Do not fall gently into my arms
Crash into me
Fall tenthousand feet from the sky
Hurtling madly lustfull quick
Scream with the hate
The passion
The trauma
Come with the vengeance of every ghost your soul has carried
From that first schoolyard promise broken
You’ll never find him
But I will
Inside of me he is living
And regretting
The moment he stepped away
Do not fall gently into my arms
Crash through me
Like a falling planet
Go through me
Leave a hole the size of the earth inside
I want nothing left
But the memory of what it was like
To feel your love
As I stood
My ground
Loved you.

wake and want …



So late it’s morning east of us,
I crawl in bed next to your
dark naked scrawl on the sheets.
You have that night perfume,
that lived-in smell I love,
that spent-the-night smell
of warm skin slept in
just before it wakes
and wants.

– Peregrine

I adore this poet, more here

I want to know…


I want to know,
I need you to tell me,
what kind of endless spring,
what kind of fucking well
do you have for a soul
that you can love me.

© Peregrine




It’s an alchemy.
It happens without intent.
And quite frankly,
It can’t leave through intent either.
What is it in us that reaches out and wraps around the soul of another?
I’m not sure.
But what I do know is that it is as strong and fundamental a part of us as those I’m sure of.
Maybe even more so…

And ….. there is you.
It’s been a long time,
Yet I still feel like I’m swimming hard for the shore and at the same time the tide is pulling me out.
That drive forward and that pull back.
It’s not that I want to get away from you
I never did.
Perhaps that’s the problem…
I sometimes think my only choice now is to sink.
Get under the currents
Go down under the surface
Let all that water fill my lungs.
Perhaps then,
When I sink so deep and my feet touch the sandy bottom
I will be able to walk away.

© Elsa Holland

The very lovely and very talented Elsa not only writes poetry for soul food, she writes books too. Lush books. Books you might find in a Velvet Basement. You should go visit and let your fingers and senses linger at

Remembrance of an Open Wound


Whenever we make love, you say
it’s like fucking a crash –
I bring the bus with me into the bedroom.
There’s a lull, like before the fire brigade
arrives, flames licking the soles
of our feet. Neither of us knows
when the petrol tank will explode.
You say I’ve decorated my house
to recreate the accident –
my skeleton wired with fireworks,
my menagerie flinging air about.
You look at me in my gold underwear –
a crone of sixteen, who lost
her virginity to a lightning bolt.
I didn’t expect love to feel like this –
you holding me down with your knee,
wrenching the steel rod from my charred body
quickly, kindly, setting me free.

– Frida Kahlo