sin, sugar and sex

sin, sugar and sex

And tonight I am thinking of my friends. My capital F friends, the ones who tried out their recipes on me, taking the risk of poisoning me. The ones that bared their bodies in front of me. The ones whose letters I tend to read over and over and over again. The ones whom I kissed and missed and dreamed about at least once. The friends that I spoke to in a made-up language or a well-scripted body language; the ones that wasted time with me, the ones that read my poems as if they were prayers. Thank you and thank you, and I hope that you are well.

Some of you might now that once upon a time I fell into teaching. I fell into it the way you fall in love, or the way you fall through a crack in the sidewalk - right into another dimension of wonder and woe. Up until now I taught adults but this year I am in charge of some thirty little creatures with beating hearts and blooming brains. And I am beginning to remember my childhood: the time of lost teeth and lost crayons; the fireworks of first friendships and learning how to count to twenty and then counting everything in sight, and how some numbers seem so huge that “only god can be this old”

Sometimes obvious realizations slap you on the face like a flutter of a butterfly’s wing: You can never be too kind. You can never be too kind. Phew, okay. I needed to write that.

The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself. You must see the writing as emerging like a long scroll of ink from the index finger of your right hand; you must see your left hand erasing it.

Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin (via fleurstains)

(via fleurstains)

The street art of Valencia!
The street art of Valencia!
The street art of Valencia!
The street art of Valencia!
The street art of Valencia!
The street art of Valencia!
The street art of Valencia!
The street art of Valencia!

The street art of Valencia!

she is one of those people who have everything. those who are tired, exhausted, sick of having had everything - a hard bed of jewels, sweaty kisses and a claustrophobically cozy home. a caring family, a life made of money & a gift for creating beauty out of the flimsy fabric of words. but everything is a double edged sword and it turns out that boredom is not blunt, that it is sharp and acrid and can ruin one’s joy. when love is not enough - - when breath is not enough - - when adventure is not enough - - one doesn’t know what is. maybe death with its masks and its farces, its mystery and its dances. only she can’t afford such decadence. at least not now, not yet.

Days like paper cranes. Floating hours. I can’t catch them. Not even in this net of words. Love, love, and loss of love. The romance of tragedy, the tragedy of romance, sun setting in the soul. Nostalgia for streets which wind and coil right into the past. Nostalgia for dreams that are yet to come true… Disheveled hair at 2. a.m. and wine, and the strange roads inscribed on the palms of my hands. Ghosts of past (l)overs hovering near my feet while I sleep.

It happened. And now I can write
break up poems
As if for months I had been
waiting for these moments
Butterflies in my stomach
The good kind, I’d wager
And I myself, am a butterfly again

How many dreams of called
off weddings does it take?
How many broken glasses, plates
That time he made a hole
in the wall - -that time he made
a hole in me, and I felt happy…?

My inside joke was that I made
him appear. I went to church &
made him appear - godsent
And my gift was a gift and it
lasted, Until it broke
like a bad toy, due to disuse

This poem can’t be long enough
our love was stretched out
like a guitar string — which
makes a screechy, scary sound
but, god, how I loved to play it

Nights in the cold bed
trying to extract heat
from my bones
Nights in the warm bed
so lustfull of sex
I never knew which one I’d get

The night before we got a flat
together, I dreamt of wearing
a bloodied wedding
dress. I would hope
that each wholehearted caress
had paid off, each
of such nightmares

He never did respect my time
was late by default
I was the police and he
had committed a
crime. A crime of love -
we can both almost say

There’s nothing
I might have done to make him
stay. There’s nothing
& also everything, between us

Eh, so many worlds. There are as many wor(l)ds as there are people. I don’t even know anymore which one is mine. I’ve always wanted to live in all of them at the same time.

Ok fine. I thought it would never happen, but I miss Krak√≥w! Village-like, love-like, cloudy, crabby Cracow. Small streets full of people, tears mixed with laughter; the harsh, honest Polish language and the HeyNow! trumpet sound from the cathedral’s tower. And the memories that will never return and that will never go away either.