Saturday, September 13, 2014


We are never as significant as we imagine ourselves to be. Nor are we as insignificant.
We are terribly average human beings running behind unattainable dreams and a chance at happiness.
We attribute a lot of importance to that brief fleeting mirage-like idea of happiness.
But happiness stems from ignorance. Mostly...
The ignorance of where you stand in life. Or where you are not welcome. Or where you are not really needed... just considered as a freak show for temporary amusement...
Not being aware of reality is blissful. It's easier deluding yourself, telling yourself you are happy because of something. Because of someone.
Better to stay real. And perhaps even stay unhappy. At least there are no expectations. No aspirations.
The solution lies in extricating oneself as soon as possible from all delusions. Of waking up before nightmares begin.

Monday, September 1, 2014


With my eyes open
And it's beautiful all around...

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Happiness is...

Feeling beautiful just because he says I am! :-)

Sunday, August 17, 2014

subject to approval

Some days I am just that bit alarmed by how much you matter to me....
And then I think of how much it will hurt if you left...
And then how everything feels calm and in turmoil at the same time when you are there
And then the deafening silence after a conversation ends...

Some days I celebrate each thing you said... not necessarily because they are nice things but just that I want to believe each word and just be... Happy
Some days I get into a rut thinking if I should really think this way about us... do we even have a future? Where are we going? What is to become of us?...

Some days I just want to let go and let you know - everything!
And other times, I want to hide each bit of you and especially how you make me feel -deep inside - like some selfish giant with his precious garden!

So I swing between two extremes...
Just thinking of you and wanting to be with you...
And sometimes just being scared of the whole idea of being able to touch you or talk to you... because what would I have left if I didn't even have that?

Monday, August 4, 2014

Friday, July 18, 2014

Perverse Pleasure



Just as he changes himself, in the end eternity changes him. 

On the phonograph, the voice
of a woman already dead for three
decades, singing of a man
who could make her do anything.   
On the table, two fragile   
glasses of black wine,
a bottle wrapped in its towel.   
It is that room, the one
we took in every city, it is
as I remember: the bed, a block   
of moonlight and pillows.   
My fingernails, pecks of light   
on your thighs.
The stink of the fire escape.   
The wet butts of cigarettes   
you crushed one after another.   
How I watched the morning come   
as you slept, more my son   
than a man ten years older.   
How my breasts feel, years   
later, the tongues swishing   
in my dress, some yours, some   
left by other men.
Since then, I have always   
wakened first, I have learned   
to leave a bed without being   
seen and have stood
at the washbasins, wiping oil   
and salt from my skin,
staring at the cupped water   
in my two hands.
I have kept everything
you whispered to me then.
I can remember it now as I see you   
again, how much tenderness we could   
wedge between a stairwell   
and a police lock, or as it was,   
as it still is, in the voice
of a woman singing of a man
who could make her do anything.