Friday, July 29, 2016




       Looked bad….. worked like a coolie all day. Didn’t like it. Trying to find a place where I can sit against a stone wall in the shade. And drink… with no one bothering me.
         That’s easier said than done.

          So I put my feet in a small stream and sit against the brick wall of Marin’s house… She has been my woman for a while… maybe she still is.  Part of her hates me. Well, that’s normal. No need to worry there.
         I sit there and cool off.  Did I say the day is hot? It is hot as a motherfucker – as a cat on a hot tin roof… as a snail molusking across hot asphalt at noon on the summer solstice. Pain! Pain! Pain! Hot as me in my apartment, upstairs above a store.
         Hot as dripping balls, hot as your bare ass sitting down on a  steaming winter radiator…

        I pour water over my head, even pour some chilled white wine. I snort some of the cool wine right up my nasal cavities….ooooo
what a burn!  
       Starting to feel a little better, still hot as hell. I have a deep drink of the highly chilled Colli Albani. Yeah, I know it’s not classy… but it works great when well-iced.
       My sinuses feel a little better. My face is hot and my head is sweating. I look into the woods.
There are wavy lines of heat everywhere in the air… Or maybe that’s just me.

 I hear some screaming from around the corner. I’m too tired to even look.

       Now I’m hearing some slaps and the grunts and growls of ferocious women. Oh, I’ve heard those sounds before. And I know who it is.
        “What the hell’s going on?”I say.

        “My neighbour’s mother keeps parking in my parking space…” Marin says, ” And she has her daughter’s empty parking place right next to mine!”
          The heat’s getting to everybody.
“Yeah I can see how that might be a piss-off,”  I say. 
           Two empty parking places side by side on a hot day.           Then the mother drives back in again.
     The woman drives back down the street and parks in Marin’s space again.That’s really pushing it. Marin has been known to get a tad violent on occasion. Even when she likes you,
things can get rough. And she really doesn’t like this woman.
            Once again she parks in Marin’s space,
really rubbing it in.
           She walks past Marin about five feet away, and says: 
      ” You!Don’t talk to me!  I’M IGNORING YOU!”
           “I want to twist her her neck like a chicken’s,” Marin says, “But I’m restraining myself.”
            “Why does she keep parking in your space? And walking by right in your face? Is she nuts?” I ask.
          “Her daughter’s space is right next to yours and it’s always empty.  Why does she do it?” I ask.

             “Because she’s  A CUNT!” Marin says.

               That summed it up.

              You ever notice, when someone uses the “C” word, especially if they shout ‘CUNT!’ loud enough to be heard the next block over…
it tends to be the last word said in most  conversations?
          You want to have the last word?

          Shout, “CUNT!”
           I’d crawled around the corner to look at the scene unfolding… Now I’m crawling right back around into the shade. No words are necessary. I’m too hot to talk. 
         No one has any firearms or sharp implements.

             Not yet, anyway.

                        (C)2016 by W.G. Milne



         Admittedly, I have had some bad reviews. Some!  Did I mention that I have received a few curses in Latin? Well, here goes then.
          It seems it’s O.K. to talk about mystical union with the One who is creating us, but it is not acceptable to enter into the psychological depths of the intricacies and necessities of  a Woman’s Orgasm in the same article. This is what, sacrilege? What century are we living in?
          May I suggest to you – it’s not such a big step from the 21st century back to the 16th century, when they had public lashings and brandings! But it wasn’t all fun and games.
           Do you know how long the Spanish Inquisition lasted for? A hundred years? Oh, no the private torture chambers continued long and long. And the public didn’t get to see! Nor did they get to see the hidden repressed spasmodic orgasms of the long-robed clergy… Nor do we now, for the most part, but we get to see them weeping in their beers the morning after, begging for forgiveness.
           ( The Spanish Inquisition continued on for 600 years.)
            My position is this: forgiveness is the Christian way. Ho! Ho! But before we forgive these pale, limp-wristed members of our clergy – skin that makes ’em look like they’ve been hiding under lily pads all their lives: it’s our absolute and holy duty to put them through a few hoops.
The hoops should be: (1) Fearful public humiliation; (2) a taste of the lash over some months.
As Charlie’s Nana used to say most mornings at breakfast, from the time Charles was three: “Cowards fear pain; and they hate to cower in public; and to scream like eunichs every time they feel a taste of the Lash! This is good for their grovelling souls; and to expect more of the same each Sunday morning, with exacting  regularity… It makes them think.”
            “And one thing you can be sure of: never will such a half-man/ half-newt transgress again! In fact, it’s quite possible you’ll never see the fearful little shrimp in public again for the rest of his life!”
             “No one will miss him! Besides, the Lash is cheap! It doesn’t cost a hundred grand a year to keep the little fruit behind bars.  And also there is the social aspect to consider: it’s fun for the whole family to watch such a wimp begging in public – on his naked knees, “Please don’t lash me again. No, please! And his weeping and loud bawling: everyone enjoys that! Especially when he tries to wiggle and crawl off into the audience; and there’s no escape nor mercy anywhere.”
              “Then she’d pat me on the head,” says Charlie, and she’d look into my eyes with the deepest seriousness: “Never forget, sonny, ‘Hilarity is to the public’s good.'”
               Says Charles. “I never knew what that phrase meant. Nor do I ever want to know.”
           (3)     Oh yes, the third hoop that must be written permanently into our Criminal Code is this: “Any anal tears the perpetrator causes, he shall receive in kind.” Now as a former defense attorney I must admit, this provision sounds a bit ominous, especially when followed by this following clause “All provisions of this section shall be judicially interpreted solely in terms of the tenets of the Old Testament.”
                  This entire section is a bit like  Wonder Bread – you eat it and wonder. And I can only shake my head and wonder about the implications. Though, having listened to the Affadavits of Charlie’s grandmother, I must say, “All in all I approve wholeheartedly.”
                  You must weight the limited pain to a few dubious defendants against the health,
happiness and psychological well being  of the entire non-offending Community.

                 I do forsee a few possible legal problems with any admissions against interest the clergyman makes in public, while under the lash. But we’ll deal with those ducks when they start to quack.
                 One thing I must say, though, after a six months program of screamings and lashings, our public prisoner would have no psychological blockages left. Though he might have developed a few tics, involuntary quavers and shudders he’d prefer no one ever see him do in public ever again.
                   So it goes. Explore every mystery, no matter how disgusting the journey might become;
your Roving Reporter will see it all the way through to the end!
                   “Discard nothing. Everything may serve.”  Carpe diem.

(C)2011 by W.G. Milne072










What had happened to me?

I wanted to know

on that Christmas morning

all alone


I saw one star

amid a sky of cloud

I didn’t understand

it wasn’t possible


and I wondered with all those lost     dreams

where I had gone

and lost myself beneath the wave

beyond the farthest mountain

under the sea

where lady with her red dress

was waiting

II saw fear in the great mirages
success, death, happiness
little did I know that
none of those
was permanent
I had to seem so tough
to confront you
a regular he-man
a regular screw
whatever happened to the child I knew
in the land of Nod?

then I started laughing

I laughed with that last star
as God’s eye opened
and blessed me from afar
from beyond the rusted alleys
and the wasted streets
and the dull grey depression
that greets every success-bound
boy – a real rube I was
to some other tune
but then the laughter started
I don’t know when it came
I just knew  I no longer

was the same


the dark days had broken

their bats’ wings on the walls

your gloomy illusion

did completely fall

and I was free again

free as I had been

free as the open skies

above a sheath of rain




free as the dark wildcat

with her quivered thighs

free as the sweet child

who no longer fears the night


free as the lost shepherd

coming home again

free as all the little boys

lost in the rain

with just a leather jacket

and nothing in his pants

free as the dark pines

towering over me


with a great Significance

oh don’t ask what it means

free without the dark tide

that consumed my life

free as the lost chickens

playing in the grass

free as the adolescents

checking out the ass

of every passing schoolgirl

free as horses and maidens

sailing ships that pass


free as fourth of July crackers

as a madman’s laugh

free as crickets in the night

and the crimson tide of death


free as dark beginnings

so lost then in the night

free as bears in the forest

walking on my path

and now in the forest laughing

laughing a new laugh


free as Christmas morning

with a little child

free as all true lovers

across the miles

free as broken English

on a sea-side holiday

free as new tires squealing

at the crack of day


free as the dark night

when all is lost

free as the new morning

drenched in the rain


and now I’m here without you

and I’m glad again

whatever did happen

to all the pain?




