Hobbies - Poetry - Anonn
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just a case of mistaken identity...

    do you love me?

    no.

    i love summerís rustling willow fishing wavelets lost from eye
    as it shares with squirming tadpoles falling seeds and shards of sky
    beneath waves of slender dragons long of wing and thin of shape
    while its shadow clothes my shoulders like a wizardís swishing cape.

    i ask, a second time now, do you love me?

    no.

    i love summerís gliding swallows slicing orbits through the air
    and the greetings they deliver through a sunrayís useless snare,
    i love summerís tinkling waters chasing pebbles down the hills
    with its spray of glinting sunshine hanging loose to whisker frills.

    i ask you, third time and last, do you love me?

    no.

    i love summer, spells of colors hasten down the mountain slope,
    breeze and perfume wed each evening and to magic shores elope,
    sunsets dead in red vainglory resurrect in red conceit
    while a flood of golden beauty flows through fields of heaving wheat.

    i see, so you do not love me.

    hurt. immense.

    finally, her words penetrated.
    i could not lie.

    you, are summer.

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A Variant On The Tacky Subject Of Memories

    The table corner
    reminds me of you.

    No, I do not suggest you are as angular,
    no, no, neither as hard as that piece of wood,
    oh, no, no, no, certainly not its age.
    The poetry
    I write on it.

    The tin covered shed
    reminds me of you.

    Reminds me of feet, slightly agape,
    lips, widely agape,
    blood, thundering
    as I started penetrating your mysteries
    and you started uncovering my secrets
    and nothing mattered around us
    not even the impertinent butterflies
    not even the hanging upside down spiders
    not even casual lovers
    passing by
    lost in worlds as far away from ours
    as we were lost
    in us.

    The car radio
    reminds me of you.

    What your hands were doing had nothing to do with the radio,
    though my memory is still blurred around the... memory.

    The bed
    reminds me of you.

    We watched TV.
    We ate sandwiches.
    We repaired it.
    Anything else I should remember about the bed?

    Mornings
    remind me of you.

    When your ass wiggled next to the sink
    as you brushed your teeth with my toothbrush,
    when you pulled your knickers down then up then down then up
    for a variety of reasons a various number of times
    only some of which had to do with me, most of them probably,
    mostly in one direction, most probably,
    when the tongue you stuck my way
    got stuck in a variety of ways, none stranger than the other, none counterproductive,
    all adding to the misery of memory and recall.

    Airplanes
    remind me of you.

    Monsters, spitting you into my arms,
    monsters, voraciously gulping you back,
    monsters, mindless to cyclically birthing life and killing the life they birthed,
    infanticiders.

    You
    remind me of you.

    When you lick my ear. When you stare at me. When you shower without me.
    When you shower with me.
    When you bite.
    When you caress.
    When you write. When you breathe. When you are.

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Signing Off

    Interesting.

    To burn past your time,

    that revealing moment
    when most you could hope for were reflections in broken glass
    to unearth the flame in the ashes,
    to melt the glass into blobs of incandescent matter
    and grant it burying rights to your body.

    Your mind, a cradle of words.
    Your fingers, deadly nipple traps.
    Your skin, a travesty,
    more fire lurking between the wrinkles
    than in a furnace freshly fed with entire car-wreck graveyards
    and abandoned ship hulls.

    I let the mirror look at me,
    disgusted at what it didnít see.

    Interesting.

    To discover womanís flesh,

    sensations ranging from never known to long forgotten if ever known
    shoving needles into tips of appendages
    and grease between joints,
    the alchemy of near death bubbling through your various layers of humanity
    ready to release the beast
    into the care of ensuing near life,
    and its caress.

    Your past, a ridiculous pretense.
    Your craves, the only reality.
    Your fear, a word in a dead dictionary,
    the only valid dictionary the one joining maxillae to crushing languages
    and driving excretions to unreachable tones
    and noting emotions lived under the horror of passing.

    I leave my fingerprint on the mirror,
    signing off.

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One Of Those Rarely Things

    I rarely find myself dancing
    with...
    myself.

    Sure, I need the music,
    sure, I need no tooth pain, no customer down and no unpayable debt in the bank.
    Having won the lottery helps as well, haha.
    Losing ten years of age helps as well, hahaha.
    Take them all away.
    The music. The no tooth thing the no customer thing the no debt thing.
    Even the lottery thing and the ten years thing.

    Still, rarely yet surely, I find myself dancing
    with...
    myself.

    Itís not even a trick, itís a moment.
    It has a name.
    It has hair and breasts and wears or not a fluttering skirt.
    Usually it does wear otherwise it would not be really this kind of dance.
    Sure, it even has a name.
    No, silly, itís not The Rolling Stones.
    Guess again.

    *

    The blisters on your left heel?
    Why ask me,
    I wasnít even there?

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Indefinitions

    You
    the woman who stole your body

    and turned it to a weapon of mass destruction.

    I
    the brain-dead general,

    addicted to death,

    sending his armies again and again
    to die inside your welcoming mires
    and those blossoming fields exhaling mind-annihilating perfumes of ripe woman.

    So much death in so much love...

    ...and so many resurrections,
    one might call it a recurring birth, again and again.

    You,
    the man who stole my body,

    and turned it into a fountainhead of mass creation.

    I
    the brain-enkindled woman,

    addicted to your death,

    mandating your armies again and again
    to drown inside my welcoming mires
    and those blossoming fields seeded with their mind-enrapturing liquefied bones.


    So much death in so much love...

    ...and so many summers,
    one might call it a recurring miracle, again and again.


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Older

    And when I get older
    and my wrinkles many
    and my skin brittle like parchment carrying your runes closer to the sun,

    will you hide me between your diary pages
    to let time and oblivion and the weight of paper
    smoothen my wrinkles
    and protect my brittle skin from disintegrating
    to dust?


    And when you get younger
    and your wrinkles a work of art
    and your skin as lithe as a snakeís crawling its undulations between dunes,

    I will lay my diary under your thighs
    and iron your wrinkles with the muscle under my flesh
    and wait for your skin to open into your admission
    and my oblivion.

    And when I get older
    and crackles in my joints
    and white rust settling into my skin around the rim of your poetry,

    will you hide me inside an emptied wine bottle
    knowing time will not improve my tang
    and eternity will not sharpen my bite
    and my only taste
    vinegar?

    And when you get older
    and your joints rolling wind-chimes
    and your skinís rust melting into my skinís sweat,

    I will lay the bottle under my thighs
    waiting for you to distill wine from the vinegar
    and your bite to pull moans from my admitting insides
    while offering shared oblivion.


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Waiting On A Bench In An Airport

    One hour, before.

    In another part of the world is already one hour after.
    And in another another part is already after what we do after the one hour after.
    I prefer it for the moment here,
    still before
    the after.

