For those of you who don’t know, Huburt is my pen pal, Huburt and I have never met, he stumbled across Damagazine completley by accident and has been sending me poetry, pictures and stories ever since. Huburt is travelling the world in a boat so his letters are more exciting than your average pen pal.
If you want to see what Huburts up to I have posted links below.
If I was straight,
Would I have developed a less mincing gate?
Would I call all strangers mate,
Spend less time saying darling
And more time growling snarling?
As a hetero,
I would let grow,
the hair in my ears and nose
would all ladies be ‘ho’s
could I happily let my arse crack
and hairy back
show ?
I suppose
I wouldn’t know most of the things I currently know
Like the stuff about Gwyneth Paltrow.
Or how to dance proper sexy at the disco.
As a breeder
I doubt I would really be a fashion leader,
Or such an avid reader
Of historical fiction (mostly tudor)
I would likely be lewder and cruder
I couldn’t look for fuck buddies on net
Would undoubtedly get
Laid less
And so be more of a mess.
Without easy sex from the computer
I guess
I’d just to buy a hooker
(a cheap one not a looker)
when pissed and root her.
Would I bother to cook?
I wouldn’t look
in shops of kitchenalia,
I would be more familiar with floor varnish
Than garnish
not count myself a failure
If my soufflé didn’t rise.
I’d be definitely eating more pies
Wrapped in plastic
And not have some poof’s name going round the elastic
of my underwear
Emotions would not be discussed
Nor would national trust
property
hold such allure for me.
America’s next top model would not be
A must see
I wouldn’t own a drag wig,
or,
Without breaking the law,
get to express my deepest inner sex pig.
I might have rougher skin
and be less plucked
be more of a fucker
and less fucked.
I have been moored off a small Tunisian island called Kerkannah
enjoying the Gharbi, the warm winds that come off the Sahara. I wasn’t
intending to stay so long, its a cultural butt hole and the golden
sands end up lining every crevice. However when I arrived here I was
desperate for a bit of fleisch having been on the open sea all the way
from Marseille. The only meat available on the island is donkey and
they don’t come in handy meal-for-one packs, its buy a whole one or
nothing. So I have felt obliged to stay until I ate the whole thing
(even tho I am actually close enough to send it to the starving
children in Africa that my mother guilt tripped me into eating her
gruel with).
Even the romans barely bothered to come here, so there is no running
water and no Internet but dates are plentiful and free and are a handy
counterbalance to the effects of a donkey rich diet.
From here I hail to Egypt for the festive season. I have a friend from
my days as a leather worker in Madrid who is meeting me in Alexandria.
He is called Jesus which is not an uncommon name in the catholic
countries and we try and always spend Christmas together. He gets a
week off from whoring and some good home cooking and I get to play out
my yule tide fantasies. I have a manger and some swaddling bandages on
order, and I have been fashioning him a halo from Gold Top milk bottle
foil, all I have to do is muster my inner Mary and its looking like its
going to be a hot one this year.
I hope you are seeing the shortest of days though in proper pagan
bacchanal with your head garlanded in myrtle and a fine array of
recently matured pickles and late summer fruits steeped in liqor and
parts of you in or around someone or something else.
Will you be spending the miserable 25th on some sweaty three piece
trying to digest an inexpert nut roast?
Fond Regards
Hubert
Hey prince charming
that was some messed up do last night.
You looked a fright
Why were you wearing that massive and alarming dress
Clearly meant for some princess
other than you?
I saw bare arse
On the terrace,
Something unsavoury
In the royal aviary,
A free for all
In the mirrored hall
Gosh,
Do I recall you un buckling your swash?
I lost my shoe in flight from your petting and lunging
And went plunging
Into a dark
laced with a distant wolf bark.
Feeling as mental as Alice,
Tiara skewed,
night vision screwed
from your glitterball dance hall palace.
Didn’t Snow White look a fright,
Clearly she hadn’t seen her arse
in the looking glass.
I was not edified
watching her decide
Which dwarf
Should go fourth
Poor lonely Rapunzel. Wearing that frown,
(and that god awful gown)
You’d think she would flower
released from her tower
But ironically her hair let her down.
That Gretal eats like a bird
I heard that Hanzel and she
Had become rather to free
in their sibling affections
Since their release from the house of confections.
Out in the wood
There were all sorts up to no good,
That wolf wasn’t the only one
After a bit of red riding hood.
The Billy Goats Gruff
Were joking crudely
laughing lewdly
Under the bridge
Making unseemly and fruity
Jokes about sleeping beauty
being as cold as a fridge.
Rumplestiltskin the filthy pig
was frotting his-self on the sheelanagig.
And some story was told to me
About a princess and some pee.
Things don’t seem to be
what they ought at court.
Its just vermillion pavilion
Of exposed bust and unbridled lust.
Fuck spending
My life in that fairy tale ending
With some prince
Who even speaks with a mince
And turns super camp
When he’s rubbing his lamp.
This Cinderella will wait for some ordinary fella.
