Monthly Archives: November 2012

The end of things

Things always end
sooner than you
expect them to.

Spring goes in
too few blooms.

Monsoons dry up
in just a few rainbows.

In the space of a hug
a boy grows into man
and a girl into a woman.

Love goes before you’ve
kissed enough.

Friendships go before you’ve
done enough stupid things together.

Youth is over in too few hangovers.

The best things in life just go.

In the drop of a tear.
In the sigh of a regret.

It’s like time’s in a tearing
hurry to go  some place else.

To a  parallel
universe where things
are starting as they are
ending here.

Can’t blame time.

Things are way more exciting
over there.


Do what you want

You know you
can cut me in half
right now.

Tear me in two.
Break me in the middle.

Like that.

With one cruel word.
With a single yawn of disinterest.
With just a casual checking of your watch.

I’m just a naked,
shivering want now.

You’ve taken away
my armour of wit, my
shield of sarcasm, my
sword of irony.

I am defenceless.
Like a snail with out a shell.
Like a tortoise without a roof.

I don’t care.

You can make me
or break me.

I’m putty in your hands,
a pile of lego pieces
for you to put together
any which way you want.

Love me into anything.
Hate me to a ruin.

Just don’t be kind.

I’ll kill you if I
even sense it, I swear
on god!

I am dangerous, darling,
because I’ve
nothing left to lose.

You’ve stolen
everything, thief!

Never enough

I know we talk
on the phone all the time
and clog up the network
with our million
messages but still
there is so much,
so much left to talk.

We have so many
decades to catch up

I want to know
about you,

I want to get jealous
of the first man you liked,
the first cotton candy you
ate, the first book you
lost yourself in.

I want to unravel
the years from around you,
peel the days away,
till I hold you
quivering in my hands
like a new born woman.

And then I will kiss
your mouth
and teach your tongue
with my tongue
the first words.

I. Love. You.

And I will tell you
about the dream hut
I’ve built for us
on the shores of the river
of sleep.

And I will tell you about…
Oh, but there is so
much, so much to tell you.

And the day is not enough.
And the night is too short.



It’s the breathless waiting
for things.

It’s the hammering of the
crazy heart.

The butterflies in the stomach
trying out new formations.

The excitement of the gift
wrapping itself for the
delight of the receiver.

It’s a quickening of life.

An unbearable heat passion
cooking the skin
tender enough to be
scorched by moon beams.

It’s the toe-curl of happiness
before happiness arrives.

The mind reaching places
before the body does.

It’s eyes looking
at all things one can’t see yet.

It’s my silent phone flashing
your number in the dark and
me suddenly wide awake
with a parched throat.

It’s the cottage cheese soft
of your body before my hands
even touch you.

It’s your taste on my tongue
before our lips even meet.

It’s the delicious unbearable
wait for all things good.

Come soon.

Am I making any sense?

It’s not as if I don’t desire you, my darling,
in fact, I desire you very much and I don’t
know anyone more attractive, but I won’t
sleep with you because I know in my guts
that if I do something about us will change,
something infinitesimal that will make us human
and mortal and small and I am terrified of
changing anything about this perfect fondness
and hope my love is my final insurance against
my libido, the last stand against my lust,
so that what we share is always larger than life
and extraordinary and vast like the sky and eternal
like the stars and not a fleeting thing like an orgasm,
my love.


I was at a  store
looking to pick up a
T-shirt when there was
a sudden “Hellooo!”,
in a sing song voice
that I remember only
too well, and I whirled
around to look in to her big,
beautiful eyes-you
can- drown-in
that lit up
the whole store.

And stopped my heart.

Fuck, she was still so beautiful!
I was suddenly all ache.

‘Round necks doesn’t suit him”
She told the sales girl with a
smile and with that
took over my shopping.

She picked me three T-shirts,
two trousers that needed no alteration,
two shirts.

Everything fit perfectly.

And as she marked
a little corner of my
wardrobe her own,
I listened with awe
at her accurate
memory of my
body and colours
that suit me.

“No, the sleeves are too long, ”
” No, show me that in bottle green.”
” 32 waist please”

“Thank you.’ I said in wonder
and gratitude when she finished
‘How do you know this?”

“I always knew you needed help”
she smiled and
vanished with a quick peck
on my cheek, into the
gathering darkness,
to became a memory again.

Leaving me with
three large shopping
bags of exquisite intimacy.

The accountant coughed politely.

I had forgotten I had to pay.

You always have to pay.


Listen up, men!

This is good advice.

No bouquet will ever
get you laid like
a bunch of flowers
gathered from a hillside,
offered with your own two
soiled hands with brambles
still clinging to your
shirt sleeves.


I bet you three ice cold
Hoegaardens on that.

Try it.

Make her a card.
Write her a poem.
Sing her a song.
Paint her a picture.
Even if you suck at it.

Even if its a little thing
give it the warmth of
your heart,
not the cold of your

Your two hands are
enough for her.

She wants you build
her a little universe
with them.

Don’t be such a cunt.

Pick up that hammer
even if you never
put a nail to a wall.

Just by trying
you’ll nail her.