    I prefer it even more during,
    do you think we could keep the during forever?
    If we are in a car and I keep chasing the sun and the hour does not change...
    but you have to drive...
    you drive, I sit on the seat, you sit on me, you drive and I...
    but I have to concentrate on the road...
    one letter too many in road...
    thatís what I mean, itís my accent, you know...

    Are you ok?
    Huh? I pulled up heavy eyelids, she was sitting next to me,
    not she but she, a kid, watching me with worried eyes.
    You were talking to spirits... or maybe ghosts, she giggled,
    She was ugly, charming. Someone called.
    Here, take my puppet, sheíll take care of you if you take care of her.
    I am too big for a puppet, I need a boyfriend now.
    She shoved a rag doll in my hand, one hand missing, also one eye hanging on a thread
    and she hopped away on one leg to a waiting couple.
    Seven years old. Maybe less. She turned to wave back at me,
    or maybe at the puppet. We both waved back, the puppet with her leftover hand.
    Are you ok?

    She, my she was there before me in all her majestic splendor,
    butterfly started streaming out from underneath her skirt (where else from?)
    then from her décolleté (where else from?)
    then from her sleeves (ok)...
    Who were you waving at? Who could answer? What do you hold there?
    A present, for you. I held out the puppet, holding it by one leg, the eye dangling.
    We must do something about that eye. Her eyes sparkling. Her eyes.
    I also have a present for you,
    and she opened her mouth, letting me share in the butterflies pouring out
    and filling my lungs color.
    Are you a spirit... or maybe ghost?
    I will let you judge it, she giggled.

    One hour, after. After the one hour after, one hour after.
    You are not, I declared, a heavy stone rolling off my chest.
    Are you sure it was a stone?
    I wasnít so sure anymore, I was sure about the spiritual thing.
    I did not remember the during.
    It didnít matter.
    There was another during waiting after the after, after the before, before the after.
    There were many more to come.
    I stopped worrying.

    How did you do the trick with the butterflies? I asked, shamefaced for not knowing.
    She smiled, her hand busy with needle and thread,
    the eye was almost fully sewn back in place.
    Someone has to take care of you in my absence, she whispered.
    Feminine secret, she added
    and I decided that better I do not know.
    Magic, is after all, better left alone. If it is to stay magic.

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Secrets

    They need machines.
    They want to see bones, tissue, blood.

    They cannot see what I can, I donít need machines.

    Words, dripping from trees,
    obstinate crickets escalading cob-web ladders into an unforgiving sun,
    bare feet, writing temporary verses into collapsing, wet sand.

    How? My head a mighty fortress, I never told you.

    My ear. On your breast. Listening to your secrets.

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Butterflies... Again?

    Tacky, corny, puerile...
    Synonyms, I said.
    Not puerile.
    Not puerile, I consented.
    Used, misused, abused...
    Neither, I interrupted her confused [sic] flow
    writing butterflies in her mouth
    and watching them flutter out.
    You better close your mouth
    or we are going to choke on overpopulation, I remarked,
    writing on.

    She rolled away from me in panic
    hesitating between a wooden stake and a wooden cross
    with no DIY shop within reach
    and knowing this would not work on me anyway,
    being jewish and communist and all that.
    And I never claimed to be a vampire, after all,
    just a lousy poet with a penchant for butterflies.
    Thankfully, she closed her mouth.

    I got off the bed and opened the window, letting the swarm out.
    She was still frozen. Her nipple was hard, pointed, pink,
    a masterpiece.
    I wrote a butterfly on it, watched it open and close variegated wings
    hesitating between staying or rushing out the window.
    I may have been their creator but I gave my butterflies free will.

    I approached my finger to the celestial composition
    and goaded the reluctant butterfly to crawl on my fingertip
    my finger taking ownership of the nipple bastion.
    Bet a male butterfly.
    I will be more careful next time I write them, I decided.
    Her eyes softened, panic receding,
    eyelids fluttering
    no doubt subconsciously competing with the butterflies.
    She shooed the butterfly away.
    She didnít shoo my finger away.
    I donít believe in magic. Her teeth were still slightly chattering.
    But you do believe in vampires.
    She blushed, a rose growing on her cheek,
    a dew drop glinting at her eye corner. I didnít even write them there.
    This is not magic, I whispered, cupping her entire breast in my fist
    and pulling her savagely towards me,
    lips meeting,
    teeth splintering.
    Then what is it? she whispered back.
    I could still see some wooden crosses floating inside her eyes
    but these were rapidly fading away and metamorphosing into butterflies.
    Lousy poetry, I whispered,
    first into her ravenous mouth
    then into the ravenous rest of her... she bit...

    Wooden crosses suddenly invaded my mind...
    Poetry... is a two-way street, she whispered away my unjewish gasp
    as our bodies married their god-given differences and god-forbidden religions
    into a threshing cloud of... flesh.
    Not butterflies? She almost cried.
    They will come.

    They started coming.

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Scourge

    Scourge.

    Wild vine.

    Parasite.
    Hanging on to me with tiny, spiraling tentacles,
    growing, spreading,
    curling around muscles, bones,
    sinking feelers down guts and veins
    to steal drops of life
    tightening around tracheas
    to kill vestiges of life barely feeding its own life support, oh, stupid parasite.

    Bodiless? Ha! Maybe hairless, though I am not sure of this either.
    Embracing me with the mindless love of a vise,
    growing inside me like a never born embryo insistent upon never dying, either.

    You die, with me, why this love? Age, you stupid parasite.

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The Insanity Of Art

    You are as handsome
    as an Apollo,
    she said.

    I moved over to the mirror,
    handing her the eyeglasses on the way.

    I watched myself in the full length mirror.
    No, dressed made no sense,
    I undressed
    then watched myself carefully.

    Starting with my paunch, it was the easiest to start with,
    unmistakable, obvious.
    It didnít help how much I tried to pull it in, it was still there,
    unmistakable, obvious,
    a respectable Botticelli model for voluptuously depicted forms...
    hmm... pulled some more... in vain... yes, disregarding the profile view helped,
    both ways,
    my male nipples quite normal
    even if the tits holding them competed to a certain extent with hers...
    I sneaked a side view
    and she was still there, watching me in adulation... well, she did have small tits,
    I did have an excuse...

    Some skin stains, sure, placed there by an artistic hand,
    same as the few strands of hair next to my ears, too much of them
    and the few strands of hair around my head, not enough of them,
    what about the wrinkles... well, reasonably cute at the corners of my eyes
    I wondered if they were cute as well at...
    I turned my back to the mirror but try as I might I couldnít reach back enough,
    or low enough,
    my neck seemed to lack some extra inches of muscle
    probably having lost it to some extra inches of fat...
    I tried to test my feet muscles and jumped once
    then decided it was a bad idea with the variety of dangling matter
    so I didnít repeat the test.
    My waist... forget my waist.

