henna is poetry

I marked her arms,
orange glow and paste-green,
the ghost of other flowers left behind.

/\/\/\

Ink on skin, words against breast,
I became a book of history,
a memoir of myself.

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teach this storm A thing or two about whirling

Bring the pure wine of love & freedom.
But sir, a tornado is coming.
More wine, we'll teach this storm
A thing or two about whirling.

-مولانا جلال الدین محمد بلخى ~ Mawlānā Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Balkhī

#iranelection on twitter

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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.



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

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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.

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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.

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