(C)2000 by W.G. Milne




        THERE’s silence up here, nothing but silence. You can go two weeks and never hear a human voice or the caw of a crow. Only the sound of the wind, reaching up from the river and travelling across unimaginable wastes, the vast reaches of the Arctic. Only the wind has an understandable voice…

        Then  there is the silence once more.


 The fella over there is part of the Wait-A-Bit! stories. I’ve got about 16 people in the foxhole village – I couldn’t say all their names,

but I know who each person is &and what he/she wants.

        There aren’t that many women in town, but there is Matilda, who has also been the mayor the past year.

          The preacher who left the wild skin mags under his mattress of skins, straw, linen and furs….he brought a stripper to town. That’s just as well, because 1/3 of the town try to watch Matilda undress… Most nights the curtain at the end of her trailer tends to fall open.

         I suspect that open curtain and a few other personal favours Matilda has given to the menfolk in town – well she won the mayoral  contest in a landslide.

          I’m Frank. I used to be mayor, but the mayor does very   little except greet visitors etc… There were no visitors last year and no tourists, either.

Last time we saw a tourist

was eight years ago. Many of the native folks in the area

think this site is cursed – but I can’t agree with that.

          It’s ‘INCINERATION DAY’ that got most people nervous,

when a jealous Canadian Forces pilot bombed every

brick building in the area. Reduced City Hall to a fine grain dust. The A&P didn’t fare much better.

           Artie’s bar burned for some time after the firestorm.He’s the guy the pilot was jealous of. (Artie was havingsex behind the bar with her. Problem was he was doing it in public. This got stories told up and down the Mackenzie River, all the way down to Norman Wells, which was where the flyboy was stationed.                      Artie    was having it off with

the young woman,the pilot’s fiancé, but he certainly never admitted to it…participating in these  tales of wild doings behind his bar.)

             She was the only woman in town for a whole year, so you can’t blame anybody too much.. for what  happened.
Most of the townsfolk made an exodus to the East after the bombing. There used to be 157 people in _________. No one can remember what the town was  called before the BLAST. None of us has had much of a memory since that day.

                    What good is a memory anyway? I don’t miss it. No point in worrying about the past or future, because they don’t exist.

                     I’m Frank, the former mayor. That idiot over there sitting on the big rock taking notes is Hank. He used to be a reporter for the New York Times. When he arrived here, he sure ran after the plane like a mad fool…looking  to catch it. When he realized the newspaper building didn’t exist any more, he was troubled. Boy, was he ever perturbed!  What really shocked him the first few days… was the endless, all-embracing silence.

        Have I sent you one of the Mad Poet of Rat River’s Poems?

He’s our nearest neighbor, 400 miles to the east. Near Port Radium,or whatever the hell they used to call it, that now abandoned town.          It seems the Mad Poet of Rat River has taken to travelling down the Rat onto the Mackenzie, and he’s getting all the women drunk, up and down the Mackenzie.We’re getting radio calls from Inuvik, demanding that we –

“Drag him the fuck out south!”

Now Ratty could always be a pain in the ass,and  at the same time, his pervasive powers are remarkable. I only hope he’s stopped showing people his member. It has a remarkable effect, I’m told, to many of the women.              After all he’s a poet. And Melissa whispered to me into my left ear: “All poets are well hung.” She played with a sensitive, hungry part of my being,at the same time. Proving her pneumatic point,whispering and pulling at me.Lucky I was drunk, or I might have embarrassed myself in my pants., before she even got going…





I have no idea what time it is. We use the sundial

approach up here. That’s when there is a sun. about six months of the year. 

It snows 9 months a year, at a bare minimum.

And when it’s not snowing we tend to be in darkness, because of the peculiar habit of the village council.

        Of course living in bunkers underneath mounds of the last town… well, it’s dark underground every day.

        I hear a peculiar jingling sound across the bunker. I turn up the oil lamp by my bed

so I can see… Hank is affixing a tall pointy hat to his head. When he moves his head

I see he has sewn tiny bells around the hat.

       It  looks for all the world like a fool’s cap, but I say nothing. We have to make our own entertainment up here.

Wait a minute, it’s a dunce’s hat! And when he

shakes his head he sounds like a wee reindeer.

       I lie back down in bed, “That’s it!

He’s finally gone over the top.”  I laugh

quietly into my pillow.

       There’s no reason to hurt a person’s

feelings, even if he’s already crazier than a shit-house rat.


And maybe he’s getting worse.

       The preacher showed up with some lumber  the other night, and some kind of beauty queen.

It seems he’s going to build a small house over the bunker and use the bunker as a basement.


        I go over to Artie’s bar, hang my coat on the moose head nearest me. I have the Lee Enfield bolt action 303 hanging under my right arm, as per usual. The barrel and the stock are both cut short, of course.

       When living in the Great Beyond it’s best to stay well armed.


       Preacher and Helga show up and they sit on the stools next to me. She has powder blue tight jeans on, and she has curves where most people only imagine curves could be.

      The story unfolds naturally. Preacher had a small white church in Inuvik and he was getting no donations for his Feed the Children fund. So he got drunk and threw several well- publicized tantrums.

   He was up on the church roof waving a scotch bottle above his head

and screaming  “FUCK DONATIONS!” Helga says.

       His next bright idea was to make porn movies in the basement of the church, and raise some cash that way.  And bingo, it worked.

In the meantime he developed some arcane erotic tastes. And he had left his pervo mags under the bed in his bunker.

      The upshot of this whole situation is – he wants his mags back now…!

And he thinks he knows who has them. 


      I get Artie to pour me another of the special standard drink of the house: “PROOF AND BUSH BERRIES” served in a tin cup.

      The door of the bar opens to the Main Lane and I hear that jingling sound again…

      Then I hear war hoots and the banging of

a drum! And somebody out there is chanting.

        Hank has had those extra-special porn mags all last winter. Now he doesn’t want to part with them. He really doesn’t want to part with them.

         I catch a glimpse of a man with a white priest’s collar wearing a very bright Indian

headdress. He’s chanting and waving a club

above his head. Also, he’s beating beating a drum. And making war whoops to a rhythm

no one can discern.

         “This happens all the time up north,” says Helga.


I ask myself.


            I take a quick look outside the door of the bar. I see a scenario out of the stuff

of a weird comic’s dream. A man in a priest’s collar is standing erect in a headdress, holding a club over a man in a dunce’s cap who is on his knees, trying to extract something from

under the chief-priest’s foot.

           This is a scene that is not approved by any version of the Indian Act throughout it’s entire twisted history. 