    My nose?
    Yes, nice in my thirty years ago picture,
    retouched even there.
    My eyes?
    I always wished blue. I never wished the blue stain under the right one.
    My fingers?
    Could easily twist a nipple. Could easily twist a steel bar.
    Three broken joints, a split fingernail, a short middle one,
    couldnít even make a decently indecent up-yours sign to other drivers.

    I turned to face her, afraid if I carried the inspection longer
    she would melt into a puddle of adoration and soak into the mattress.

    Tell me, woman, which artist did you have in mind for your Apollo?
    Picasso?

    She moved.
    No, she did not move, she flowed,
    and I almost choked on my earlier McDonaldíníCoke special deal
    and if not for my fossilized left knee I would have dropped to the floor
    and died there and then.

    You are as beautiful
    as an Aphrodite, I croaked.

    She did not stop her flow, she did not have to in order to answer.
    By Picasso? she asked.

    By Mickey, I answered,
    and seeing the tiny cloud of misunderstanding float in her eyes
    I added hastily - Mickey di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni.
    Oh, the one with the broken nose, she smiled
    taking my words in, greedily,
    taking the whole of me in, greedily.

    I guess heís the only one who could paint me into an Aphrodite, she smiled,
    satisfied,
    her greed sated,
    I
    liberated.
    I went to the wardrobe, pulled the door with the mirror off its hinges
    and held it above her.
    The mirror too, I said, the mirror sees you the way you are, I said
    hearing some personal notes of insanity in between the vowels.

    She crawled carefully off the bed, begged me gently to put the door back in place,
    then asked me to face her.
    I did as asked.
    What do you see? she asked.
    Aphrodite, I insisted.
    What do you see? she asked.
    I still didnít see.
    I did not know what answer was expected, so I shut up.
    Apollo, she said,
    Huh? I did not say it, I looked like I said it.
    Apollo, she repeated. I am the mirror, and I see you the way you are.
    Apollo,
    she said.

    It was my turn to melt into a puddle of adulation,
    luckily, she offered a receptacle for my dripping flesh
    else
    I would have disappeared forever into the floor cracks
    and no one would have known of the insanity of art. Be it even the art of poetry.

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guardian

    you built a cage around it...
    cage?
    ...of daffodil seeds and titmice nests and broken glass...
    broken glass?
    ...to break the sun into suns
    and color into colors
    and love into words, syllables, vowels...
    and consonants?
    ...one, repeating... mmmmm.

    you built a tent around it...
    a circus tent?
    ...the walls of dandelion pappus
    with ropes woven by three families of spiders
    and no entries, only exits...
    what do you mean?
    ...guarded by hungry reptiles...
    you mean geckos?
    ...i mean crocodiles...
    this is supposed to be a love poem.
    ...with red bow-ties around their tail ends
    crystal bells hanging from their necks
    (do crocodiles have necks?)
    a ruby set in the left front legís nail and a...
    huh?
    ...love poem, you said.

    you built a dream around it...
    dream? how does one build a dream?
    ...with stolen rays from future Mays
    as poems foment shoots of torment
    on snowdropsí bed beneath the shed
    where you and i share one long sigh...
    ...oh, this, there, then.

    you,
    my guardian,
    the guardian of all i own, wish, am. You.

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shelter

    we hide
    underneath the blanket,

    we know that we are protected there from sight
    from the world
    from atomic bombs,

    the perfect shelter,

    kids grown up too fast
    into a grown-ups world
    making love like beasts one day before Armageddon
    not to leave seed
    but to share seed, life, love, the last seconds counting down
    towards years of oblivion, then eons.

    Iím running out of oxygen, she scratches her way into my blood stream,
    weíll live on nitrogen, I flood her with nitrogen simili,
    Iím running out of heartbeats, she strangles her way into my lungs,
    weíll live on Elvis 45s, I bite into her nipple Elvis inspiration,
    Iím running out of imagination, she digs her way into a body I never owned before,
    weíll live on memories, I cut memories into body parts she never owned before.

    is the sight still there? I ask
    as she peeks cautiously beyond the blanketís rim.
    and the world, and the atomic bombs, she answers
    hurrying back to the safety of our shelter

    and before she begs
    I hurry to further feed her nitrogen and Elvis and memories.

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Early Morning, Woman

    You unfolded,

    like a woman,
    like wrapped candy shedding the glossy foil
    to offer its melting content
    like a snake uncoiling
    ready to strike
    like the death of an eclipse
    birthing a sun,

    like a woman.

    Not like a flower, so fragile,
    not like a butterfly, so bitter,

    like a flower, so fragrant,
    like a butterfly, so ravishing.

    Fold
    around me,

    like a woman,

    melt in my mouth strike me down burn me,
    envelope your fragrance around my insides
    ravish me.

    So that I can watch you
    unfold,

    again.

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Scandalously...

    ...beautiful.

    When you don your hooker heels
    and you hang your gypsy earrings
    and your silken blouse
    beats the hell out of reason
    as it compresses a universe into two plums bouncing underneath
    hardly sized for a one-tooth bite
    viciously hot for a mouthful of magma,

    When the sun paints your thighs on the cotton of your dress
    and your hair sparkles with blue static
    and your hips marry the radio into a pendulum of cajoling flesh
    with walls following
    and trees following
    and the church bell-tower following inches away from crumbling,

    When your stocking prides a run
    from down ankle
    up places definitely undefined where
    dinosaurs lie on their back offering bellies to tickle
    and darkness filters through freshly turned earth into steaming rainbows
    and thirsty lilac bushes inhale perfumes of burning thistle fields,

    When you undon your hooker heels
    and you rip your gypsy earrings
    and the silken blouse is a tattered memory of irrelevance
    alongside narrow strips of male skin
    hanging from irregular teeth and broken fingernails,

    Scandalously beautiful.

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The Top of the Ladder, Awkward, Just by Chance

    I waited
    for you to fall off the top of the ladder
    and I would have been, just by chance,
    underneath
    to catch you awkwardly
    my hand just by chance slipping underneath your skirt
    and slightly further away
    and slightly further in
    apologizing profusely, awkwardly
    about the mysterious ways of fate and life
    and who the hell puts, irresponsibly, a soap bar on the top rung,
    the silence awkward
    until you finally decide, in a most awkward manner, to ask me to put you down
    and pull my hand out of, then away from
    where it slid previously so awkwardly just by chance...