For those of you still left in northern europe we are now entering the season of the Heavy Sock. It goes without saying that the heavier the sock the greater the effect of gravity. this can lead to irritating and unsightly ankle bunching and an unplanned exposure of the calf to the elements. After an extensive five minutes of research i came across this handy guide to making attractive winter garters, or flashes as they are called by our scotch cousins. http://www.xmarksthescot.com/forum/f103/made-reversible-tartan-flashes-20317/ Attached a picture of me at home with my grandmother demonstarting just how smooth a good flash can keep the heaviest of socks.
I have arrived in Portugal. Only staying for a short while as I can
feel winter hot on my heals (or cold on my elbows) and I want to head
south.
I have organised some company for the
trip down to Lisbon. Sandro: he is a leading light amongst the Romany
community here. He stole my shoes from me at knife point on a previous
visit so we became firm friends. He is untrustworthy and vicious, both
qualities i envy. He is deeply closeted and likes to laugh cruelly at
others. He has to be in Lisbon by the weekend to beat up some
government minister. Its not clear yet if this is a revenge thing, a
prostitution thing or just that he has some strong objection to a piece
of policy. Its not safe for gypsies to travel by train in Portugal so
its best he come along with me. If i criticize his english enough in a
treachery fashion he will be putty in my hands.
When I get to lisbon I will be making a visit to the sooth sayer of
Sintra, Mme Tia Ainda. She lives in in a cork lined cave. It is of
course extremely bad form to ask her anything about one’s own life but
i have a sheaf of questions from friends and acquaintances. My Uncle
Cyril is particularly concerned to know in which season he is going to
die so he can ensure he is buried in the correct weight suit. She only
answers questions from bedwetters or former bedwetters and has a
sneering contempt for any child who is prepared to give up the pleasure
nocturnal urination just for the convenience of their parents. Is there
anything you would like me to ask her? She is very good.
I hope you are happy you seem to have taken on enough for two kevins.
Regards
Hubert
You_go_yoga[1] here is a link to Huburts newest poem.
Dear Kev,
My mid ocean fast and meditation over I am heading back to land to feed
myself up and celebrate. It was truly amazing to be alone and afloat
out there, letting the winds take me and allowing my mind to focus
fully on my marriage. You ask why my beau and I are in separate parts
of the world. We met when we were barely bearded and grew up very tight
and close, weaned by the same wolf on the same bare hillside. After we
had had sex a million times or so it became mostly unnecessary to touch
to replicate the physical and mental closeness we had experienced so
much with each other. You are from the north so you will understand how
heterosexual patterns fence people in and restrict them until they
become shadows, ghouls of themselves, we wanted to avoid that romantic
petrifaction. So taking the route that made us most fearful we
separated physically to circumnavigate the world in opposite directions
whilst sustaining our bond through meditation and pigeon post.
Out at sea after five days of fasting I received word of my love. The
song of our marriage that my beau had been singing on his mountain top
had floated up and attached itself to the wings of migrating willow
warblers. These are tiny birds who are fantastically well suited to
carrying messages of devotion. In the autumn when the berries are done
they transform themselves physically. Their tiny hearts and lungs grow
huge, they fly straight up until they hit the jet stream and then can
open their wings and glide thousands of miles effortlessly.( I blame
the 70% decline in the willow warbler population in the UK for the
abysmal state of love in our culture). Carrying his song it took them
three days to reach me floating out in the Atlantic. The beauty of the
song they sang when they arrives was such that it drew a crowd of
envious mermaid and mermen who became so entranced by it, they
discarded their fish skin jackets and returned to their dolphin roots,
flipping and jumping in terrific displays of acrobatics. Nothing could
have made me feel closer to him.
From time to time I will be reporting on Huburts travels and giving you insights into our correspondance, it came to light in the last few days that he is actually on a boat sailing around the world. Here is a photo of his boat, da boot!
Dear DA,
here is a picture of my boat. She is called Boot. She is what’s known
as a gaff rigged cutter. She looks a little rougher now as she hasn’t
been out of the water and had here bottom scraped for a while. She is
also now adorned with prayer flags and my second best pair of pants
drying in the sun of the bay of Biscay.
I am still at the mouth of the Gironde Estuary awaiting this stupid
carrier pigeon.
When my beau decided to go of to the mountain top and try and turn
himself into a beam of light he insisted carrier pigeon was the
best way to stay in touch. He’s probably right millet is cheaper by the
kilo than postage stamps.
Unfortunately and naturally the bird has taken a rather shine to him
and is jealous of me so it dawdles and pretends to
have been lost whilst really its been sat shitting on statues &
pressing its cloaca against anything that moves.
Anyway today is the allotted day so i suppose it will be arriving
sometime and want feeding for its efforts.
Greetings card is my preferred method of communication. So much easier
to use of-the-peg emotions than to have to muster my own.
I think I hear resentful cooing, the pigeon maybe near.
Hubert
Sexy Dyslexic
Don’t pretend you don’t know it’s erotic
Your not you’re. Mine, I am. so casual and un-neurotic,
Say what you see, you can’t help but
Like some careless spelling crack slut.
Envy you, inserting /pulling out a letter,
Xtra needs no E and fuck it scans better.
I, fool, chained to Dictionary.
A slave, Spell-check shackling me,
Religiously, dot I, cross T.
U non demanding grammar user
Leave me, pedant, uptight loser,
English looks much cooler fucked by you
So I want you to do that to me too.
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