I will keep broken
the big clay pot
with raised iguanas
chasing their
tails; two
of their wise
heads sheared off;
I will keep broken things:
the old slave market basket brought to my door by Mississippi a jagged
hole gouged
in its sturdy dark
oak side.

I will keep broken things:
The memory of
those long delicious night swims with you;

I will keep broken things:

In my house
there remains an honoured shelf
on which i will keep broken things.

Their beauty is
they need not ever be “fixed.”

I will keep your wild
free laughter though it is now missing its
reassuring and
graceful hinge.
I will keep broken things:

Thank you
So much!

I will keep broken things.
I will keep you:
pilgrim of sorrow.
I will keep myself.

Alice Walker


June 20, 2017

Secrecy flows through you,
a different kind of blood.
It’s as if you’ve eaten it
like a bad candy,
taken it into your mouth,
let it melt sweetly on your tongue,
then allowed it to slide down your throat
like the reverse of uttering,
a word dissolved
into its glottals and sibilants,
a slow intake of breath –

And now it’s in you, secrecy.
Ancient and vicious, luscious
as dark velvet.
It blooms in you,
a poppy made of ink.

You can think of nothing else.
Once you have it, you want more.
What power it gives you!
Power of knowing without being known,
power of the stone door,
power of the iron veil,
power of the crushed fingers,
power of the drowned bones
crying out from the bottom of the well.

Margaret Atwood


June 20, 2017


June 20, 2017

Ugly or beautiful

June 20, 2017

I don’t think of good or bad. Just of beautiful or ugly. I think a lot of nice things are ugly and a lot of nasty things are beautiful.

John Fowles
The Collector

She was a wold of contradictions, a mishmash of emotions, where selfishness and generosity existed side-by-side. She was cruel but kind; loving but capable of intense hatreds. Elegant, proud, and arrogant – yet cautious, and at times uncertain. She loved to hurt and be hurt. Loved rough sex with wild strangers, and intimacy with a few close friends.

Otra vida (Another life)

20th June

Long, hot night. Such intense darkness is the property of poets, madmen and lost lovers. Laying beside you reminds me of last summer, when we lay on the hot sand and the incoming tide cooled our naked bodies. I can still taste the salt on my fingers. Joined with you then, I became submerged in your wondrous depths and your body sang this song only I could hear.

I only exist beneath the tips of your slow moving fingers; the rest of my body is smoke,  lacking substance or form. Only where you touch me is there any true existence.

‘My religion is pleasure,’ you once said. Do you remember that? Then I proposed a toast to drowning mermaids and angels with broken wings. You laughed; Gabriella laughed too.

Gabriella desperately wanted you to love with her. She lay on her back with her legs spread and you handed her a red candle. ‘Pour the hot wax on yourself,’ you said. ‘On your breasts first, then on your belly.’

She did it for you, too. Her madness was equal to yours. She had lost herself in the chaos that is you. Suddenly she was sharing all the secrets and scars at the heart of your soul –


I love the twilight. That moment of melting colours before everything dissolves into darkness –