               If the legislators who wrote that moronic law, if they had had the imagination to foresee any scenes like this –  the one unfolding on the Main Lane of WAIT-A-BIT…  they would have outlawed such bizarre scenarios

with extreme prejudice.

            And added major jail sentences to any and all of the participants, and forbidden alcohol and guns to everyone in the environs forever.


          (  Up here we have no police. And no maniacs with badges come through this valley

at any time.  We make our own liquor, so no such law would affect us, or be any cause for concern.)

            Except now I’m hearing slaps and body blow. And I see Hank is on his feet again, In his hand is a two pound weight swinging at the end of a nylon  stocking.

            The crazed preacher and my  roommate with cabin fever, they’re circling each other with  an evil glint

in and a mad look in their eyes. Both are carrying large weighted saps. In no time at all, someone will be unconscious.


We decide to go back into the bar and relax,

have several drinks… Really listen to  the silence for a change,and like it.


(C) 2016 by W.G. Milne




               O.K, they  came to me out of the mists the other night at 3:00A.M., also out of the forensic wards of a major educational hospital located in the environs of the Province’s Capital. And if that isn’t vague enough for you, let me also say that this event was long ago and far away ha! ha! and well beyond the statute of limitations of all independent nations which speak in recognizable tongues.
               What was being said to me in the middle of the night was scarcely recognizable. But it sounded like this: “There is a woman who feels she must be branded…. in order to achieve what all women wish to achieve.” (This blog is now available to all ages, so we must be delicate)
                “We’ve had her locked up for the past seven months, but we really do not feel justified in holding her any longer. She’s basically an intelligent, witty, delightful person – with just one horrible and monstrous and psychic black hole of an obsession.”
                 “Sound’s interesting,” said I. I just happened to be up at that hour, the  “hour of the dead”
in most hospitals, “Tell me more.”
                 “Well, we tried ECT on her. (This means electrical shock therapy) And she seemed to enjoy it! Not the shock itself, of course, because she could scarcely feel that – but the idea of being strapped down to a table, fed a tongue depressor, and being hit with something that made her quiver and spasm…”
                  “I understand! I understand!” I say. I believe in shock therapy myself, but I am not licensed to administer electro-shock. I believe more in what I call,  MINDSHOCKS, sudden,
surprising moments that blow all thought out of the human brain, rather like a high pressure hose cleaning out the cylinders and pistons of the gasoline engine. I guess you can say I believe in “Blowing The Mind” as we used to call it, but only in a positive way and for a positive result – to facilitate further and better flow.
                    “She got it in her mind,” the Good Doctor was saying, “That only by being tried down naked over a rock and branded on the buttock… could she ever achieve the orgasm she very definitely needs, and one might even say, ‘ requires’.”
                      This called for a drink from the office bottle, which I keep in several hidden drawyers
in the counter beside my desk. (There is more than one office bottle). I pass the goblets around and I pour the brandy. Only brandy will do at such a time of inveterate introspection.
                        I asked the psychologist if she understood the direction this conversation was taking, and boy did she ever! She was ahead of me.  She said, “I vill go downstairs ‘maintenant’ and light
ze bed of coals.”
                         “First a toast!” We all stand. And raise our glasses… “To science!” I say. We all clink glasses and drain our cups.”
                          Our psychologist went downstairs. I heard a door slam and then the sound of the heavy garage door opening slowly at the end of its chains.
                           You must light the coals in an airy space.
                            “Where is she?” I ask the altruistic scientist.
                             “Over there!” he points out the window. I walk over and look down. Ye Gods there is a paddy wagon parked in the middle of my driveway!
                              “Of course, she must be restrained… always.” says the good doctor.
                               “Underst00d,” I say, “But at least let’s turn off the lights!” Flashing blue lights were circling across the trees and the lake and my
neighbour’s bedroom window. Oh, and there was my neighbour sitting on his porch steps, staring listlessly at the emergency vehicle.
                                It’s O.K. My neighbour is also a medical man. He understands such urgencies. But was he questioning his association with me, even back then?
It was impossible for me to tell.
                               The psychiatrist spoke into a small radio in the inside of his lapel. The lights went off immediately.
                                I do not think it’s prudent that I finish reporting this entire case at this time. But let me only say, the woman was unshackled and then shackled again in a more compromising position. She did achieve her goal, but it was not exactly as she had imagined it would be.
                                 I must caution my readers that Fetish and reality can be disappointingly different. And only a very rare person will achieve orgasm the moment a branding iron touches her bare flesh. The pain is extreme and intense beyond all imagining, and not really conducive to pleasure of any kind.
                                   It is the aftermath which is sometimes rewarding.   
                                                                                              Case 7:  Respectfully submitted.


2016-03-17 00.10.30 (2).jpg BACK IN THE BUSH WITH MY UNDERTAKER


Tuesday, July 19, 2016


About dawn the roar of an airplane woke me up. Some fool had buzzed my bunker.
                   I crawl up the steps and emerge
from the moon gate. A Cessna 180 with a huge spotlight between the floats is searching out the flat black waters of Rat River.
                  I sat on the stump I had carried to
the rooftop.  The Mad Poet had been staring at
the same wall for 10 hours. He was in some
subterranean low place. 
               It’s almost as if he’s a reptile
shedding his skin, before he emerges again
with a new torrent of words. I’m not sure
how the whole process works, but I think that some lower hell is involved. Some questions…
it’s best never to ask.

             Wildman’s sneaking up on me this time,
because he knows I’ll try to avoid him. That last bender that took us to Lima, Peru. That
was almost the end of us both.
             It’s as if Bobby takes his own blitzo- monstro holocaust with him wherever he goes,
and we both have irresistible urges to drink ourselves unconscious. But when we add some crazed drug to the mix, a high-octane upper guaranteed to keep you awake for a week without napping…This is when the combination
gets dangerous.
            About the third day we have a tendency to want to kill each other. He brings a hammer
down from the plane. I have a hammer in my inside jacket pocket…in case things get heavy.
           Hank emerges from under the bed:
“A plane! he shouts, “Did I hear a plane?” he asks, his voice is trembling. He’s like a kid caught in the wrong boot camp.

          “Will you take me with you when you leave?” he asks.
           “Sure,” Bobby says.
            “Sure he will,” I’m thinking, “Sure.”

  • The last time Bobby came by ,we went thru one of those benders
  • beyond all rationality. We very nearly came to blows, and that would have meant blood. Last time he ran at me saying, “I’ll Keeell you!” I had to give him a tap on the forehead to slow him down a little. I hit him with a 40 oz bottle of CC rye. That sat him down real fast on the floor. Then I had to patch the prick up and clean the sticky stuff off the floor.
  • Will Milne

                    “You got anything to drink?” he asks.
          “I may have a little something tucked away…” I say

         I have a quarter of a 250 gallon drum of moonshine we put thru the hopper two times.
When you look at a tin cup of the stuff, you see
little wavy lines above the surface of the brew.
         I hand him a tin cup 2/3rds full. He tosses
it down. The expression on his face doesn’t change, through his eyes cross a bit.
         There’s no way I’m going to tell him about the two full drums in the back of the woodshed.
          He passes me the cup again. I shake my head and refuse to refill the tin cup.
           I give him a nasty smile and say:
          “Not until you put that hammer down,
on the shelf across the room behind me.

           He puts the hammer away. I pour him
the next drink.
           “Shit tastes like varsol,” he says.
            I nod.“It grows on you.” 

            I add water to my brew and pour it down my throat.
            Out of the corner of my eye I notice
he’s playing with the skinning knife.



