Beast rally

We just want to rally,

to shout,

to hate,

to throw rocks.

Whether it’s for land, for thirst, for money, 

a man born on a shepard night’s silence

a prophet or a sage 

enlightened underneath a tree.

We just want to rally

to belong,

to break,

to feel higher

than them.

For books, for myths, for stories told

by long forgotten women and men.

We just want to rally,

to make ours

and not others’

to be known,

to be seen shining for fifteen minutes,

to be loved,

to be saved,

to be told that we are great.

To believe so deep

in our right to be,

to say it out loud, 

to live,

to kill

to be beasts.

Photo by Aris Messinis


How to leave a good man

How do you leave a good man who loves you? 

How do you leave when he doesn’t hurt 

but, you hurt nevertheless? 

—when he holds you 

but, you keep falling right through his chest? 

—when his words cradle 

but, don’t cause earthquakes? 

—when his promise is a fortress 

but, all you want is home with oceans and skies rushing in through doors and windows wide open? 

—when his love, only loves 

but, does not see. 

—when you know he will stay after breakfast 

but, he will never dwell your secret wells. 

—when he looks at you 


but, you remain a jagged mountain 

because embracing only makes things worse. 

And hope, is only as foolish as fear. 


So you stay hard, 

you stay ugly; 

and you let your life get blown along the currents of Venus and Mars 

while the rest of them throw rocks at your feet, hoping you will get back in line, 

or run. 


But, you stay still. 


You leave him. 


Because, if not, 

he’ll be the death of you 

and worse, 

you, of him.


Image—Lilith by Josh Brandao


Because we’re all satellites

Because we’re satellites

set free in motion by the want of life,


we drift,

we encounter,

we love,

we fall under.

We collide,

we cry.

We drift apart,

and fly far out

until the leagues in between 

dissolve the ugly,

and aurify the pain.






When the satellites cross again—

as if by chance,

as if new,

as if it was meant to…


As if.


Until then.



Image—Orbit by Kate Banazi


What went wrong


when you ask my long face

‘what’s wrong?’

– where to begin,

I don’t know;

Just now? Yesterday?

Nineteen ninety four?


the day I was born?


Aqua de Noche, Amy Friend 2010


Sleeping love

You’ve fallen perfect

composed in my sight

like a monumental piece of grain

a beautiful sage.


In my wicked greed, I want you to stay asleep.

From every direction I see,

every way I turn you,

you’re something I wanted, something I begged for

some day, some time,

down the line.



I can dazzle all the world’s love your way, but you won’t stay.

You’ll awake.


I know,

I know, that the thing that binds my sight

to you is your glorious flight.

Your wake.

You looking right through me

at something far,

somewhere I don’t belong.


I know.

I fear.

I feel.

It’s the only way.

So, my beauty, without me,

go sail away.


Image – The Sleeping Man of Oguri Kohei by Nemuru Otoko, 1996


The night of September twenty third

And I felt you break 

showering my secrets 

with a hundred million stars 

cast out new

throbbing to be



a speck in the great, big sea.



Image – Avery McCarthy



The way I’m sitting,

the robe,

the cold,

the bowl being off-centre on the table.

The bladder- it’s always half full, half empty,

half full, I forget.

The cat’s whiskers being glorious,

the water boiling,

the long dust of drafting all this on the keys again.

The tingles on my back,

the unwatered plant- it looks like a wretched desert,

the dry patch on the back of my throat,

the water being too hot.


The preoccupation with how often I urinate,

the post-urination chill up the spine.

The palm trees against the pale pink sky being too good to not photograph-

being too cliche to photograph, on the other hand.

How the page absorbs ink making blotches marking my hesitations.

Him, sleeping.

The loneliness flickering in the light bulbs of the four a.m. train, 

and the racket that it makes.

The situation of the world in general. A distant, worn out panic.

The horror of five a.m. and them waking up, to this, to make this.

This whole thing of being.



to look away from this thing-

this thing I don’t interrogate for honest words, 

this thing I don’t want to see.

The fear of me,




Image source unknown