Monthly Archives: December 2011

The Sea

I sat there watching the sea.

and the sea sat there watching me

Roaring with laughter

slapping its heaving belly

with wave-hands.

What’s so funny?, I asked

oh, don’t mind me, it giggled

it’s tough being serious

when you take everything

with a pinch of salt



Her kindnesses are her own.

My miseries are all mine.

She puts the salve

of her love


but where it hurts.

I don’t want to tell her

that I don’t know

where it hurts


Also I don’t want to


her kindness.

You are

you are

the lost words of my hymn

the cold floor of my penance

my unsaid confessions

my thorn, my damnation,

my hell fire, my broken goddess

my fallen angel, my rusty cross

my chant without a sound

my meditation without peace

my worship without hope

my bowed head

my forgotten prayer

Tips on running

Love a woman.

love a woman desperately.

love a woman desperately who runs.

Make love to her.

Running is sexually transmitted.

Once it’s in your blood stream, you run.

You are a runner then,

not before that.

Not before you are infected,

not before it’s a condtion.

The asphalt is dark chocolate then.

The road rises up to meet you,

like an ache,

like a waist.

The air is a gasp.

You are the rhythm.

You are the sea. Roaring.

You are sweat, heart, lungs, feet.

You realise only the two legged make love,

while the four legged just fuck.

You realise loving is about standing up.

taking a step,

and then another.

Run like a Homo Sapien.

Spine erect,

head held high.

Like the wind

like a hope.

Miss her, want her

every step of the way.

In a week

you should be running


She looks radiant
Like Jesus on the morning
of his crucifixion.

An unspeakable tenderness
In her eyes, puffed up
from a good cry
from a good sleep

Her cheeks the apples
of Eden. The fruit of Eve.

The morning sun
bounces and filters
through the maze of her
hair, making a halo.
Heralding her

Her eyes know
both sin and good.
Her full red lips,
half open in smile,
are an invitation
and a question.

She looks so good
she could be illegal-
Nabokov would have
caught his breath.

She holds out a cup
of steaming cappuccino
to me like it is the key
to the universe.

I will never know her
I will never talk to her.

This girl in the
instant coffee ad.



The best way to cry is
to cry into a dry Turkish towel
Then you can really sob hard
And not worry about snort
And tears and other fluids
or making a noise

You can bury your face into
the cottony, dry bosom
Of the towel
and really let rip:
howl, sob,
be inconsolable.

And when you come up
you’ll be looking
fresh as a daisy.
Except for the red eyes
for which you need
eye drops.

The pillow is as good
but you’ll leave stains.
so avoidable
if you have a
towel handy.

The second best way is
in the shower
But you can’t really sob
have to keep it down
or time your sobs
like you are gasping
for breath.

But its really most ideal
for the quiet cries.

The third best way is
is in the car with the
Windows rolled and
the system turned
all the way up.
Having heavily tinted
glasses is a must
(Fuck traffic police regulations)
unless you want
startled glances
at traffic lights.

See, how much I have
since you left.


You are the last piece
of Hashish tucked away
in the fifth
pocket of
my Levis.

I want to inhale you.
Fill my lungs with you.
Feel you coursing
in my blood stream.

I watch me,
watching me,
kissing you.
Drowning in tenderness.
The tic-toc of time
an echo of an echo
of an echo,
as your lips smile
against mine.

Except you,
everything else
Is wiped out.