    I waited
    for you to climb to the top of the ladder
    since this was where someone, by chance, placed the poetry book
    you were asking about the day before,
    so awkward the situation
    with you wearing a skirt and the floor mysteriously covered with a thin layer of oil
    so someone had to hold the ladder
    and I being by chance the only one around
    with the entrance door clicked shut by chance and some people banging on it
    it was terribly awkward of you to ask me to hold it
    and even more awkward for me to hold it
    and not look upwards,
    as I promised,
    even though I pointed to you the dangers involved
    and I kept my promise
    probably just my imagination painting your underwear white
    and placing a heart-shaped mole mid of your thigh
    and the tiny scar higher up, just where flesh ended and cotton started
    (did you sit on a nail as a child?)
    and if all this was true
    then it was just by chance that my imagination met your reality,
    my imagination was at times so awkward to have and so awkwardly accurate...

    I did not wait
    for the top of the ladder to be just underneath your hem,
    it was there just by chance
    and the moment was so awkward when I tried to lift the ladder
    to reach the top row of books because there was a great book there,
    and the top of the ladder got caught in your hem
    and since, by chance, I didnít pay attention because I was focused on the book
    I could not help it if your skirt pulled up to almost your head level
    as you later told me, since I did not see your panties with the little red hearts,
    and I felt so awkward afterwards
    especially since when you asked me about the book I was looking for
    I could not find it, it was probably misplaced by chance
    however I offered in my awkward way to take you home
    so you could change your skirt while I waited
    in my perfect gentlemanly way outside your house
    and finding it strange, your request
    that I leave the ladder behind with you living first floor
    and maybe the window in need of cleaning as any intelligent person might surmise
    oh, it felt so awkward finding that, just by chance,
    the ladder was dragging behind me,
    such a mysterious event.

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Dream

    I dream of your body,
    naked. Again.

    More than I dream of the one that was once Marilyn Monroe
    now dust, or more, or less,
    more than of the one that is still Kate Moss
    all the relevant dust still somewhere in the future.
    More than of my neighborís, three floors up,
    as smooth as only Botox can smooth,
    does smooth, smoothed. The dust in the eye of the beholder.

    Not more. Much more. Probably only. Not again. Always.

    What is your age?
    No, not your body age, your mental age.
    How can a body be half the age of a mind and no - I donít believe in cloning,
    reincarnation,
    karma,
    samsara,
    metempsychosis,
    zombies
    and winning the lottery?
    Tie bow-ties to your ankles and you stop an army
    wear a garter and you stop a war
    let a shoulder strap fall and you stop the sun from rotating around Earth.
    Or whichever way ďtheyĒ say it rotates. At least for a few minutes.

    I close my eyes.
    Who needs eyes when I can dream you
    all the way from dressed to naked
    with all those stations in between when armies and wars and suns
    (one of each, at least)
    stop?
    I would not stop. I would start. A war. For the right to dream you
    all the various ways from dressed to naked
    all the various ways to paint shivers in those virginal spots of you
    the one way
    to yank that ultimate scream
    off you.

    I open my eyes
    your breast fills my cupped palm.
    Then it fills my gaping mouth
    then it oscillates pushing my ear left right left right left
    before it pulls away to disappear under a crushing mountain of butterflies.
    I know it is the same dream
    and I fear waking up into the nightmare, knowing the breast will not be there.

    I wake up into the nightmare
    and the breast is still there
    and then I know the dream is endless.

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Trying To Take My Mind Off You

    I watch the machine with pensive eyes.

    I don my overalls knowing what to expect
    and doubling it.
    Should have tripled it.
    The small access door opens into a swamp of ink and grease
    and rusted screw rests
    and dead mice... they should groom snakes in here, I think, serious,
    starting to crawl inside among the hanging mess of wires and tubes
    and dripping oil.
    I hardly fit in.
    Luckily Iím not claustrophobic.
    Should go on a serious diet
    if Iím to keep on playing contortionist.
    I lie on my back, feeling something rugged stab me in two places,
    will have to do,
    I donít get out again and again in.
    I look upwards at the disjointed joint,

    your thighs loom above me
    ending into that inviting white patch holding everything,


    wake up! I hear the scream in my head
    groping blindly for a screwdriver,
    then a pair of pliers, then a socket wrench...
    OK, let her go, I call to my co-worker.
    He lets her go, itís solved.
    This was a small preamble, the real job starts now.

    I crawl out,
    slowly distending the entire set of my crammed and cramped parts
    checking carefully that each is still attached and functioning.
    Functioning, ha, big word functioning,
    functioning at least as good as before.
    They do.
    Is this is why you finished college,
    and university,
    and then a bachelor degree in electronics and then a master degree in electronics
    and then a master degree in business administration?
    screams the red horned one on my right shoulder
    piercing my ear with her trident.
    You like it,
    sings the white winged one on my left shoulder
    strumming nonsense on her harp,
    Iíd rather it was the Rolling Stones.
    Shut up! I think both paredrae off, slightly pissed off,
    feeling quite godly for a moment.
    Where were you with your remarks when I crawled under the machine, huh?
    You waited, you didnít want to soil yourself, huh?
    You could have swapped your fancy dresses with an overall too.
    She drips, magenta, my co-worker says. He means the machine.
    Yes, I saw. Cyan too, I add,

    your eye, they are not cyan,
    they are blue, a mix of cyan
    and sea and sky.


    The dripping is fixed. The machine, I mean.
    Time for the main bitch. The job at hand, I mean.
    Maybe we do first the electrical stuff, suggests my co-worker,
    not ready yet to sink in the ineludible shit.
    He doesnít know what ineludible means.
    Makes sense - a wire to remove, some wires to shift elsewhere,
    a condensator to cut away completely...
    Shall I excise her? says my co-worker, cutter in hand.
    You donít excise anything, I say shoving a hammer under his nose,
    human, machine, nothing.
    It was a joke, he apologizes.
    Not even a joke. Meaningless sentence composition, intention clear.
    OK, OK, he cuts the leads,
    we remove, shift, load a small software patch in the safety controller.
    Safe sex, he tries another joke, no ďaccidentsĒ.
    This time I laugh,
    the hammer safely stashed away.

    Lunch. The pizza is hot, steamy,

    even better than the pizza I had with you,
    my left hand holding your right hand
    my right hand tearing irregular pieces of my pizza and feeding it to you
    while your left hand tore pieces of your pizza, feeding it to me.
    I prefer your lips, I said,
    I prefer your lips, you said,
    not because the pizza was so bad.


    He takes the longer tube, the female,
    I take the shorter tube, the one with a male ending.
    We try to fit them together with muscle,
    oil, tools, contortions, heat,
    finally luck has it and they fit. I am a lake of sweat. So is he.
    How many more? I curse.
    Enough, he answers
    taking the second pair and handing me the short one again.
    We know that the next step is crawling again in the ink mud under the machine
    so we are not really in a hurry to get to the next step.
    Luckily everyone in our company is religious, I venture,
    R&D, engineering, sales, support...
    This machine works on the combined praying power of all together.
    You too? he asks, knowing my heretic head.
    When I see it working, I guess I am left with no choice, I retort,
    annoyed at his insight,
    wishing insightfulness was a word since it seems to me more appropriate.

