the night's breeze.You like his companythough he's ten years too oldand you're ten years too cynicaland they wonderis she getting paid for this?Another whisky,and the sound of the television'sblotted with rain and the streetoutside as you flick your ashonto puddled conc.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/665321/ Maybe that's why Ican't shake off this tummythat's threatening my figure -I drink too much, besides eatingtoo much. No one looksat magazine models and thinksthey're the ideal any more. But Iwant to be a glossy paper beautylooking up at you withstyled hair and perfect makeupand the clothes you need.I.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/665318/ Here again am I, beside the window,having beaten the rain at the ghost o'clock of the bus when I am the only soul to be carriedalong a drenched country lane.Umbrellas on the concourse. Rain pooling in dips in the concrete jungle while naked trees tremble under my gaze -Focus. Kissing the Witch.I am .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/664285/ People stare at me for the way I dressthe size of my waistthe surge of my hips.I'm behind glassand they look inas if entitledto this zoo attraction.I'm like a picture in a magazineand you all want to exploremy depths and the things fabricconceals. Butmy depth is not to beeroticisedand you are not en.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/663660/ I've had my back to windows all dayand I guess I never noticed the sunor the golden light.There's a precious feelingI've felt in songsof this time of dayand I've looked into its beautywith a phone to my ear once. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/663658/ He is not a friend, he has found.He is a testing site,a petri-dish to emotions,a gateway drug intopleasing society. He is an old manwith bad circulationand a talent for grumpiness.He reads by a lonely lamp-lightand ache in the cold.He is the grudge in the night,the name they cryand the bones they wi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/663131/ Jeans drying on theradiator;Well I guess I gotcarelessAnd strayed too far frommy habits.Now I’ve got to wait forthemJust like I’ll wait again,Dwelling in this song andThe lustre in her voice.The little beauties shouldbe voiced.Mine’s been t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/658150/ Twowomen, bothsurrounded by glamourandbeauty unequal to that whichtheypossessed themselves. The gold rims of the champagne fluteswerenothing to the sheen of the paler one’s auburn hair,and nogrape could be more green than her eyes.Likewise,not a single Sum.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hjcm/655044/