Monday, December 31, 2012

A Song of Chopin

(in four movements)

back ramrod straight; arms poised in mid-air:

and the notes would drop like snowflakes,

crystalline and clean and ephemeral.


there are ink stains on her

wrists, cheekbones and chin - 

they spread vein-like over her translucent skin.

people try to hide their secrets

but sometimes, secrets are exactly what they are:



the sun god apollo fell in love with daphne

who was a nymph, with lead in her heart

she couldn’t love him (not with a heart of lead)

and begged to be free of him.  

her skin transformed into bark, her outstretched arms the branches reaching into the sky

and her hair was the leaves whispering in the wind –

but even then Apollo loved her and kissed her root-turned-feet

and granted her immortality.


he knows that writing her love letters everyday

would not make her come back.

she loved him once, twice even,

but she never loved him the way he loved her:

as if she was a gaudy, orange-colored life buoy floating

in a sea in which he is perpetually drowning.


alice alice where are you

because she is always looking for alice.

she checks the rabbit-hole underneath the vervain bush

and the looking glass behind the mantel place

(the mirror smashed into smithereens as her finger made contact

with the glass and the rabbit-hole is covered up in dirt).

she didn’t think that

she would see alice ever again.  

Friday, December 14, 2012

this is what love feels like

 There are huge gaping wounds on my body
Where you dipped your fingers into my flesh

If I close my eyes I wouldn't have to see
the hideous scars; like black, yawning, abysmal
mouths, but I can still remember
your shaking hands
sinking into me and gripping me
by the bones.
And at that moment I understood
what being in love meant.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012


I meet you. I remember you. Who are you? You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. How could I know this city was tailor-made for love? How could I know you fit my body like a glove? I like you. How unlikely. I like you. How slow all of a sudden. How sweet. You cannot know. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. I have time. Please, devour me. Deform me to the point of ugliness. Why not you? Why not you in this city and in this night, so like other cities and other nights you can hardly tell the difference? I beg of you.

- Marguerite Duras