Postcards from Istanbul /5

“Or give me back one shred from our hundreds  of days – a forgotten word, or look – that I might lie here counting  them, like sheep, waiting out the dark.” – Greg Johnson, Insomnia   Dear, sweet one. Gratitude today for the precious few moments I received to see you. Your face that I…

Postcards from Istanbul /3

“When I feel like being with her I almost prefer not being with her So as not to have to leave her afterwards.” – Fernando Pessoa My precious one, Today my heart has been with only you. I miss you more. All this beauty I see fades before the way your face glows in my…

Postcards from Istanbul /2

“To write words I put a symbol in place of an absent sound. To write the words ‘I love you’ requires a further, analogous replacement, one that is much more painful in its implication. Your absence from the syntax of my life is not a fact to be changed by written words.” – Anne Carson…

Postcards from Istanbul /1

“What impels me to write you all the time? Before I can even turn around to look, from the unique destination, unique you understand me, unnameable and invisible, that bears your name and has no other face than your own, before I can even turn around for a question, at every moment the order to…

Museing

Your body takes my mind hostage. Undulations and curves, cascading sinuosity, the convex and concave. This is the shape and form of desire. Lust is fugitive. It bleeds beauty. It makes my eyes drink down my thirst with a stare. It pulls the breath from me; slowly like a contraction. Then suddenly with a gasp…

Dirty love and watermelons

There is only one way to eat watermelons: like you love – with abandon. “I’ll share my watermelon with you and only you. That sounds dirty but my God I like it.” No forks then, no knives, and no spoons. Bare hands eating. Only then. And only if. “Any other way to eat watermelon is…

Proof

    The crevice of my ear still carries the hint of your breath, shoulders bear the weight of bruising Your grip is stencilled into flesh, yet fingertips trace a trajectory of the spine with unbearable lightness A forensic nightmare, my body the whistle-blower of surrendered intimacies and forbidden trespasses The feral scent of our…

Sext – Four

Mere hours separate us now. Let this time of longing be sweet. Five excruciating hours between this moment where I lay in the darkness typing this and the moment you emerge from glass doors at the airport. Time takes on such a different quality when I am with you and when I am not. Time,…

Let me tell you what my love is

My love is paint not yet dry. My love is colouring outside the lines. My love is paintbrush jar juice and 9B pencils. Blackest on black. My love is 30% extra for the same price. My love is the 9-item checkout line. My love is the cart with the wonky wheel that always picks you….

Book Review: Quicksand by Jun’ichirō Tanizaki

Quicksand by Jun’ichirō Tanizaki My rating: 5 of 5 stars This was such an utterly fascinating read. What begins innocuously as a tale of forbidden love between two women quickly unravels into a novel of grand deceit, depravity, narcissism, blackmail, and deliberate wickedness. More than once while reading it I was reminded of Sarah Waters…