Posted on

when a man…

walks into a room…

he brings his whole life with him. He has a million reasons for being anywhere, just ask him. If you listen, he’ll tell you how he got there. How he forgot where he was going, and that he woke up. If you listen, he’ll tell you about the time he thought he was an angel or dreamt of being perfect. And then he’ll smile with wisdom, content that he realized the world isn’t perfect. We’re flawed, because we want so much more. We’re ruined, because we get these things, and wish for what we had.

– Don Draper, Mad Men –

Posted on

temple storm…

storm-strewn & slick
raven tendrils
plaster temple walls
lusty incantations moan
pillage
compel
revolutionize
disciples to the cause
spread the velvet dawn
eke out the rites of spring
‘tween sheets sodden with seed
sing
sing
a song of songs
my lover
my sweet
sing to me a new song
storm-strewn & slick
sing

– by Lola Moi –

Posted on

on my mind…

I whispered an offer softly in the ear
of your playful heart.
I closed my mouth and spoke to you
in a hundred silent ways,
you know what’s on my mind,
you’ve heard my thoughts.

– Rumi –

Posted on

drunk as drunk…

Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
Between my wet body and the strake
Of our boat that is made of flowers,
Feasted, we guide it – our fingers
Like tallows adorned with yellow metal –
Over the sky’s hot rim,
The day’s last breath in our sails.


Pinned by the sun between solstice
And equinox, drowsy and tangled together
We drifted for months and woke
With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
And the sound of a rope
Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.

– Pablo Neruda –

Posted on

passion is…

How is it that one day life is orderly and you are content, a little cynical perhaps but on the whole just so, and then without warning you find the solid floor is a trapdoor and you are now in another place whose geography is uncertain and whose customs are strange?

Travelers at least have a choice. Those who set sail know that things will not be the same as at home. Explorers are prepared. But for us, who travel to cities of the interior by chance, there is no preparation. We who are fluent find life is a foreign language. Somewhere between the swamp and the mountains. Somewhere between fear and sex. Somewhere between God and the Devil passion is and the way there is sudden and the way back worse.

– Jeanette Winterson –