*        *          *











Screenshot fromSANTA'S URBAN SURVIVAL GUIDE 2014-05-17 17:54:38

         “Managing psychosis, hallucinations and arrest.”



received_963730106973138   gEESE

( Caricature sketch by the brilliant Ernie Taylor)




IT’S nice when you try to remember something and you draw a complete blank…There’s only white noise in your head. But maybe it’s not so bad: people train for

years to get an empty head.



**  mmmmmm   oh, yeah!   Can be quite disturbing if you worry about such things. People forget… … as they approach death, they lose everything

all your proud cars; all your muscles:  you shrink and so does your dick.


So how to make peace with this?

That’s a good question…


Well, believe it or not – being in jail helps.

—If you don’t want to stoop so low – try a strict Trappist monastery or cave in a mountainside in Tibet.

       After that you might want to

find the nearest county jail & check yourself in.

          (If you don’t know how to get admitted, I have several suggestions…

that sure worked for me, and fast, too.)


Yeah, pride is the problem, and we all got

lots of it. It’s all gotta go, disintegrate into

the universe. … Before the

angels take you and you begin to feel at peace.


“I hasten to inform you that it’s as lucky to die

as it is to be born. And I know it.”

  Walt Whitman                            “LEAVES OF GRASS”


Meanwhile, here we are in this weirdly miraculous world.




(C) 2016 by W.G. Milne


Q:What to do?

A: Anything you want.

Yep, and that’s good advice until it isn’t.


There is no such thing as eternal damnation.


(Hey, this article was supposed to be funny!)




THE GREEK GODS  hated hubris.  And you can bet

The Trickster hates arrogance, too. He’ll have

a lot of fun with you. But it’s his kind of fun,

not your kind of fun.



      So how do we lose the pride.  Oh, there are many ways – none of them pleasant.I can list some of the ways for you – HOW TO LOSE YOUR PRIDE:



Get whipped in a fight in public


Watch your wife get royally humped by a well-endowed

lover, when you are impotent and you’ve lost house privileges… ie:    You’re  in the back yard…


Getting beaten badly at high-stakes poker on prime time TV & you lose your house.


Being butt-fucked at noon on National T.V.


Being told by your wife that you must wear a chastity belt

when she’s out on a date…. and you  imagine what she’s doing….

And you have to clean the kitchen, too!


Being fired from your job for incompetence or drunkenness…

And every morning your dress up and pretend to go to work….


Being ordered by the Court to undergo a series of depo-prevera

shots… and your nurse wife administers the needle into your bare ass

every Saturday, while all the other nurses watch and snigger.






You do not want to go through these nasty dramas

when you’re sick…As I saw my father do.


                                   *   *  *



           We didn’t have masters in the West, until I came

along. After all, they killed  Bhagwan Rajneesh. No

one was very encouraged by that small-minded spiteful event. But things roll on.


 I have no need or desire for any kind of fame…I had

a taste of fame and I hate being stared at in restaurants…

Still…Someone has to say a few words.

And, hard as it is for me to believe it,

that person’s gotta be me.


        They have the TIBETAN BOOK OF THE DEAD….


great books, too.


We have Walt Whitman, though it’s difficult to discern his intricate purpose.Sometimes even Walt

didn’t know what it was.


          Father Belyea’s here, and I honour him.

He taught me things he didn’t mention to others.

What a guy! He even appeared at my trial to defend me.


         Are we not worthy? Of course, we’re worthy!

So we need this book,*




which  I’m writing, very slowly… Like

lichen growing on a rock.





Who’s going to stop us? They already call us.

“The Great Satan”, but we are not that, nor

do we have any desire to be that.


To be the Great Satan it takes a lot

of hard, concentrated work in the black arts.


Who makes the rules?

… … … We do.


I honour the Sufis. And why should I not?

This war between the east and the west   is a transient thing.



MOUNTAIN”***(WGM), it knows no denominations —– Only love for all our fellow creatures… this is the way…

And determination, focus,and the will to awake many hour before the dawn.


I honour the great Master Philip Kapleau of the Zen Center in Rochester, New York. We had a long and

fruitful relationship, although we never talked. We certainly spoke without words. And he appeared to me recently, years after his death.


It was said he would bring Zen to the west,

and he did.


I am not a Zen Buddhist. I have not spent years staring at walls. I do not have that kind of discipline.


The bush has been my teacher.

 The Great Silence, the Trickster God, and the vast distances between the globes. Also, a medicine

man who  who could laugh.  Man,

he had the sight!  And the ability to project his intentions across distances!

         The first time he saw me, he stared deeply

into my eyes and I stared into his. When recognition

came, we both laughed for quite a while.


       Ah, the north!


                                  *    *    *







You’re a rich man. You start to lose possessions. Ist a house…. then your Porsche,

then your airplane (your stomach fills up with blood) you’re banned from

flying, your pilot license is revoked.

You drive your brand new gleaming Cadillac right thru a stop sign

into the side of a city bus…. your driver’s license is revoked.

You sell your other 2 houses to juice up the bank account, but

7 folks on the bus have ‘back pains” and civil lawsuits have followed.

So now all you have left is your inboard-outboard boat.

 You drive that into a shoal of rocks, too.  You do not want to discuss it.  You damn well won’t allow anyone to broach the subject.




 Here’s a quick shot about the Gospel of

Thomas… which I didn’t write.


“Had I known the Gospel Of Thomas,” a Buddhist monk once told author Elaine Pagels, “I wouldn’t have had to become a Buddhist.” Presumably he was at least half joking, but the fact that he could say the words suggests the degree to which the subject of Beyond Belief veers away from what would become the Christian tradition. Pagels’ 1979 book The Gnostic Gospels was one of the first works of popular scholarship to cover the early Christian writings rejected as the religion began to establish institutions and traditions, many of which would have been lost to history were it not for their chance 1945 discovery at the site of the Egyptian Nag Hammadi Library. It’s no wonder that Pagels’ monk would find an affinity with the gospel attributed to Thomas, which deals, at least in part, with the concept of earthly illusion; her book might have done well to explore such connections at greater length. ((((Instead, the slim volume takes a hodgepodge approach to its subject, freely leaping from Thomas, which Pagels never fully explains)))), to other early Christian writings in an attempt to portray an alternate version of Christianity that never quite comes into focus. Pagels gives the impression of an expert who knows so much about her subject that too much of it gets crushed in the attempt to put it all in layman’s terms. At her clearest, however, Pagels makes her subject fascinating, particularly in chapters suggesting the possibility that Thomas lost out in the spiritual horse race between its followers and those of the Gospel Of John–a theory that explains both John‘s portrayal of a doubting Thomas and the reason Christianity began to explore the paradox of a human divinity, instead of attempting to parse cryptic sayings like


“But if you will not know yourselves, you dwell in poverty, and it is you who are that poverty.”


History could have taken a different turn, and the speculation Pagels encourages by simply raising that possibility frequently compensates for her book’s shortcomings.


O.K.  Lots of people are brain-dead drooling idiots.

 It’s wrong of us not to embrace them.


I know a little more than Elaine about the mystical core of this subject. But this is not a competition. The time I spent on top of cliffs, mountains and rooftops emptying my thoughts and emotions out of my psyche   until I had the ability to see… they don’t give diplomas for this stuff… and there’s no need to. These experiences are their own reward… If you

survive them.


Competition is the law of the weak.


This is the beginning of the story.



(C) 2016 by W.G. Milne





We’re building a bell on a cliff.

It must be done.




If you’re interested.



photo-art by Krista Gedem






“Name Imust nbort reveak”

“This is the sort of sentence you”ll write
after taking it.”

