Archive | January, 2012

Goteye, apple of my…ear?

31 Jan

Singing in the shower along with the cats? Check. Dancing up the stairs to my front door and freaking out the neighbors? Check. Swaying to the beat with my eyes closed and a glass of wine in my hand? Check.

What am I swaying to? Well, sometimes it’s this guy:


It’s not just his voice, it’s the videos, the lyrics, the atmosphere, the…indescribable tingling it spreads under my skin. Loverly.

Week 9: Mysterious human riches

30 Jan



I brush my fingers with my lips

Or perhaps I lip my brushes with my fingers.

No, no,

I sweep my mouth’s exterior with my guitar wielding human riches.


I do it so to feel the feel

Of skin on skin

And brush on brush. Continue reading

Week 9: Bonbons

30 Jan

‘The nerve of you!’ Mrs Midwitcher spat, her little leather pouch rolling to the floor and spilling pink bonbons on the rug and under the sofa.  She made a dash for them but only managed to grab the very end of the pouch as the last sweets were pouring out of it.  ‘Drat! Now I’ll have to handpick all of them! Mind your step, you!’

Young Mrs Thirdwitcher wrinkled her nose and exited the room walking in a very dignified manner or like having a pole up her bum.

Mrs Firstwitcher rolled her eyes dramatically. She turned to Mrs Midwitcher. ‘Do you want me to help, Dinah?’

‘Oh, no. Don’t bother. I’ll do it tomorrow. It’s too dark and my Jake will be too drunk anyway to hear the crunches when he walks all over them and I’ll have to scrub them off the floor with my fingernails and peel them off the rug one strand at a time.’  That’s right, just ask. Don’t even think of actually lending a hand, lest it shrivels and falls off!, Mrs Midwitcher thought as she threw a fistful of bonbons out the window.

‘So, how’s it going with Darryl?’ she asked in a rather jovial tone.

Continue reading

Week 9: Same Old

30 Jan

     So, here I am to tell you all the shortened version of the story. The story about M. I loved her, I still do. I dreamed about her. I still do. I adored her, worshiped her, built her an altar in my soul, made for her all the sacrifices we do for Love, carved her in my blood,veins,tendons,muscles,air. She was Air. She still is. But not for me.

A small poem for her-in romanian first, then translated, sanctified, hyperbolized into English. Continue reading

Week 9: Writing prompt

30 Jan

The past.

It’s there, at the back of our skulls, not always sweet and fluffy but ever waiting for the opportunity to pounce on us, dripping with nostalgia.

And that’s exactly what we’ll be doing here this week, allowing the past to briefly reign and show you a glimpse of us from before we were the Nameless.

Come sit with us and talk about “something old” over a steaming cup of tea.