sin, sugar and sex

sin, sugar and sex

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 subsequent caress
had paid off, each
of such nightmares

He never did respect my time
lateness his default
I was the police, while 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
anymore.

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 Kraków! 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.

In this love you are like a knife with which I explore myself.

Franz Kafka, Letters To Milena  (via petrichour)

(via petrichour)

Willie Dixon - Weak brain and a narrow mind

The wind sounds like water

the great wings of the wind

are like blackbirds

It is such summer

that ripe, fuchsia flowers fall

from the tired trees

What would this poem be

without beauty?

And what if I said: gutter

inadequacy, death

jelousy and trash?

why can’t we love ugly words?

They are a part of life

& we are a part of life

and, all in all, is a part of life

when sour and sweet meet

when nights and days kiss

then we get something real.

This is an ode to the “moon lady” who hangs around my boyfriend’s favorite restaurant here in Valencia. She is wrinkled like a fig and has huge, silver-plate eyes. Her dress wafts a bit due to the light breeze. Now, it seems that the lady’s biggest mission is to remind people of the moon. Every time we dine there and she approaches us in the courtyard and humbly points her long finger up, up at the sky. “La luna es más grande que nunca” she says as we nod in reply. This is a hymn to that lady who seems to live only to remind others of what’s there - the beauty of the silver night sky we tend to take for granted. I am thankful to the bottom of my soul for such madness; I am glad that she does not recall having pointed to the moon like that the night before and still before. Because it is we who are insane and unconscious and who need to be reminded: of the moon, of the flowers, of loved ones who are by our side.

(via 0aklungs)

I am officially in Spain. My eyes open like flamenco fans, wide with wonder. Lemons fall from branches and roll on the ground under my feet. I am getting used to the sight of palm trees with their huge hands of leaves and their delicate trunks. I look up at the white wine sky and breathe in the sultry air. There is a way that heat gets one drunk, the way that fata morgana turns a stroll into a sort of a siesta. My eyes close against my own will, but I want to see more of the city. The castles that smell of history and the skyscrapers that are moored in modernity. The sea of people, the wildcats that run round lonely alleys. On the beach I buy a sombrero, in a bar I buy a cerveza; my tongue rolls wave-like in a different musical fashion than before.Who would have known that the moment the door of the plane opened and a Spanish landscape spread in front of me like a red carpet, a door inside my heart would also open, letting love in?


“Please — consider me a dream.” 

“Please — consider me a dream.” 

(via brownrosy)

About travel and instability: Can’t you see that as we walk, the map is moving? The lights are changing, our souls are shuffling and are being shuffled like cards in a reckless game of poker. Nothing is sure. Each step placed on the burning ground is a victory. Let’s keep walking through time, though we are blindfolded. Let’s keep walking, even though we don’t know where we’re going.