“I found a drug that not only makes you
inarticulate in the morning; it makes you
stutter unattractively all through the afternoon.”
“It affects your motor functions;
(you won’t be able to ride your bicycle, anywhere
but in your own driveway).”
“It wipes your memory right out!
I mean completely!”
(It just took me three minutes trying to spell
the word, “please” – and that’s a word I use a lot!
Now I’m having trouble with the word, “minute.”

“Oh, yes, it’s also taken me over ten
minutes to type this Notice… So it annihilates your
typing skills as well.”
“Though, to be fair, I’m typing in the dark,
using only the light from the computer screen, and
my eyesight seems a  little blurry.There are no light bulbs
in this apartment., and there haven’t been any light bulbs
in this apartment for a considerable time.”
“There was a list here somewhere.”

“I can’t tell you the name of the drug
unless we’re alone together in an empty
parking lot.”

EDITOR’S NOTE: To get to the bottom of the story
your Roving Reporter felt he had to take an extreme
multiple of the recommended adult dose.


We’re at the restaurant.
I’m meeting with the mother of  my  daughter.
She sits down across from me at the table. In no
time at all she starts saying ugly things:
“I’ve had a rough week!” I say.
“You look terrible!” she says, “You’ve aged
twenty years in two weeks!”
My jaw is pounding. I’d had a bunch
of teeth pulled an hour ago. I’d just finished
the Drug Report  about 4:00 A.M.. My fever’s
worse. And I smell some kind of odour
in the place.
“You look like you’re going to die!”
she says.
“That’s about how I feel,” I say.
Things are moving in the wall behind her head.
I try not to notice.

I say to her, “Look, I don’t want to hear anything
negative right now, especially about myself. I’m telling
you I’ve had a rough week, I mean really rough!”
“I just had six teeth pulled and then the Doc said:
‘Come back next week and we’ll do the other side!'”
“Day to day I’m running a high fever. I’m
sweating and my face is red. And it’s not pretty,
I’m dripping from  places that aren’t supposed
to drip!”
I look into her eyes. She looks good,
healthy, fine, OK… But these days you can
never tell.
She says, “You look 80, at least!”
“80? I say, “I feel older than 80!
I can’t even ride my bicycle.I was weaving all over the
road. I just clipped a post. A lot of cars were honking.
And I’d hardly left my yard!”
I hand her the money.
She says, “Well… I gotta go.”
I  reach out to shake her hand.
She backs away and says, “I can’t
shake that! God knows what I’m gonna catch!”

I watch her walk out the door. Then I
get up, stumble over to the exit sign. I push hard
to get outside.
I walk my bicycle this time
all the way across town.

Respectfully submitted, R.R.


  This painting –   It is  my idea of how the Spirit moves.
 Abby, your grandfather didn’t actually know about
 Godepli Teppe… but as he lay dying ( and I was there with him every step of the way…until the angels took him and I saw his expression change from anguish to joy)
His bags were packed in the cupboard of his hospital room – he had booked passage on a ship for a trip around the Black Sea. I loved him very much, and I love you the same way.

A painting I did at 3:00 A.M. in the throes of_____


I just watched a MOVIE called:
“WE ARE YOUR FRIENDS” with Zac Efron.
The movie was about assembling a real track as a D.J. 
learning his trade.
The process is almost identical to the process  –
the assemblage of a poem.
    All the best to you,   from  W.G. Milne
Walker Ballantine's photo.
Walker Ballantine's photo.

Sunday, July 10, 2016


          But what if I’m not?

           I’m the asshole from a good family, making an exorbitant wage, who threw it all away to paddle off into the deep bush…
          Why?  Because I had seen certain signs
in the heart of the wilderness.

            And when I told a few people about these overwhelming signs… did anybody tell me to carry on, to keep doing what I had been doing?  Only a very few people had the nerve to talk to me at all. One or two of my close friends
whispered to me that I should carry on.
            I had a 1000 acre dairy farm once. And I worked and worked at it. And I was studying Law at the university at the same time. In early
January, the floor of the barn froze That wasn’t such a big problem. 
            But in February, when he had to start
baling the barn with milk pails… and the freezing cold water had risen up to the ankles of 180 Holstein dairy cows, and the cows would no longer “let their milk down”… we had major problems
           The old man had told me to buy a farm.
He wanted a vast area of land on which to grow potatoes. We had talked many nights, laughing about a whole lot of things –  but I do not think I ever heard the words, “Potatoes Farm”.
      Nope never heard such a thing at all.
 So I bought this rather large dairy farm… large for Northern Ontario is what I’m saying.

I had purchased these properties because:

            My father, with his bags packed, had left Canada and had set out on another voyage of exploration. This time he was convinced there was much to be learned in the area around the
the huge cavern in the earth known as the Black Sea.
            I wanted to say, “Father, you’re too sick and too old to head off on an enterprise like this… Your doctor said you have 60 days to live.”

What are you thinking?


That is what he said. This is what he always was thinking.
         O.K. There is no way you can make an argument with words like this. How can you say you do or don’t agree? There’s no adequate
counter-argument to be made against
declarations of faith and hope.

           So then I went off into the bush again and started building. There are many people
who make disparaging remarks against the
Indians in this land. Many folks thought I was mad. Yet when I had some project which required heading off into God’s Country for several months. No one except my native brothers would have any notion about coming with me, with or without wages.

         Let me say, in these somewhat lengthy trips into the Great Beyond, not all of us came back. And for those of you who are chuckling at me now. Those allies who perished… none of them died because I shot them. I say this just to set things straight.

         Now my dad never discovered Gobekli Tepe. But he had a sense.  He has a sense that it was there.

          I didn’t tell anyone the voices and visions I had seen north of here…over vast calm lakes,
way past the lights of the stars and moon…
words spoken by no one since Genesis. I managed not to speak a word.
          Not a word, after the first trip anyway…

Wednesday, June 29, 2016

The Beatles – Don’t Let Me Down

One of my favourite songs of the Beatles. John’s voice & intensity makes it.


Wednesday, July 9, 2014


I was scanning the history of the early Christians
this morning and these words jumped out
in front of me:

I am the first and the last.
I am the honoured one and the scorned one.
I am the whore and the holy one.
I am the wife and the virgin.
I am the mother and the daughter…
I am the barren one
    and many are her sons.

                                      (The Thunder, Perfect Mind)

       Apart from the fact that these words emanate
from a female fount of the godhead, a female
God, these words are strange because
many of these statements are stating paradox,
contradictions… and a truth, a being deeper
than these contradictions.
       Now I am a mystic, not so much a scholar.
The scholarly details do not matter to me
so much – it is the being beneath the words,
the mind arising out of a consciousness
deeper than the mere awareness of 

        This being that transcends individuals,
that is more omnipresent than the subjects
of the contradictions in this poem –
this “being” that is beneath and beyond –
this is what a mystic focuses on…
the deeper meaning. This mind within and
without all things: this knowing the inner
and the outer, the holy and the abomination,
the beauty and ugliness emanating from the
same coin.

       This is what the mystic quest is all
about – and, to be honest – the mystic quest
and the Grail quest I see as being
one and the same thing. Except the
mystic quest does not need to have
any  Christian trappings.
       But the mystic must confront
the sacred, nevertheless: and the mystic
must confront the profane.

