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the passenger…

the passenger
He rides and he rides
He sees things from under glass
He looks through his window side
He sees the things that he knows are his
He sees the bright and hollow sky
He sees the city sleep at night
He sees the stars are out tonight
And all of it is yours and mine
And all of it is yours and mine
So let’s ride and ride and ride and ride
Oh, oh, Singing la la la la lalalala…

— Iggy Pop —

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scylla and charybdis…

To grip your beautiful hard in my hand is to lick the bottom of an ice cream cone filled with my most favourite flavour. Ever. To watch your head fall back as my fingers disappear between my silky smooth folds is to feel my heart fall soft and free into my throat with each peaking roller coaster dive. To moan our pleasure in unison is to wake to the smell of fresh brewed coffee and bacon on the grill; it is home.  To return your reach and hold you is to dream a dream I once lived.
For a moment.

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the sun came and so did i…

I wore a skirt today.
Had you put your hand between my legs
I would have moaned quietly
In the back of my throat with low, soft cries
And looked you square in your beautiful eyes.

I wore a pair of lace panties today.
I almost didn’t, though.
Had you slipped the lace to the side
You would have felt warm, silky lips
Licking your finger tips.

I wore the memory of you
When I slipped away “for a moment.”
Had you only been there.
Each moan undressed me, my gasps commands
As my throbbing clit fed hungry sex to my hands.

Chorus:
I came three times today.
But there you were inside me.
I came three times today.
And there I was astride you.
I came three times today.
As you cried out beside me.

— Lola Moi —

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you can’t have it all…

But you can have the fig tree and
its fat leaves like clown hands
gloved with green.

You can have the touch of a single
eleven-year-old finger
on your cheek, waking you at one
a.m. to say the hamster is back.

You can have the purr of the cat
and the soulful look
of the black dog, the look that
says, If I could I would bite
every sorrow until it fled, and when
it is August,
you can have it August and
abundantly so.

You can have love,
though often it will be mysterious,
like the white foam
that bubbles up at the top of the
bean pot over the red kidneys until
you realize foam’s twin is blood.

You can have the skin at the center
between a man’s legs,
so solid, so doll-like.

You can have the life of the mind,
glowing occasionally in priestly
vestments, never admitting
pettiness, never stooping to bribe
the sullen guard who’ll tell you
all roads narrow at the border.

You can speak a foreign language, sometimes,
and it can mean something.
You can visit the marker on the grave
where your father wept openly.

You can’t bring back the dead,
but you can have the words forgive and forget hold hands
as if they meant to spend a lifetime together.

And you can be grateful for makeup,
the way it kisses your face, half spice, half amnesia, grateful
for Mozart, his many notes racing one another towards joy, for towels
sucking up the drops on your clean skin, and for deeper thirsts,
for passion fruit, for saliva.

You can have the dream,
the dream of Egypt,
the horses of Egypt and you riding in the hot sand.

You can have your grandfather sitting on the side of your bed,
at least for a while, you can have clouds and letters, the leaping
of distances, and Indian food with yellow sauce like sunrise.

You can’t count on grace to pick you out of a crowd
but here is your friend to teach you how to high jump,
how to throw yourself over the bar, backwards,
until you learn about love, about sweet surrender,
and here are periwinkles, buses that kneel, farms in the mind
as real as Africa.

And when adulthood fails you,
you can still summon the memory of the black swan on the pond
of your childhood, the rye bread with peanut butter and bananas
your grandmother gave you while the rest of the family slept.

There is the voice you can still summon at will, like your mother’s,
it will always whisper, you can’t have it all,

but there is this.

– Barbara Ras –