You are leather and soft and warm and comforting, made from a material and made with a metric of which I wish I could disapprove of.

I would be ok with dying early, if I get to die with you, in the palaces and the gutters, in meters and kilograms.

How much do you think love is worth in suffering, the universal metric? Yours is the only opinion that makes me float despite my soul being lead (Pb)



I evaded that trap, 8 am, begging, food, pennies rattling. Why did I not give anything

We condemn escapism always, abstract, is it destruction or is it just us, wet, cold, breathing, needing?

What’s so different between a housewife in her Danielle Steele and a sans-abri in his bottle of Bordeaux?

Tell me. What flows through our veins?

Question 1, question 2, question 3

and in between I’m writing again

e e cummings

may i feel said he
(i’ll squeal said she
just once said he)
it’s fun said she

(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she

(let’s go said he
not too far said she
what’s too far said he
where you are said she)

may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she

may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you’re willing said he
(but you’re killing said she

but it’s life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she

(tiptop said he
don’t stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she

(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you’re divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)

Moon City

It was a cry we heard ringing, clinging, wrapping itself around the lampposts, streaming into, through, the cemetery, onwards to lonely widowers petting their lonely dogs, covered, shuttered, until their early morning walk together.

And no, I don’t think that’s the status quo, and no, it was a desperate cry; maybe a happy drunken one on a Friday night, standing in for the beer-fueled moment of invincibility, maybe a pain-filled one of someone losing their insides as they twist and turn out of their throat…

Whatever it was, it startled us from our stillness, from our warmed cocoon of quiet, and jolted us into the street with the cry, with the crier, with the crying, and it took us a minute to reassure ourselves that it was indeed, coming from the street, and not from some dark twisted place deep within us.

Plat du Jour

It might be a piece of shrapnel, or the muted sound of a voice recorder, but I argue for some proof that we once felt this way, that the rocks along this path won’t turn my feet into gravel and brain to weeds. Give me dirty fingerprints, a tear in my dress, avocado stains, a pillow that smells like sun, or a letter, yes, a letter.
Yes, the light is soft here, yes, the coffee tastes like salvation, yes, I work, yes, you work, yes, yes, yes, yes…


When my mind curdles and breathing seems a bit more difficult, it’s that particular sunlight flooding the car. An empty road, need of paving, bending trees giving me whiplash, and shelter shelter shelter shelter shelter in the dark, under the covers, later.