        Sometimes, and this can be confusing,
 the sacred and the profane are both
embodied in the same vessel.
        The holy poem mentioned above

I am the solace of my labour pains.
I am the bride and the bridegroom,
and it is my husband who begot me.
I am the mother of my father
    and the sister of my husband,
     and he is my offspring.
 I am the slave of him who prepared me.
I am the ruler of my offspring.
But he is the one who begot me before the time
     on a birthday.
And he is my offspring in due time
     and my power is from him.
I am the staff of his power in his youth,
     and he is the rod of my old age.
      And whatever he wills happens to me.
I am the silence that is incomprehensible…
I am the utterance of my name.

         The poem is a lot longer than this.
I meant to print out only a few verses,
but the beauty and the flow and the magic of it
caught me.

“I am shameless; I am ashamed.”

“Do not be arrogant to me when I am cast out upon 

        the earth,
  You will find me in those who are to come.
 “Do not look upon me on the dung-heap
        nor go and leave me cast out,
        and you will find me in the kingdoms.”

         These last few lines remind me very
much of the words of Christ:

“Whoever is cruel and arrogant to the least of these
  poor,  and cast out persons…”

        DOES IT TO ME.

         Once we realize that the godhead can be
found in every and all aspects of life, and
in all places however foul and lowly,
the person there is also the great king…
well… perhaps we will not be so cruel to others
 once we realize we are being cruel to God.

         I got swept away by the poetry of the words…
It is in the very contradictions of this poem
that the mystic truth resides.
         Don’t bother trying to approach a mystic
truth with your intellectual mind, you’ll
have no luck at all. No, your mind must
penetrate through the contradictions…
in order to find the core, the source
of the fountain.

          If you are trying to catch the fish
in the stream, don’t use a bowl.

“Why, you who hate me, do you love me
        and hate those who love me?”

          You can feel the pain in these words,
coming from a woman’s heart.


(C)1980-2016 by William G. Milne



   BIOGRAPHY FOR AUTHOR’S PAGE  for amazon kindle
William G. Milne – Walker Ballantine on Facebook…. J.J. Williejohn on Twitter….the writer of Roving Reporter Rants
on Blogger He’s written 13 books and so far he’s published  four.
“I was born in  born in Northern Ontario and travelled to the north coast of Jamaica at the age of 6.My father was diagnosed with MS, was told he had a year to live, and that, ‘Maybe a warm climate will help.'”

           I lived eight years in Jamaica. I did the schoolwork that was set out for me between 7:00A.M. and 8:00A.M. in the morniong. I spent my days by the sea mostly – exploring sea pools, walking on reefs and deserted beaches. 
          When I first arrived in Jamaica, there were very few
Hotels on the island. One of them was the Tower Isle,
east of Ocho Rios.
He says, “I met my first Rastaman when I was six. I was walking along the deserted beach just before dawn… My dog followed along, chasing sand crabs. Three turkey vultures hopped along behind me on the beach. They weren’t tame, I just fed them a lot.
When Clinton heard me coming, he jumped up and stared  into the dark.  He said, ” Out of nowhere comes this little blonde kid with a dog and three John Crows hopping behind. I didn’t know what I was seeing.”

        “Soon as he saw me, he calls out: ‘Rastaferai! Jah! Protect us!’  Later the two became friends, but
not at first.”I thought he was demon!” Clinton says and laughs.
           “A blonde white child come out of the darkness, man! with three John Crow!”
             Clinton was smoking a spliff. Smoking herb, the
holy plant, sacrament of the Rastaman. Early each morning he smoked the sweet herb before paddling his dugout canoe out across the tides.
              “When I was older I’d have the mushroom or the
marijuana tea.”
               In  Jamaica God still exists. You can feel Jah’s
spirit in the air. Also there are tales of duppies and the
rolling calf and spirits. “A demon child appearing out of the darkness… It could happen. man!”
          Perhaps Clinton was more prone to dreams 
and visions than usual because of the sweet herb.
“Dreams can teach reality.”
“Miss Gwen, Gwendolyn Dickens raised me
when my parents were gone travelling. She taught
me such things as, ‘A man’s strength is in his hair.”
And, “A prophet never put a comb through his hair,
          “These are truths I believe still. People ask
about the demons and angels and gods who appear
in my books. This is the world I grew up in. This is the
world I choose to live in still, a world where anything
is possible.”
         ” Calypso bands and dancers would come down the road. I remember one bongo drummer who was so
playful with his drum. He seemed to know something my
parents did not, so I wanted to be a musician.”
            “Jamaica, then private school, then the lakes
and bush of the Canadian north, these are my background.”
 I was raised near Saint Ann’s Bay, not three miles from where Bob Marley was growing up and learning his skills.
In Canada I completed grade 13 at Upper Canada College. Then I did four year degree in English Language and

Literature at Victoria College, University of Toronto. 
               “I was lucky enough to study with Northrop Frye for four years and with Father Belyea at St Michael’s College. These two men were major influences in my life.”
                “I was a folk singer at first. Then I started playing electric guitar at the Zanzibar Tavern , a strip house on Yonge Street, Toronto. This was one of my life’s ambitions – to play guitar in that atmosphere.
” That’s where I learned how to play the blues. 

Playing with Bobby Dean, Clayton Alexander Johnston,
and Doug Johnston at the Zanzibar. I lived upstairs
above the striptease palace.”
                 I started a band called “Johnny Rock and the Angels”  both before and after getting a Law Degree at Queens University.  
        “Slave Wages” was my first book of poetry, published by Temple’s Gate Books. I sold  over 1000 copies of that book from the stage. But now it’s out of print. I plan to re-publish
that book of narrative poems as part of a larger collection, which I won’t name until its copyright is protected.
          I was Roving Reporter for a newspaper called , “The Talk of the Town” in North Bay and Ottawa. I published over 60 short stories with that papers. 
          The “Roving Reporter” was a character in these stories, and artist, Ernie Taylor, did caricatures of me as this
Roving Reporter  character.
          “I portrayed the Roving Reporter character as
being a heavy drinker when he was  out on assignment,
getting to the bottom of some story.” 
           The newspaper received a lot of protesting letters:  “This isn’t funny! This man should be institutionalized!”
            ” Some people didn’t understand that I exaggerate for
comic effect! I’m not a reporter. I’m a storyteller and
humourist. Apparently I’ve got a strange sense of humour,
because I  people were offended from time to time.”
             ” I  preferred not to water down the
content of my narrative.”
              So if you’re reading William Milne, W.G. Milne or my pen name, Walker Ballantine, remember I’m not trying to  offend you, and hoping that you enjoy yourself and find some
cause for laughter.

              I have three books now published at Amazon.com Kindle store. 

               ‘SANTA’S URBAN SURVIVAL GUIDE” is a humourous look at arrest, incarceration and how to
get released. “Santa” became my nickname, during
my  stays in jail, because I’m big with long white
hair and a beard.”
              A friend, who should know,was
reading this over my shoulder. She says, “No, no,
it’s not so much your looks. It’s because you have a
generous spirit and a kind heart – that’s why we
call you Santa.” 
              I like to believe her.
FETISH.  This content of this book is extreme, but it’s
also extremely funny. Some of the stories from the
FEMALE ORGASM CLINIC are contained within.
There are  actual cases of  orgasm repression
 in women who were cured. 
             The women in these cases are real.
And some of the cures are real.

FOUND ANEW. This book relates some of the content of
the gospels discovered at Nag Hammadi, 1945. Even the
“source” gospel from which the Biblical gospels
derived. The discovery of these gospels 2000 years
after the death of the saviour, and the consciousness
that shall arise from digesting them, this is how
Christ returns a second time.

            I’m preparing more books to add to these ones.
“Tales of The Roving Reporter,” will be one such book.
I won’t mention the names of the other books until
I have some copyright protection for them.                                                               


   The Article Below is on   FETISH!   

