far beyond yourself…
L
drink from this, my well of jubilation
seep into the crevice where stories blossom
triumphant
glorious
fearless
lead me to the water’s edge
see me as a vision
see me as i am
a woman
a man
a heart beating strong
a massive jumble of a puzzle
lost and found
drink from this, my well of silent suffering
seep into the crevice where laments thrive
searing
formidable
cleansing
my hand cups the truth
covers my mouth
and still you sing to me from tomorrow
i will meet you there
i will not falter
nor hide
there is no shame
in who or what has been
i will meet you
there
across a chasm i cannot fathom
i will meet you there
there
i will be
L
– Lola Moi –
to make them blush…
The words that make the rose bloom were also said to me.
The words told to the cypress to make it grow strong and straight,
The instructions whispered to the jasmine,
And whatever was said to the sugarcane to make it sweet,
And to the pomegranate flowers to make them blush,
The same thing is being said to me.
– Anne Lamott –
ode to the midnight hour…
And here is where I wait
Here
Where fading sky soaks coarse skin that life has made
My mould of bones in its exalted search aches
When
Under darkened leaves I drink you in
You your soft heart to touch to truth like water
– Lola Moi –
(don’t) call it what you like…
And in the end, we were all just humans,
drunk on the idea that love, only love,
could heal our brokenness.
– F. Scott Fitzgerald –
sea full of pearls…
L
isten, O drop, give yourself up without regret,
and in exchange gain the Ocean.
Listen, O drop, bestow upon yourself this honour,
and in the arms of the Sea be secure.
Who indeed should be so fortunate?
An Ocean wooing a drop!
In God’s name, in God’s name, sell and buy at once!
Give a drop, and take this Sea full of pearls.
– Rumi –
never the twain shall meet…
The moon, like you, is far away from me, but it’s our sole momento:
if you look and recall our past through it, we can be one mind.
– Saigo –
under a waterfall…
Dear Gentle Sir,
Those fingers between my lips – both of them – are yours. Here, against the shower wall, I spread my long legs (with my foot propped on the ledge, leaning against you). The split of my impossibly smooth thighs invite you to push deeper, to race along the velvet corridor of my cunt. My hips tilt, guiding your eager tips to my sweet g-spot. My jaw drops. My hands find the back of your neck as the water races down, over my smooth mound. I am spread again. For you.
Our eyes meet as my hand grips your wrist, holding you inside me. I push you farther in. I want you here. I want you finger-deep in me and I want to fuck like this. At least for now. At least until you slip out and rub my clit with a focus and intensity that drills me into my hungriest self.
Then back inside. Please. Come back inside. Fuck me hungry like this. For now. Again.
Your fingers make me bite my lip, make me arch my back, make me push into you so that your muscles strain to hold me upright, to fuck me straight. Your fingers plunge, they make me moan. Even reading this, you feel the vibration of my breathless cry in your bones… and our desire leaks out of you in dewy drops that crown the head of your glorious cock. My juice fills your palm, and down your forearm, bathing you in adoration.
I need you like this, plummeting my depths, stirring up this passion, this connection we’ve only dared dream. All this that falls out of me and over you – is a waterfall of grace, appreciation… intimacy. It is my soul. This trust that spreads me and fills me, that makes me buck against you – calling me to dig my nails into your shoulder, bite your chest, and moan from the most secret part of me – is my gift to you.
Yes, you.
I love your hands; a gentleman’s palm… always. You, my sweet lover’s caress. My secret hunger made gorgeous flesh in you. Go on, choose: choose two fingers and turn the hot water on.
I’m waiting,
Lola Moi xo
when two become one…
riding the elevator into the sky…
As the fireman said:
Don’t book a room over the fifth floor
in any hotel in New York.
They have ladders that will reach further
but no one will climb them.
As the New York Times said:
The elevator always seeks out
the floor of the fire
and automatically opens
and won’t shut.
These are the warnings
that you must forget
if you’re climbing out of yourself.
If you’re going to smash into the sky.
L
Many times I’ve gone past
the fifth floor,
cranking upward,
but only once
have I gone all the way up.
Sixtieth floor:
small plants and swans bending
into their grave.
Floor two hundred:
mountains with the patience of a cat,
silence wearing its sneakers.
Floor five hundred:
messages and letters centuries old,
birds to drink,
a kitchen of clouds.
Floor six thousand:
the stars,
skeletons on fire,
their arms singing.
And a key,
a very large key,
that opens something —
some useful door —
somewhere —
up there.
– Anne Sexton (1975) –