    The tubing is done. The wiring is done.
    The programming, measuring, cleaning after is done.
    The praying - do I have a choice? - is done.
    ON. Blowers, clicks, humming, blinking lights,
    no fulmination. Thank God.
    Sure, if I prayed it is only natural that I invoke God, no?

    The first day, seventeen hours, is over.
    We can go to the hotel,
    have a shower, down a huge cold beer and talk tired nonsense.
    We go to the hotel,
    have a shower, down a huge cold beer and talk tired nonsense.
    Hey, Iím not... and he says your name.
    I guess it just slipped through my defenses. Or maybe through my offences.
    Or maybe just through my fences.
    He watches me strangely,
    I gulp down the rest of the bubbling yellow
    and we head to our room. Separate rooms, hey!
    I slide in between the cool covers, naked,

    your hand awaits me there,
    guides mine,
    guides me,
    gashes deep ruts across my back
    as my fists crush your breasts
    almost expecting to see milk drops ooze out.


    Must have been a dream, I think,
    brushing my teeth and pulling the curtains away from a rising sun.
    I try to watch the gashes on my back, I canít,
    not with a single mirror in the bathroom.
    I pick my bag, tools, ready for a greasy breakfast and a new day of toil.
    How the hell do I take my mind off you? I ask of nobody.
    Who the hell says I want to take my mind off you? I tell nobody.
    My co-worker doesnít really get the silly smile on my face,
    he thinks it has to do with the milk trace on his upper lip.
    To a certain extent,
    and in a very, very ambagious way,
    it has.

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And if we didnít have sex?

    Listen to the birds!

    I listened, carefully,
    wondering if I hear them through your twitching fingers
    or through my ears.
    Probably through my ears,
    hearing through twitching fingers being reserved exclusively to poets.
    I didnít recognize any.
    Cacophony.
    With such cacophony who needs music? Well, maybe some Elvis.

    Watch, a rabbit!

    Your fingers still twitching, you still pulling me over the fallow
    as if my life depended on it.
    Which probably it did.
    I needed you,
    and I followed the rabbit, then the duck, then the fox,
    then the crow until we couldnít follow anymore
    and then I followed you
    to the end of the world.

    See? We donít have to have sex.
    I didnít really see, I saw a rabbit.

    Smell the lilac?

    Of course I smelled the lilac,
    how could I but smell the lilac in your palms,
    under your fingernails, between your twitching fingers,
    in between your breasts...
    ... hey, no sex we said...
    in the deserted park on the deserted bench carrying tens of engraved names
    none ours, all ours,
    in the ice-cream you offered me after you finished it
    (there was still the empty cone),
    even in the jasmine flowers,
    even in the car exhausts.
    In your hair.

    The wind, do you feel the wind?

    I was so busy with the lilac...
    now that you said it... no, not really wind,
    more like a breeze,
    more like a breath,
    more like your breath upon my cheek before you kissed
    or your breath on my pillow after you fell asleep
    or a swallowís wing almost tearing my ear off, almost, never really
    as it kept chasing imaginary flies up and down the alley
    then imaginary raindrops up and down the clouds,
    more like your fingers once they stopped twitching
    and almost started unbuttoning... no sex! no sex!

    Taste!

    I tasted.
    First the lips then the lips then the rest of the lips
    looking for that ice-cream
    and finding nothing but memories,
    an ice cream we once licked alternately
    another ice cream we once scooped alternately
    another one yet, that I licked and circumstances are not to be revealed
    speaking about which...

    Sex?

    You were a mind reader.

    And if we did have sex?

    We had. It was as good as no sex. Slightly better.

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A Perfect Body

    I offer you
    my perfect body.

    Sure, I allow for a bit of belly flab,
    hey, since when has a perfect profile to do with a perfect body?
    Yes, I saw it, oh... my eyesight?
    No, wait. I have a perfect near-view.
    Slight, very very slight disturbance for far-view. Hair?
    If I shave my head you wonít notice.
    Yes, a bit of arthrosis, everybody has a bit of arthrosis, no?
    Perfection is comparative.
    I can write a great poem.
    Has nothing to do with a perfect body? What about prose?
    The same... aha...
    The shoulders are OK, I insist.
    Look, I can rotate left, I can rotate right... ouch...
    temporary inconvenience. Because I was painting.
    No, not landscapes. My house. White.
    Look at my teeth. No, donít look,
    look at my fingers Ė five, see?
    Everywhere.
    Nose one.
    Everywhere as well and I didnít change shoe size for the last fifteen years.
    What do you mean shoes too?
    Look, same wrist-watch, same shirt, I wash it from time to time,
    same eye color
    same fingerprints... perfection.
    What bed?
    Bed is not part of my body.
    Ah... in bed?...

    (...at this stage Usain Bolt would not have caught me...
    no, I wonít tell if to or from...)

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Obsessity

    There is no such word.

    She lay there.
    Sated. Saturated. Satisfied.
    There should be, I insisted.
    Itís Saturday. Great day for satyrs.

    She was in the mood, oh, yeah, she was in the mood.
    Satellite? I contributed,
    knowing I did not make much sense.
    She pulled the bed sheet over her head
    leaving toes out the other side,
    knobby, calloused, royal.
    I believe these were pigeon sounds she was making from underneath.
    Whatís that? I expected her to answer cooing.
    Your IQ, the bed sheet quivered,
    it was laughter this time, not passion.

    Satism.

    There is no such word.
    There should be.

    I sat there... hey, sat!... next to the mound of bed sheets
    knowing that underneath it lay my life,
    now recovering from spasm of laughter.
    I saw her already recovering from spasms of anger, tears, excitement,
    of lust.
    I patted the white disuniformity... What are you looking for?
    Your neck.
    Your head.
    Itís not there. There is where your head should be.
    I could see the glow underneath the bed sheet,
    one moment longer and it would burst in flames.
    Didnít make sense that after all these years she still blushed.
    Satan! I finally found one.
    Fuck Satan! it was not a giggle, rather a tinkle.
    Hey, careful, I might get jealous. I was serious,
    thus confirming her previous onomatopoeic IQ definition.
    Saturn. Satrap (where did I fish this one from?). Satin.
    I liked this one.
    Satrs. Huh?
    You are dyslexic, no? So? I pre-dyslexed it for you.
    I am not hearing dyslexic.
    A mop of hair bobbed from underneath the bed sheet edge
    followed by the rest of the head. The rest still maidenly covered,
    though obviously outlined
    The blush gone.
    The eyes shiny.
    You mean stars, I guess?

    I pulled the bed sheet away in one movement, a matador handling the muleta.
    She did nothing to cover herself
    neither from the chill
    nor from my eyes.
    She did not even blush herself into cover.
    Which one is why your nipples are stiff? I asked.
    Both.