Of course, if you’re 18, you’re almost certain
to have a definite bent already.
             The association of a physical object with
arousal is extremely common. It might be a glove,
a high-heel shoe, a crop, a cane, a paddle, a belt…
or maybe even a rubber pillow you used to hump
 on the floor when you were  young.
              Whatever it is, I don’t want to
influence your choice of fetish.  To be honest,
you don’t choose your fetish, your fetish
chooses you. 

I use the ‘closet’ image when I discuss
S&M. Gay people use the image, too. They
talk of coming out of the closet. Sadomasochists,
are different – masochists would prefer to stay
‘in the closet’, because it’s shameful.
Sadomasochists prefer to increase the shame,
because feeling ashamed of yourself for doing
this dirty little act – it’s arousing in itself…
but mostly because you know you’re going
to get punished for the “sick,disgusting, perverted
dirty little nasty” acts.   These words are
arousing to the masochist. Humiliation
fuels his/her  passion.
         For example to be told his penis
is too small, worthless, useless and
infantile, this really gets the male sub hot!
Even if he’s well-endowed, he’ll
probably adore small penis humiliation (SPH).
This directly ties in to the Cuckoldry
Fetish, which is really booming these days.
But this is a subject for another day.
       Don’t read this if you’re emotional or feeling
sensitive today.

          For a while recently I was avoiding 
writing about major FETISH  issues… Then I 
thought, hell,I’ve already written deeply 
penetrating articles about fetish…. 
         This blog is partly about
fetish, sexual repression…orgasm repression
and ways to overcome such a problem.
(see the Female Orgasm Clinic, which
is a blog I also write, on Tumblr). 
         In the Female Orgasm CIinic 
site I tell stories about real cases of 
real women with deep, long-lasting 
orgasm repression issues. One or two 
of these women didn’t even know what 
an orgasm was…had never experienced  
release in their entire lives!
          They didn’t know what they
were missing. They just knew
something was very wrong.

          In almost all cases we find a cure.
But extreme  measures sometimes must be
          When I speak of extreme measures
I’m talking about giving the woman a good
caning, just to warm things up. 
         Then I find a sizable vibrator helps, with radio controlled various speeds. It’s often a good idea to leave
the vibrator inside the woman for up to an hour and
leave her alone to think about things, anticipate
what may be coming next.
        Of course she is naked and strapped down
to a table on her stomach, her hips
appropriately raised.
       Meanwhile you can change speeds on
the vibrator from a remote location.
        It’s important to use the kind of
vibrator that plugs into the wall. We are
not amateurs here, but experienced
professionals working at a difficult

          My assistant, who is a licensed
psychologist will observe her from behind
a one-way glass, laying a bit of a whipping
across the patient’s buttocks, every ten
minutes or so. The female patient, naturally,
is lying face down on a padded table.
          It’s important to use a light touch,
and then throw a few vicious lashes on.
           The reason the patient is left
alone for various lengths of time,
this way she can anticipate what is coming
next with trepidation  and intensifying
            The idea is to break all resistance
down. At the same time we are breaking
down all parental prohibitions, limitations
and restrictions – the parental and religious
script that plays like a negative tape loop
in her head.This is what’s making her sick.
           By the time I am finished with her,
she won’t be listening to those voices
anymore.She will stop fighting the pleasure
that is overwhelming her and start enjoying herself.         

      She is restrained with straps
and she will need to be when I begin
electrical therapy. The first shock
 comes as quite a surprise and that’s
the intent.Patients have been know to buck
right off the table, when the first jolt hits
           And there are other
surprises in store  for her,
as well. Surprise is an
important part of the therapy.
The psyche must be shaken loose
from its usual moorings.
           Rarely, but in difficult 
cases, I have had resort
to power tools.
          The whippings will
continue all through the night.
Not hard canings. Just hard
enough to keep the gal’s mind
on other things, so she won’t
notice when new therapies
are about to be applied.
         The use of many kinds
of distraction is a useful tool
in our arsenal.
          Remember, don’t try
these methods at home. Each
case is very different and my
assistants are extremely experienced
in each of the therapies.
            For example, no one goes
near the electrodes until they’ve
worked at the clinic for three
           Horrible things can happen
with an inexperienced worker.
For example,  you  can’t douse the 
patient’s body with water
 if the electrodes are still
attached to her sensitive parts.
          Considerable attention to detail
is necessary.

           My assistant is adept is very adept
at caning, and she enjoys it, which is important.

        There is libido repression in men, also.
         Of course, men can cum easily.
But there are shallow orgasms and deep
ones, and there is a huge difference
between the two types of orgasm in men.
A shallow orgasm is not satisfying.
         When a man is having a deep orgasm,
he’s not going to be quiet about it. He’ll
howl, shout, bleat… and make other
sounds you normally only hear
in a farmyard.
         Also, if he starts to pant
heavily…you know he’s having a good
time. Men ought to be caned, too,
to take them down to that deeper
level of arousal.
       But that’s not my job. I’ll
leave that to you ladies among us!
      All the weird and wonderful   secret perverted
acts sniffing  nylons and panties and shoes,
beating off with a girdle wrapped around
your head… and a bra tied around your balls…
 and then the busty Scandinavian maid catches you, puts
you over her nylon knee…and whips
your little bum with a bamboo
          This is the maid who always 
stood by and smiled and snickered when mother 
spanked you bareassed with a wooden spoon…
And when mommy goes away, she got the job
of spanking you herself.
          No one is likely to forget such
events in their childhood, for the rest of
their days… in fact, these events will
turn into an overpowering fetish in later
years. And without the spark of this
fetish, the man will not be able to achieve
          Not without grovelling on the floor
and crawling across the rug, his ass in the
air, to suck the toes of his mistress.
          This man might be a high-powered
minister in the legislature, but still
he will need to perform this humiliating act

          You see what I mean? All kinds of
obsessions might rise up with no warning
later in life… Who knew that sniffing your mothers
shoes would turn into a full-bore foot fetish?
A passion for feet that every once in a while grabs you
and forces you to dive under dinner tables
and lick the instep of some unsuspecting
paying customer…

       Now all the above fetishes do not apply
to me – just most of them.
       I have been surprised by “a warm rush of blood
to the balls” (my father’s definition of love)
 when I see a  woman’s well tuned
ankle in a well-made boot, especially if she’s
bobbing the high heeled shoe in a teasing, nodding
motion – rather as fisherman does when he has a
lure in the water…
        The bright fisherman’s hook  fascinates the beady-eyed
bottom-feeding fish;the high-heeled taunting woman’s
shoe  fascinates the more wide-eyed human male
who also wants to be a bottom feeder.
         All right…  I like kneeling between a good pair
of nylon legs…and I like dominant woman.
 I also like extremely submissive women who kneel
before me begging to be punished…
      I had a chance to spank a considerable number of 
women’s bottoms when working briefly as the partner 
of a highly skilled dominatrix…I wasn’t getting
paid. I did it because I liked it. The dominatrix
needed a male to play the part of a stern professor,
policeman, Nazi, daddy…or I could just be what I am –
a true sadist.
        The  fact is I enjoy seeing a woman’s
buttocks clench and squirm while I whip
a cane across her bum cheeks…and when I whip
her ass harder…. I truly love to see her butt
squirm faster – as she tries to avoid the
harder quicker strikes.
        And I like to be spanked and caned myself
 So you see, I know about fetishes – a variety
of them.  I also have compulsions I don’t want to admit to
at the moment.

