Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.

~William Blake


Sort of about sex

Sex sells. But since I’m not selling anything, I rarely write about it. Not that I have no interest, but… I can’t think of a way to end that sentence. Still, I wrote this little thing about it.


I read this little book
about sex
and watched you
contort as if to please me
scream like you were
giving birth
or dying
dredge out vile words from your vocabulary
a litany of verbs
you bent over the bed
and I realized
that it was all a newton’s cradle
the movement
simply back and forth
going nowhere

Poetry: Katka

I wrote this about an unrequited love in my life…


Your whole nation

Rolls behind your tongue

A long vowel

Like the whittling of a violin

From a cherry tree

This novel has the appearance

Of haste

The consonants blurred and soft

As they are set down in

Still-wet spaces between deep roundnesses

But such wide, delirious spaces

You do not pretend,

There is no room for pretence

It is a luxury, like white soap

Or black coffee

When you look off towards the fields

Your lips tight buttoned

Reflect the pale penumbra

That clasp of winter about the throat

When you kneel on the heat of

Foreign sand

You are highlight

The froth edging the wave

Your country in the mouth

In the arms of another

Brilliant, occupied and stifled

By the diamond choker