The children eat and wriggle and laugh,
The two old ladies stroke their silk;
But the cat is grown small and thin with desire,
Transformed to a creeping lust for milk.
--
"Milk for the Cat", line 17, from Alida Monro (ed.) Collected Poems (London: Duckworth, 1970) p. 163.Harold Monro
When I got my salt scrub today, the woman doing it said “Yes, in fact about 30% of our clientele are men. But mostly, they are Divorced Rich Beverly Hills Ladies.” And I thought (not out loud) who were these ladies? These "ladies" were not born like that were they? Not destined to face lifts and peels, loneliness, tight lips and hard hair. No, in fact, hey were born free and beautiful and confident. And hopeful and anxious to find love. They only became Divorced Rich Beverly Hills Ladies because their rich husbands dropped them for someone more f**kable: maybe someone with long straight natural hair and thin legs who wears shorts and t- shirts with ease. Maybe a young photographer or writer. Someone interesting. No, the Divorced Rich Beverly Hills Ladies were too busy having and raising children, and too busy buying him gold toe socks at Barneys to become interesting.
Kathy Najimy
The really unforgivable acts are committed by calm men in beautiful green silk rooms, who deal death wholesale, by the shipload, without lust, or anger, or desire, or any redeeming emotion to excuse them but cold fear of some pretended future. But the crimes they hope to prevent in that future are imaginary. The ones they commit in the present — they are real.
Lois McMaster Bujold
I had grown a thin mustache, I was a full-grown man, and yet I was completely helpless and without a goal in life.
Hermann Hesse
Tender-handed stroke a nettle,
And it stings you for your pains;
Grasp it like a man of mettle,
And it soft as silk remains.Aaron Hill
Love, which is lust, is the Lamp in the Tomb.
Love, which is lust, is the Call from the Gloom.
Love, which is lust, is the Main of Desire.
Love, which is lust, is the Centric Fire.
So man and woman will keep their trust,
Till the very Springs of the Sea run dust.
Yea, each with the other will lose and win,
Till the very Sides of the Grave fall in.
For the strife of Love's the abysmal strife,
And the word of Love is the Word of Life.
And they that go with the Word unsaid,
Though they seem of the living, are damned and dead.William Ernest Henley
Monro, Harold
Monro, Charles
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