Monthly Archives: December 2012

Bacon and eggs

Sooner or later
the world will have
you for breakfast.

And you can either
provide the ham
or you can give the eggs.

If you provide
the ham then
you get to be a pig.

You get to be
disgusting,
you get to
roll in the mud,
fuck all the time,
eat till you puke,
stick your nose in
other people’s shit.

But it’s your neck
everytime the world’s
stomach rumbles.

If you give the eggs
you get to be chicken.

You get to squawk.
Eat worms.
Live in a cage.
Get fucked daily.

And everyday your asshole
widens a little as you push out
yet another egg.

It must hurt like a bitch.
But look, you pathetic fuck,
you are still alive.

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As is

I  wouldn’t change a
thing about you.
Not a mole.
Not a birth mark. .
Not the way you smell.
Not the way you taste.

I want you
the way you are.
With every imperfection.
Blemishes, pimples et al.

I don’t want you
smarter. Thinner. Richer.

I don’t want to change
the way you smile.
The way you blush.
The way you sing the
words out.

I don’t want to
change your frown.
Your bad moods.
Your sharp tongue.

I want you without
a drop of artifice,
without an iota of
effort to better you.

This is enough for me.
More than enough.

This, that you are.


Defining you

You are not a woman.

You are an arrow shot
at the heart of
interestingness.

Swift. Sharp. Lithe.

A deadly thing of beauty.

You are the ripping
of the flesh of
the boring.
A seeker of all things throbbing.
You are a one way trip
to never, never land.

You are regret covered
in hotel sheets basking
in the sunshine of shame.

You are the banished
free spirit.
The arc of the inevitable.
A one woman
army with cigarettes
for air cover
and vodka for artillery.

You are a soft breast
against the shoulder
that gives a man
a hard on of hope.

You are dangerous
in a nice way.

Like a kitchen knife.

A homely thing that can kill.


What a mess

Everyday is strange nowadays.
Each day feels different.

Everyday is a flaming riot of thoughts.
A mean gang  of doubts
A drunken mob  of hope.

It’s the same and it’s different,
everyday.

I want to see you.
Talk to you.
Grab your ass.
Rip your lips off.
Grrrr.

The thirst is too high,
the quenching, too little.
The need is too much
the getting, too little.

This is so crazy.
This was so not supposed to happen.

I thought I was smarter than this.

What a terrible judge
of character I am!


The bloody thing

All this guilt, my love,
is nothing but
a figment of your
imagination.

You were not born
with guilt, darling.
Your brain has acquired
this defect over time.

Guilt is proof that
the wild baboon
in you has been beaten
into a performing monkey
in a skirt.

Guilt is your asshole
concious beating up
your childlike subconscious.

It’s your brain dishing out
out the punish mechanism
for you being such a bad girl

Or in my case, such a bad boy.

It’s the all too uptight
good in you yelling
down the happy giggle of sin.

The really poor can’t afford it.
The really rich don’t buy it.
We, the losers stuck in the middle, own it.

It’s all on your head, love.
But what to do now
it’s there.

Come here, sweets.

Let’s make all that
suffering a little more worth
while.


Setting sail

After many moons
of being a deckhand in
other people’s ships,
finally my own little blue
boat.
The immense ocean
before me and on its
heaving bosom a little
sail of faith.
I’m off to find new shores.
There will be storms
and fair weather.
There will be doldrums
of stagnation.
There will be tsunamis
of self doubt.
There will be gales of
despair, for sure.
The journey is long.
And sea is just as unforgiving
to everyone.
But as long as I have
the North
Star of my belief
burning bright and
hope bellowing my sails,
I am sure I will
reach new lands where
cynics haven’t set foot yet.
A land so fertile,
beauty grows a foot tall
almost overnight.
Au revoire, the world as I know it.
I’m off in my little blue boat.
And as far as I can see.
The sky is free.
It’s free.

The Impossible

The thing about being
in love is that you can’t
write about it.

The way you can’t
write about a storm
while it’s still raging
around you.

Or about a war while
you are still fighting.

You can’t write when
the mind is awhirl.
Holding a thought
impossible in the
gale force emotions.

Everything is magnified.
Like a divine acid trip.

The pleasure, numbing.
The guilt, paralysing.
The shame, absolute.
The happiness, complete.

What do you write about?
How does one describe
a kiss? A caress?
A look of longing?
A moan of pleasure?
The burn of jealousy?

‘I love you’ doesn’t even
begin to describe the
tsunami lashing your
innards.

The unsaid is everything.
That is the epiphany of adoration.

Try to describe the indescribable?
Don’t even bother.