    She rolled on her side,
    breasts flowing
    hair flowing.
    My chin wet. My drool flowing?
    Is drool a noun?
    As if anyone cared.
    Anything else flowing?
    I think she cared.
    It was about to.

    I believe it is time for el estoque de verdad.

    I should have said it.
    I couldnít, my throat was constricted.

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Wrinkles

    I hate your wrinkles.

    They betray your youth.
    Your youth of heart
    your youth of mind
    your youth of lust.
    Did I tell you that you glow in the dark, around your wrinkles?

    I hate your wrinkles.

    I never saw their birth.
    Born of a fatherless skin
    yet not holy, human, lilac budding in the winter.
    I adopted them as if my own,
    fatherhood, rich, enriching.

    I love your wrinkles.

    Sometimes they tell me a story.
    Sometimes they confide in me.
    Sometimes they lie.
    There is so much passion in your wrinkles that it could melt a church bell.

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Roses

    Oh, open your roses, I begged.

    You opened them.
    First I see blue roses, I said
    watching them blink,
    then crinkle at the corners
    as other corners rose to meet them,
    then moisture accumulating...
    Hey, youíll drown the roses, I shrieked in fear
    then in agony as they drowned
    then in happiness as they emerged again,
    still blue, slightly moist.

    Oh, open your rose, I begged,

    Watching rows of ivory emerge.
    First I see a red rose with a white heart, I said
    watching it crinkle at corners
    as other corners descended to meet them
    and a red snake sneaked between the ivory rows...
    Hey, a snake in the rose, I shrieked in fear
    calming down only when the snake retreated to its cavern
    leaving the rose intact,
    though slightly moist.
    Goodness, was it a close call...

    Oh, open your rose, I begged, again.

    You opened it, slowly.
    There were no crinkles
    except the previously mentioned, far away, that deepened
    along with the blush that started building between all of them.
    I never saw a pink rose more beautiful, I said
    watching it open further,
    calling me to fall in, to perish between its petals,
    I had no wax to stuff into my ears
    I fell in, I shrieked because of the right reasons, I perished...
    Dionaea... was my last thought of this world.

    Somehow I found the portal back, form there to here.
    The roses were almost the same. Blue. Red. Pink. Beautiful. Moist.
    Roses are wonderful things, I said.

    You pulled me for a moment out of the garden,
    Itís all down to the gardener, you whispered,
    allowing me to return between the petals.
    One of the roses, doesnít matter which.

    *

    Morning, almost. Light, almost.
    You opened eyes, puffed by sleep,
    trying to locate me in the room corner.
    The bedware wrinkles had a busy night,
    writing indecipherable memories into your flesh.
    So had a mosquito, having left a red pustule on the side of your thigh
    which you scratched greedily.
    I did not turn stone
    though your hair begged for me to.
    One breast seemed bigger than the other, so did one nipple.
    You yawned. You stretched. You shivered.
    Arms legs maxillae fingers flying each whichever way
    as breasts disappeared upon chest
    and nipples disappeared upon breasts
    and neck disappeared between shoulders
    and other parts some appearing some disappearing...
    What are you looking at? you asked
    returning from that paradisiacal universe
    where yawning stretching shivering human females
    with puffed eyes and wrinkled flesh and disappearing body parts disappear to.

    I took my time answering,
    not worrying anymore about turning stone.

    An opening rose, I finally composed an answer
    knowing it to be unworthy of the beauty opening in front of me.

    The other sun picked that very moment to pierce the horizon.
    My own sun picked that very moment to pierce my heart.

    Oh, the beauty of a smile just before toothbrushing...

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Not The Same

    Itís not the same.

    Listening to music.
    Turning on the computer.
    Locking the door.
    Drinking, without you demanding your share from the same glass.
    Buying underwear,
    without you insisting on checking that it fits perfectly,
    tapping here and there,
    even insisting on checking that it unfits perfectly, and easily.

    Itís not the same.
    Walking, and you not rushing around to be on my good side.
    Reading a book. Watching a movie, or through a window. Yawning.
    Falling asleep with non-present you not there to fall asleep before me.
    Or after me. Or with me. Alongside me.
    Sometimes underneath me, or the other way around.
    Not the same taste to ice cream, to pizza, to the grape in sweet wine
    or the quinine in bitter-lemon.
    Not even the same red to red.
    Noisiness to noise. Warmth to sun, to regard, to touch.

    Itís not the same. Itís not even justified to carry the same name.
    Day. Night. Flesh.
    Kiss.
    Another kiss. Shower... after.
    Even Elvis sounds differently.

    I wait.
    For the same. The same, to be the same again.
    I wait.
    It will come.

    I miss.
    Only
    I miss... is the same.
    Always.

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Re Cycle

    I crawled out of my motherís womb
    and sat down,
    waiting for Death.

    Disappointing. Shy, Death.
    Slipping and slithering and striking
    left, and right, and random around me... never head on.
    Shy. Refusing to catch my eye,
    even after I screamed at it once, or twice, or more...

    Maybe better so.

    I was allotted some more wait.

    I met you.

    The moon full
    your various body parts drawing fluid shadows upon the saffron hues
    imprisoned in a singular circle
    carrying Archimedean blood at edges
    amid murmurs of mí mou toús kýklous táratte.

    You stood, hiding part of it...
    see, a rabbit, and your fingers shadowed an almost rabbit head,
    see, a butterfly, it looked more like a bat,
    see, a heart, well, almost... the moon screen did not mind,
    you could have shadowed on it a herd of petrified horses if you... could, ha!

    Open your fingers, I demanded, I want to see the sea.
    You opened your fingers wide
    and I followed the Mediterranean between your left thumb and same side forefinger
    and the Caspian between your left ring and little finger
    and the Indian Ocean between your right middle and ring.
    There were some other seas as well, didnít recognize the shapes.

    Open your toes, I demanded, not knowing what to expect
    nevertheless expecting a sea, at least.
    Looked strange on the saffron background, looks like... toes, I said.
    You opened them wider, well, tried to.
    I saw the everglades, then, no, no seas, but everglades
    descending from Okeechobee
    between the big toe and the one next whatever its name
    with several baby alligators chasing each other between the water-lilies
    maybe in play, maybe trying to eat each other.
    I saw the Amazonas
    and I could swear the piranha I detected were smiling at me
    waiting that I fall in and tell them about Hansel and Gretel
    or Little Red Hood
    or other, similar macabrities. Or macabrenesses. Or amacadabras.
    Before they taste me.
    I saw even a herd of matriarchal elephants chasing a herd of poachers
    down the Ngorongoro Crater
    and mashing them into a paste of flesh and red dust and tusks. Torn. Previously.
    Good. I probably smiled.
    Between the little toe and the one left of it
    or right of it
    depending on which foot.

