so you'd better get ready. Because this is it for you. You are not going anywhere. Nothing more for you. This is the hand that takes.

I am on all four looking for something, from my ass there is a whole world coming out and I am just looking for something on the floor and from my ass a whole world is coming out

I am going round and round and round your leg to find the spot where we first met. I think it's near the ankle, but then again I am not sure. Your tights are stubborn and I am tired. I think I will only inspect your toes today, in case of a leakage; they tend to be precarious, your toes, they come and go all the time.

this chord, long and red and ready to explode, begins from my ass and reaches your bottom. And in between it traverses the calves of beautiful young women, it's part of their sandals, and then it arrives to you fed up and exhausted. It has no home to rest, no table to lean on its arm and drink coffee. It has nowhere to go, your bottom being the sole destination. Will you open the door, I wonder.

not you, of course, it is never you. It is the hole I have for a heart, the crack, the fissure, the rupture.

in my little seat in this huge space in the middle of this vast city, which does not know its own contours, I read you. I read you and I understand how sad I am and how lonely. Tired and exhausted I sit in the middle of this vastness, thinking of you. I do not want to wait or struggle. I just want to be you.

Is it the cauliflower or the despair? Is it the cucumber I ate or the years apart? The crappy walnuts and the boiled lentils or the cinnamon thoughts about you, that camp in my stomach and make me cringe and whistle and writhe in the little sofa I have for a bed? I will be ready very soon, ready for new visits, I will lay the bed, make the table and wait. I have cooked cauliflower and boiled eggs.

what is it, I ask. A pair of slippers, you say, but you do not mean it. You know these are not your slippers. They are your kind of thoughts for me, who I was and who I will be. The colours I stole from you when you rushed to leave the other day. No breakfast. No porridge. No banana bits, no trace of tear.

unsure how to begin this, or how to end it, I simply say: two or three times is enough, more than enough, and we both know it. Unless of course you want to take it to the next level, but we don't. One time , one stroke, one brush, and we will be done with it. Done and dusted. Then, of course, there are always complications, you know, like when we open the windows, or the door, unavoidably, to exit, or enter, or to let the cat out. But, then we have to deal with that too. We either never open them again, and slightly suffocate, or we live with the dust. Knowing that it will always be there, part of it. Part of whichever part comes first. Hard to find a solution, we give up. And live with the strokes and brushes and combs and never talk about it again.

all that one can do, you say, is proceed inside this tear, vibrate at the borders of memory. Not sure what you mean, but I like it. And I tear tears long and far away from you. I have nothing in my arms; nothing to give you, only a short small shy stroke on the forehead, but you do not take it. You let it fall, the law of gravity, you say, and I believe you.

It has been a year since I met you. we had our goods and bads and mediums, the music the same, me the same and a little different. I am trying to think; how have I changed. My hair is longer, my armpits smell. I wash my pants twice before wearing, especially the new ones and I think of you. You know, the shape is familiar, up, up, up, up, down, down, up, down, down, down. I know now. I recognise it. I despair and I smoke. What am I left with. A title, a piece of hair, a fairy girl. Holding hands in your parents' sofa, sharing a bed, and a ship, and a flat. This is what I live for; the first time, the excitement, the wanting to see you again and again and to know you better and better, to enter you, to never exit. Somehow though, alone again, in this small room full of fragments of phrases and forgotten objects, I hear this song, which has never found its place. Still, without hope, I walk towards you to know you again, better and better, to enter, to never exit, until it is over again and new and over.

Are you serious? Can you really produce butter shortbread from your asshole? What about Danish Cookies and Mille Feille?

of course you are not a scamp - or an asshole. But sometimes the object of desire is uncontained by desire's longings.

I just LOVE your citrus squeezer, baby, its metal frame, its delicate form, how functional it seems to be, how wonderful and elegant. I love it when it lies on your kitchen sink full of lemon stones and juices.

This is a birthday, a festival. What is the worst that can happen. The worst is this: I shout so hard in a different language and everyone knows what I am talking about. I shout hard and forget about the translator in the corner who is doing his job - no one told him he will have to swear in this meeting.

This is a party, because I made it. I made it through this and I still have ten fingers and ten toes. I made it through the dark paths of exhaustion and now, new again, I embark on a different journey.

On the side of the port you are having your wedding party. YOu still have a beard and two warm hands and you are getting married to a man in pyjamas; old style grey pyjamas, not nice ones. Since he is asleep, I offer to fuck you - on top of the clothes as always, like when we were young. You admit to my skills and you look impressed. I am thinking I should have become a man. Then my students forget the lines, there is a stranger in the class and I have not prepared surveillance - such a boring subject anyway. Outside of the toilet there is a bunch of hats. I wear one and I make an offer:if I kiss you, can I have the hat? I jump on you, your mouth smells, you say, but you can have the hat.