"The white fathers told us, "I think, therefore, I am" and the black mother within each of us – the poet – whispers in our dreams, I feel, therefore I can be free."- Audre Lorde

Wednesday, October 31, 2012


I dreamt I put the remains
of your cancer
in my crock-pot over night
and boiled it gently
on low for 7 hours
so that by Breakfast-Time
you'd be freed.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012


was the last thing you ate.

Not physically

Because never were you close enough
to ever really wrap your mouth
around me.

But still,
despite distance
You devoured me.

Feathers plucked,
Skin boiled,
Body carved

You presented me
On a white platter.

In your presence
I become edible.

 In your presence:

I am the flesh made meat
That becomes sustenance
But not satiation.

The beating heart

That becomes real,
But only in your throat now raw from hunger

The sinking substance
That settles
But only in the morose cavern
Of your stomach, now full—

full, but not pacified
full, but not appeased
full, but not subdued

 because I was the last thing you ate.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012



 To the world’s
You are scum—
Always have
Forever will be.

Unflexible & harsh,
Sharp like
Plunged through delicate flesh
Translucent skin
Sentence on—

Words strung
Like pearls around a neck;
Words come undone

A white marble mess.

Bound punishment
Sanctioned pack-back
For the unforgivable moments
you built your secret world upon.

 A secret world
That makes you now unworthy
Of a human status—

 Unworthy to be
And call
Yourself alive—

 But behind impenetrable bars
Like lines of a barcode
On the purchase of an object—
You become the disposable one.

You are object
Reduced and defined
by the contents
Of your label.
But this is the world—
In you, in I

Exists another


A deep, cosmic reckless Power
Whose justice exudes Love
And whose wise judgment

 Pale colours into horizon
Colliding and becoming One
With the brilliant hues of grace

 A subversive and
Beautifully scandalous grace.

 This Power
-          The quiet ghost—
Defies laws,
And rejection

 Opens up and unfolds into you
Already part of you.

 This Voice,
is the quiet one
Who mourned your secrets,
And ached for a revelation
Of flaws turned ugly under light.

 And here you are—
Sentenced and locked apart

But this Power
This Voice, this omniscient Presence
Pardons you


 A release
An underserved yet richly encompassing love
That gives you back
the humanity that was once stripped away

 And who whispers softly
Through the thick layers of your shame:

 “I have made you beautiful again”.




snail coitus makes me smile