    Open your mouth, wide, I demanded,
    and picked from between your teeth the leftovers of an earlier breakfast,
    some of it tomato some of it young onion some unidentified
    looking behind your lips and up your gums
    and deep down your throat
    and not finding there any residual proof to earlier disgusting activity
    that never did take place anyway as far as I remember
    thus no wonder or rather wishful thinking.
    Though I kept wondering.
    One of those What Ifís and Howís and similar.

    Open my legs now?
    Shaking me out from my reverie.
    You opened your legs, didnít find anything of interest there,
    between your ankles.
    Higher up? You opened your legs wider, didnít find anything of interest there,
    between your knees.
    Higher, maybe?
    You probably owned a sack full of indecent suggestions.
    You opened your ankles knees thighs wider then much wider
    and I watched the full moonís saffron suddenly eclipsed
    by Life kicking Death to death
    before kicking me in the head
    and elsewhere. Where it hurt terribly.

    No seas. No glades. No alligators or alligator club affiliates.
    Only tangled fibers magnified to grabbing tentacles
    on the shivering moon surface,
    each starting to glow first into crawling seaweed then into winged snakes
    suddenly striking at my throat
    belly
    loins
    invisible blood boulevards pouring single minded rhetoric into visible lust
    with an undignified owner biting toes off your feet
    while the Brocchinia reducta victim gorged herself on anything I could not control
    waiting for the moon to sink into the ink
    and for me to die inside your eye.
    After turning around.
    After crushing your nipple.
    After returning from underneath the hooves.
    Before asking forgiveness.

    I crawled out of my loverís womb
    and stood up,
    dodging Death.

    Disappointing. Sly, Death.
    Slipping and slithering and striking
    left, and right, and random around me... never head on.
    Sly. Trying to catch my eye,
    even after I screamed at it once, or twice, or more...

    Better so.

    Suddenly I needed some more wait.

    I had you.

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critic

    I should write it, fast,
    before the song ends and inspiration is blown to smithereens...

    you are so different in life and in love
    like flower vs flower
    like fire vs fire
    like tenderness vs tenderness... hey, what goes on here?...

    must be the song.

    kills all inspiration, must wait for it to end.
    Iím inconsistent, I know. ok, it ended. what now?

    a bird performed above the page its twenty seventh loop
    then criticized my haze of mind with half a pint of poop,
    forensic as they seem to be, such vain comments deceive,
    you see... I think that men in love deserve the odd reprieve.

    (it pooped again. must be the song. not my poem.)

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Dress

    I see you in this thin, summery dress.

    No, youíre not to blame for wearing nothing underneath,
    youíre not to blame even for owning it.
    I am to blame,
    after all, this is my vision,
    all youíre to blame for is filling it up with body
    oh, so nicely, oh, so fully, oh, so... bodily.

    Are you sure this is just fantasy? I ask I and I have?... has?... no answer.

    Run! I call, playing with your cascading hair
    and you run
    leaving wet imprints in the sand and throwing shells my way
    which I deftly catch and tie one by one to the fluttering strands
    all the while peeking down the valley between your breasts,
    Run! I call, playing with your undulating skirt
    and you run
    agilely climbing a tree and throwing apples my way
    which I whisk away from angry cormorants... hey, buddies, keep to your fishes...
    to knit into your lashing hem
    all the while peeking up the glen between your thighs,
    Run! I call, playing with the tips of your fingers
    and you run
    strumming tunes on guitar strings with each of your toes
    letting each snap my way
    for me to cunningly warp into iron buds blooming into iron flowers
    then fit to each of your fingers and ears and waist and ankles
    all the while peeking through your cottons to endlessly vacillating landscapes
    awaiting
    discovery.

    I have no more places to run to, you puff out of breath
    tearing an apple from the hem and biting a piece off it
    then offering me the bitten chunk
    on the tip of your tongue.

    I take it,
    along with the tongue and everything else connected to it
    the summery dress
    a mess
    a ripple
    running through a nipple
    the lips
    a jumble of apple seeds and wrought iron and razor-sharp shell chips...

    I look,
    more, more, more,
    glut, nimiety, overindulgence just fancy words to a persistent hunger
    that refuses consolation and consummation
    Such beauty in so much impertinence, you pull towards you the tatters
    trying to cover your modesty
    and I light a match
    put a fire to them
    then lie next to you covering your corn-silk softness with my palm.
    This is all you will ever need.
    You chuckle.
    Genetically engineered corn, isnít it? Curly silk...

    Even the crabs are still laughing, to this day.

    And I try some reverse engineering to turn the ashes back into a summery dress
    and start all over again.

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Relatives. Relativism. Relativity. Miracles. Ha!

    I changed my mind.
    My skin changed of his own mind.
    My hair departed to grace the grazing plains of Valhalla
    between crushed Viking helmets and dead houris of long dead Turkish sultans.
    Houris in Valhalla? Yes, Houris in Valhalla.
    What else? Where else? I miss him. My hair, dandruff and all.
    Alongside with that shapely, conical torso apex down
    metamorphosed into this shapeless, conical torso apex up
    calling daddy, daddy, daddy, knowing of my intention to disown him.
    Wishing orphanhood upon him.
    Alongside with his brother ingrown nail, and his brother aching small of back,
    and his brother tooth, caving in. Orphanhood upon you brothers, all! Maybe sisters. Ha!
    I was always lousy at sex.

    And you?
    Yes, you, donít look behind you,
    with the devil in your eye, and the dragon in your bite
    and the fire at the crossroads thigh and thigh and belly.
    Were you born teenager? Do you intend to stay teenager all your life?
    Breasts like unripe pears and hair like a mareís tail
    and thighs to crush coconuts in one gentle squeeze.
    Turn them mush in a less gentle one.
    Turn me mush even in no squeeze at all, just open before close before squeeze.
    Do you know that crush rhymes with mush?
    Rhymes with lush rhymes with flush rhymes with flesh.
    Your flesh rhymes with rhyme, poetry, sunrise.
    And fingernails to slice bananas without peeling
    and cut concentric circles in tempered glass around a bullet hole.
    Rhymes with me. Rhymes with my flesh. With my recurring death.

    Time tunnel you call it? No? May I call it?
    Before I enter after I enter after I never exit?
    Keeping you alive keeping me alive keeping my conical torso from settling
    into a deserted pyramid with no secret chambers
    but a banging fist threatening to smash its way out
    once my flesh rhymes with you
    once again
    in flesh
    not in poetry
    pounding at it like a mad moth against a lighted window?

