06 May 2008

Seis de Mayo

I don't like being the designated driver, especially when it's a last minute thing or a 'oh my god you idiots can't drive' kind of thing. Also, I'm mean to drunks. They won't remember, so surely it's my right to castigate their idiocy?

I also do not like it when there is no room on the dance floor, and what little room there is, is taken up by people that couldn't shake their ass if their life depended on it. >_<

I do however like Cinnabar perfume. The imp begged me to try some, but I had my doubts. No more! I am INTOXICATING and in love. Wow. My first sniff (I sprayed into the box) was a little disappointing, but a tiny spray to my wrist had me smelling myself all afternoon.

And today, I have a cashmere robe that is a dull rusty orange colour.

Overall, I am pleased.

keep me on my toes,
but I stumble in your arms.

:     :     :   :   :   ::   :::

17 March 2008

A clover-less day

I posted this to the lustbites blog as part of their contest and thought I'd post it here too. It was party in response to the news, back around Valentine's Day, that Saudi vice police were banning red roses (and apparently anything red!) causing the black market prices on roses to skyrocket.

The first line has a double meaning both verb and adjective. Read it however you feel best suits. I also changed the word 'leaves' from petals. Mistype!

We were forbidden roses,

so I made petals of your lips, licking their softness, teasing your tongue into my mouth—

a bud, a trembling flower your body became,

and I tasted you, memorising you, tasting you as bees might, suckling from you a sweeter honey, my fingers brushing against precious petals, bruising you in a blush of roses, leaving my mark for others to know,

how forbidden you are—

and one last time I trick the flower your body has become, easing inside you, feeling you curl around me, furling leaves like a vine.

We are forbidden roses,

forbidden lovers.

:     :     :   :   :   ::   :::

10 March 2008

old poetry

The smoky burn of incense
leaves me thinking of
your scented hair
in heaven.
Your gilt face
much colder than my memories,
I kissed your lips
when no one looked.

2004 or something like.

:     :     :   :   :   ::   :::

14 February 2008

A Desert

Here is something a little different from my norm, and after such a long time. Haha, I sort of forgot, I guess, about this thing that was supposed to be my 'reminder to write something every day.' Out of sight, out of mind. I got a Nintendo DS today too. I suppose I'll be out of time soon as well.

Speaking of 'out of' this line from Swinburne's At Eleusis just took me and like everything Swinburne, I ran with it. This was supposed to be an entry for something, but then I forgot about it. I probably got cold feet. Anyway, a drabble on the desert, one of my favourite subjects of all.

A Desert

                when time got wing to fly
This Hades out of summer

The desert was nothing like he’d expected.

He’d expected heat, just not this scorching swelter; starkness, just not this desolation; and he’d expected the strangeness of not understanding, just not this strange. The culture, language, the body language, and the constant soundtrack of traffic. He couldn’t create meaning in it.

It took three trips on camel before he understood the sand in his clothes, on the inside of his socks, in pockets he didn’t know he had, and under his arms.

Suddenly, he discerned meaning everywhere—
in each voice,
in every touch,
in the nothingness of staring at the horizon.

Also of inspirational note, but I couldn't really work it in:

Thy two wings are spread out like a falcon with thick plumage, like the hawk seen in the evening traversing the sky.

He flies who flies; this king ... flies away from you, ye mortals. He is not of the earth, he is of the sky.

:     :     :   :   :   ::   :::