               One thing I want to say is I am certain
that the study of fetishes – this study is at the
very core of the human psyche: it’s at the 
hub/centre/matrix   of compulsion and motivation. 
            If the conditions of one’s fetish are not fulfilled, 
the psyche turns against itself.And there will be 
rebellion in the city of your mind.
           Deep impulses  repressed become rage; and rage
is the ultimate perversion of the mind. Rage turned
inward, of course, becomes depression.
           How much better it would be to  just
have your ass whipped by a strong woman in leather…
 and get wildly aroused…over a considerable period of
time… and be ordered to blow your load
on her knee, her shoe, or in your own shoes!
         No one is hurt…your passion
is spent… and your homicidal urges recede.

            It’s fun, too! But it’s also a serious
matter. Ignoring your own fetish will ruin your sex drive. 
If you never do the disgusting, perverted, dirty things 
 you need to do. If you don’t share such shameful
things with your wife  or partner
your sex life will disappear.
          It takes courage to share what you’re most
ashamed of with the person who owns half your
earthly goods. She might walk out.
          But believe me, if she doesn’t let
you do all the dirty shameful things
you want to do to her…chances  are she’s
doing the same dirty deeds with someone else.

           You’ve got to break it to her or him slowly.
I find it’s  easiest to break the news to your
spouse, when you’re having sex, fondling
her perhaps.
             There are some items you don’t
want to surprise your partner with, though.
 I talked one husband into confessing to his wife
his deepest need. He wanted to have sex
with her, while he was wearing a  rubber pig’s 
mask and making grunting noises.
          It took her a little while to get used 
to that. 
          After a month passed she confided
to me that they’d had a lot more sex than
usual that month, which was great. But she found
it a bit disgusting.
         I talked to the husband and told
him the problem. I asked him whether
a clown’s mask would work as well. He
decided it would.
         So he started having sex with
his wife as he was wearing a full  clown’s
mask, red rubber ball nose and all.
 The nose made a little honking
sound if she squeezed it, which she 
did more and more as time passed.
After a while she started squeezing
the nose each time she wanted
him to thrust into her.
        I’m told she kept increasing
the speed of the honks, until
he was thrusting as quick as he
could. This was a sadistic measure
of control which she quite enjoyed.
          Some weeks later I asked her
if the sex was still just as good as it was
with the pig’s mask on. 
          She  informed me  that, yes,
the sex is still just as good.
” But I’ll never take him as seriously again
for the rest of my life!”

          Maybe that’s a good thing.

(C)2016 by W.W. Milñe


I used to know a bushman

Near a bar up north,

It seemed he could hardly

Speak English.


I used to take him booze and food

Twice a month,

He had an aware, conscious

Relaxed and limber way.


He was missing a tooth or two

And he didn’t smell good

Always in the same coveralls

Before and after chopping wood.


I didn’t let his lack of hygiene worry me,

There are some things more important

Than cleanliness;


He could hardly speak a  sentence

His grammar was bad

I thought he’d  live in the bush

For eternity.


But with a twinkle in his eye

And a laughing way

 He seemed to read what I was thinking

With each expression in my face.


He laughed, not at me but with me,

So much he couldn’t say

To inform me.


I got a job down south,

Didn’t see him for years,

I was teaching at the university.

I heard laughter next door

In the philosophy class

This man was teaching right next to me.


He wore a three piece suit,

With well cut hair;

He was speaking most articulately.


The same bushman I knew

From the woods east of here

It seemed an impossibility:


How he got here from there,

Cleaned up his affairs,

It certainly seemed a mystery.




Now I live in the bush,

It’s where I want to be,

Only wash my clothes when it rains;


Old clothes and an axe and unkempt hair

I grunt and howl and seem to hardly speak,

Only the rare word

Is civilized in me.


And I laugh like I know all the world!






(C) 2016 by W.G. Milne


                                                                  CHAPTER TWO


         I wrote  as  I was sleeping by the Big Lake up here -Lake Nipissing… sleeping in a shack on the shore with 
 with  one blanket,  two dogs, and three bottles of

strong wine (20% alcohol by volume).

Have you ever given a dog some of your dinner?
And the dog wouldn`t eat it?               

 I have.
         In the reality-fantasy  now, I`m living
on the sandy shore of that 90 mile lake, and I`m tucked in…more or less with the dogs…and now  only two bottles of wine!  Fuck!

Some bastard’s been drinking my booze!  I look up and down the shore and I see nobody.

I`m trying to get an article down to the office  ( THE TALK OF THE TOWN PRESS offices) and there`s no way
I can make it that far.
               The wind`s blowing up like a bastard… I hope
no Wendego howls tonight… Although I thoroughly

like the howling of most beasts. I like the howls a lot.

 In fact, I often join in. 

               The sun rises over the hills to the east.

Mist rolls over the waters by the shore

It`s morning and no one to talk to out here
on the sandy heath,

no one to send on an errand. 
            I walk a mile to call a taxi…. except it`s more than a mile… It`s way more than a mile.  I feel I`ve fallen off the map…. and now I`m into a different time zone… 
I`m in a desert that has never been recorded, on a road
that no one knows… an empty quarter…through a time warp that no one remembers.
          I`m exhausted.  I`m hung-over like
a motherfucker. My mouth is so dry my tongue is looking
around for company.  The tip of my tongue sticks
to the back of a tooth.  It`s like I`ve been stuck in
the desert for 40 days…. I fall to my knees… rest
with my face in the sand… briefly go to sleep.

       I hear a car door slam. The driver is standing
over me… I see… I see the glint of something
smooth and fine ,,,, It`s a woman in a short skirt
and nylons… She has fine legs but I  I cannot see properly up the legs. Gasping, I manage to sit up

and shake my head.

     I hand her the story and  say: “Don`t worry about me.

Get this story in to the Talk of the Town Press. It has to reach the press by 8:45 this morning !” 
       ” Can you get it there for me?” 
       The mystery woman nods silently… She sets off
across the desert with her precious cargo… This time
I do  notice her legs….I scratch my head with incomprehension… As so often happens with a

horrid, dry hangover, I  find I’m aroused with

my groin in the warm sand.

The first words in the paper the next morning I recognize.

I had scratched them down myself the day before.

The words are:
                This whole tale about sleeping on the shores
of Nipissing (as terminal drunks have been known to do for decades) it’s part reality with a  fantasy dream

slipped in.

…Sleeping with  a blanket (that how you spell blank et??? surely not)
                Having my wine delivered by boat—- and
attempting to get stories off by return boat.
                It`s not so bad now I got a shack.    I stole
2 gallons of gas — so I can inhale the fumes,
when my spirits fade — AS THEY`RE SURE TO DO
              Fuck!   I better dig a hole and light a fire,
do it in the shack… pretend I`ve got a stove. Steal 
a rack from a used  stove in a dump.

              Soon as that fucker comes back with the boat….
 I`ll borrow his  22, shoot a few birds and muskrats,
make a stew. Now I`m thinking!  (Yeah, right!)

“I’ll shoot a pigeon,”I shout out.
              This is the kind of story that used to get those
cards and letters rolling in   (to the editors)
demanding police action. 
            Hank staggers out of the shack…
           “I got a friend who boiled a pigeon for about
2 hours – he said, “Stink!  Did it ever stink!`
                 “Ya gotta take the feathers off em first!” I tell him, “You can`t just cook them like they`re some sort
of microwave dish…. there`s stuff you gotta
take out of those birds — the bowels would be a nice
start- take those out & ya got a chance…”
               The dog`s definitely hungry. I can
tell by the way he stares at me… those mournful eyes.
Perhaps tonight he won`t turn up his nose at my dinner.








































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