Day to Day Poetry, poetry


Opened the door when I heard the familiar
rustling of your keys
and pointed angrily at the floor,
broken pieces of glass and
puddles of water near your keyboard and
eighteen dead roses scattered all over
my living room, and
“That damn fucking cat knocked everything over,
and now there’s all this mess!”

You bent down to pick up the first rose
when I stopped you.
“It’s okay,” I said,
“we can just get rid of them.”

“Are you sure?”

I don’t even remember
where they came from.

Maybe it’s time
to move on.




This review contains spoilers. Read at your own risk.

Did a sense of nostalgia fill you as soon as that opening music hit? It did for me! Being a long-time fan of X-files, I have to admit I was a bit hesitant in diving into the new season again, afraid to be disappointed, because much like the previous reboots we’ve experienced in the last year so far (Yes, I’m looking at you Star Wars), I was afraid that nostalgia would not be enough to force me to see the series with rose-tinted lenses and enjoy it purely because we like the familiar.


Fox Mulder

Fox Mulder (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The intro was very accessible both to long-term fans and newcomers. We hear the drawling, calm voice of Duchovny narrating the condensed, concise version of the past ten years which brings out the nostalgia in fans, and at the same time, excites newcomers by giving them a feel of the world. From the get go, the show does make one thing un-debatable: aliens do exist – something that is clearly different from the old series. Perhaps given the time the show was aired, all we were really treated to were blurry depictions of rubber things that could be aliens if we imagined it hard enough. In this episode, though, we are treated to a CGI version of an alien, struggling to get away, invoking our sympathies, in the Roswell flashback of the episode.

Read the rest of the review here.

Day to Day Poetry, Uncategorized


A fountain of unspoken words,
a symphony of mental disorders,

there was magic in the palm of your hands when you first wrapped them around mine,
the landscape of your back shielded me from winter,
it was calm, and mild,

we rode through March together.

I sat on a white chair in the basement of your mom’s house
and you knelt in front of me, in between legs,
a sanctimony of lives melding together
compromises far into the horizon.

When I biked to your street, I felt hope stir inside me,
I cherished the light that bathed me in the mornings
of days spent tangled in each other’s legs,
peering at you from the corner of my eye
as the television slowly took the space over
intimate conversations.

Sitting in your car and I can’t help but feel
the silence entomb me,
the strain of this
encumbers me,
no longer limitless, or hopeful,
just distrust and lethargy.

If only you knew the world I lived in for a decade,
perhaps a bond stronger than love
could bind us.

Day to Day Poetry, Day to Day Writing, Flash Fiction, poetry, Short Fiction


Hold his hand at Benicassim Festival: 17th of July
Tilt his head to the side, smile and say: “Scarier than Portishead”

I once said, teasingly, “I’ll be ready with my tommy gun,”
To which he grinned and replied: “Interesting choice.”

One night I saw him smile because of an assumption:
He was thinking Alice Gull, I was thinking Alice Ayres
I made sure to correct him: “You know… the stripper.”
A wince: “The pink hair?”
He wanted Alice Gull from Ondaatje: the activist, the nun
I wanted Alice Ayres from Closer: the stripper, the younger
Who once said, that famous line: “Here’s the truth so you can hate me.”
“Have you ever seen a human heart? It looks like a fist, wrapped in blood.
Go fuck yourself! You writer! You liar!”

–I like you because you think differently than other people (another assumption)
–(made sure to correct him: don’t idealize, it’s fatal) How do you know that?
–Pardon me? (hearing is different from believing)
–I SAID: How do you know that?
–(The Blonde Beauty looked away before replying with sad eyes) I guess.. I guess I don’t know that.

an was denken Sie? 
Answer (the hateful one): What am I doing here, why am I here, what am I doing
what do you want, what do I want, are you being truthful?
This pounding heart is screaming guilt, not love–
“Oh I was just thinking.. about your friend.. and the drive-in movie.. that’s hilarious.”
Told me in great detail his special relationship with a cat
“I don’t like (name of the other cat)”
Why not?
“Because you can do anything to her—roll her around in the floor—and she’d let you.”
Rolled my eyes. “She’s not special (because she loves everybody?)”
“Naaaah, but this cat—he only likes me. We have a special relationship.”

–I feel like a secret agent and we’re on a special mission!
–Over and out

–Have you ever had a sex dream about someone you are not remotely attracted to—and you enjoyed it so much that you woke up and started to doubt yourself?
–Someone I’m not remotely attracted to?
–If you have to think you’ve never had it.
–Yeah, not really.
–No, I just kinda go with it
–Jesus man, that’s fucking hilarious!

We watched a raccoon cross the street stealthily
Its little fat belly dragging
— you know what racoons are called in German?
-Waschbär (Vash-bear)
-Like a bear??
-Like a tiny bear!

I remember our conversations. I remember your accusation: -You close-reading me?
My reply: -I close-read everybody, it’s a great hobby
(dodging, dodging: making you seem insignificant)
It also feeds my paranoia.
-Why paranoia?
-I don’t know…I think maybe close-reading people too much and making their actions mean more than they intend is a kind of paranoia.
And your rebuttal: I think it’s a kind of sensitivity.
And me asking, so slyly: what’s your favourite smell?
Your reply that made my heart leap: Women.

Try to recall the little tidbits that happened:
Concise, condense, narrativize
I am thinking of eternal car rides and euphemistic insults
of the war in the suburbs, you and me against the world
of jail times and punishments, of alpha females
of a single word that can change the world:
“This is the only immortality you and I may share, Lolita”

–You know what racoons are called in German?
— Waschbär
— Waschbär, that’s right. How do you know that?
–You told me.
–All right, wrong question: how do you remember?

–Oh my god! You can never move!
–what do you mean?
–I mean you can’t move! Look at all your books!
–I know right? That’s why people love being my friend—I won’t ever leave them.

–Do it, do it!
Hold up a warning finger: Please don’t.
Why not? You don’t want me to encourage you?
–That’s lust talking.

Clad in black leather, she stands in front of the class
A .45 Winchester magnum in her hand
The better ending to this otherwise deplorable story
A colourful one to fit your fiction

–but wait for the penultimate:
damsel in distress still in distress
the evil bitch that won’t, so she doesn’t:
and leave you with (though you [probably] don’t deserve it)
silence and