    It is over, the it is over. Now it is not over, never over.
    Relativity, relativism, nonsensitivity, nonesensitivism.
    Some academic may shoot me.
    You may shoot me. Anytime. As long as anytime is after that one time
    time and time again. Told you. Nonsensitivism.
    Open. Close. Crush. Bite.
    Pay no attention to the mortal at your portal. Open, Close. Crush. Bite.
    And when you find your mortality alongside mine
    you know
    what I feel.
    Dying this once and not forever, knowing uneternal death and wishing it upon us
    time and again.
    Forgetting all about spiders and crocodiles and piranha
    as you smile among spiders and crocodiles and piranha
    once you return from the land of spiders and crocodiles and piranha
    and your fist pulls tufts of hair off my chest,
    no apology,
    no apology necessary,
    and I pull tufts of nipples off your chest,
    no apology,
    no apology necessary.

    The moon turns for once its other side towards us.
    The church bells donít toll for once this morning.
    Thereís a letter in the mailbox waiting for me, telling me Penguin accepted my story.
    Miracles.
    Inside your bed. Inside your body. Inside my mind.
    Inside the vacuum in between our clasping palms.

    You jump off the bed and rush to the bathroom.
    Oh, the miracle of that rear view, beating even the Penguin one.

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Buttons

    The President has one,
    red.
    I always wondered if it was made of plastic,
    or maybe some unalterable alloy of precious metals
    and plastic
    and flintstone,
    the wires behind it having no right to disconnect
    or connect
    without the force of muscle and hand supporting the disconnection
    or connection,
    the one act of war sending the world into a
    no after war
    nonentity.
    Yes, the President has one. Red.

    The adolescent has one,
    red, inflamed.
    In French. Bouton, they call it
    emphasizing the second o probably because o looks like a,
    well,
    button.
    A lot of pís in our own language
    with pimple and pustule and papule and papilla and pock and what not
    and the poor (another p) adolescent couldnít care less
    as long as he passes (another p) the embarrassing phase (another p, last, promise)
    and can go out there to start his or her conquests of heís or sheís
    at his or her
    whim.
    Yes. The adolescent has one. Red. Inflamed. French.

    The belly dancer has one,
    on her belly button,
    red, if ruby. Green if emerald. White if diamond or, cheaper, zirconia.
    Metallic if nickel and sheís not allergic to it.
    Button on belly button. Like art on art,
    more or less.
    Like poem on poem,
    less or more.
    Like art in poem,
    less and less.
    Like passion wounded by lust,
    more, lots more in those curving hips
    offering the apple to the snake.
    Yes. The belly dancer has one, on her belly button. Sometimes red.

    You have two.
    Everyone has two, you have two,
    pink.
    Magical,
    soft like down as you sleep on your back and your chemise opens, slightly,
    and I see one, maybe two if I pull the chemise infinitesimally leftwards,
    turning steel as I touch with finger tip
    or tongue tip, or other tip
    and I could graze images on glass with their asperities
    or cuts on skin
    or wounds on my mind, with their memory. My memories.
    Donít stand up, or I will hang there my shirts
    and my ties
    and maybe even the keys to my car and the laptopís extra mouse wire
    and that plastic bag filled with all those torn poems
    I wrote you.
    Yes. You have two. Pink. Metamorphical. Oh, so proudly so.

    You have one. Yes, again you. One.
    What color? I couldnít say. Maybe between red and pink?
    Maybe between none and some?
    Maybe between soft and sharp?
    What color?
    How would you expect me to define the undefinable
    see the sensitive
    touch the touchable?... touch! touch! touch!
    and sterile turns sea and silence turns scream and sleep turns squirm
    and the gashed tip of my tongue bleeds
    as it carries you into worlds beyond
    holding on to tentacles carrying to the ends of your hairs
    and nerve ends carrying to the limits of human endurance.
    You relax.
    Rigor mortis anew mollis carnis.
    Yes, you have one. Color irrelevant. Door to hell. One.

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The Body

    The body,

    the one who handed Adam the apple,
    the one who subdued Samson
    and made a God-fearing David transgress his Godís commandment,

    the downfall of Troy,

    the Egyptian, seeding crave in Roman nobility chests,


    The body,

    the one that separates my night from day
    and mills my stars into dust
    before it takes my eyesight and replaces it with myths,


    The body,

    yours.

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Womane

    My bed lies untrodden, my loins lie deserted
    Come lover and bury your flesh in my lust,
    My sanctum to haven of armies converted
    And marshlands beseeching your glorious thrust.

    Leave God-fearing sinless your garb and attire,
    Your innocent thoughts and respectable mind,
    Youíll find in my chambers of flesh the desire
    That Godís mighty hand with his finger enshrined.

    Rip open the doors that allow not admission
    To that which is yours if by birth if by right,
    No penitence, sorrow, reproach or contrition,
    Rip open the doors and sink fireís delight.

    When sweatís saline traces draw maps of destruction
    Around swollen nipples asleep in your palms
    Iíll gather my horses from mindless seduction
    And whisper a prayer in rhymeless old psalms.

    Iíll crawl from beneath deathís abortive endeavor
    And watch resurrection take hold of your breath,
    My thighs shining perfumes of love and forever
    In wait for your life and your following death.

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If I miss you, you ask?

    If I miss you, you ask?

    I could say yes.

    Would be as true as telling that Earth is flat and riding seventeen elephants,
    one pink,
    yes,
    especially the pink one.
    Or that the speed of light is a Jewish conspiracy.
    Or that modern poetry is poetry. Yeah, sure.

    I could say no, of course.

    Would be another lie. Another kind of lie.
    Lie like I never lie.
    Or like I lie only when I have a toothache.
    Or like I lied to you first time I told you I love you.
    Yes, complicated, I know,
    see, I have this labyrinth in my head
    and I get lost there.
    Every time I donít take a map. Thatís why I donít take a map. Every time.

    I could say something else.
    Like what?

    Like meaninglessness is the only meaning when you are away.
    Like meaning is meaningful only when you are not away. Same. Almost. Maybe.
    Ipso facto no yes no no.
    Rather like there is no reference when you are away.
    And references count only when you are not. Away.
    Thus I could not judge.
    Factum.
    Fact.

    But you certainly should know by now.

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Sand

    You lie
    on the hot sand

    naked

    and the grains explode where your drops of sweat fall
    then sizzle
    then spray upwards amidst tiny rainbows and pieces of root
    dried
    millions of years ago.

    Burns? And I ask of your skin.
    Burns! And you mean of the sand
    condemned to the hell of your skinís touch
    before and during and after the explosions
    before and during and after you pull me into you
    after
    I find my way out
    and there is just a dark spot of charred matter there
    where once was sand
    and desiccated, old roots.

    I gather the burnt leftovers in a rusted tin box,
    the one that held once the seeds you fed birds with
    and before that your hair pins
    and before that your glass marbles
    and long, long before that
    small, wrapped chocolates offered by a lover who painted skies
    to a lover who ascended to these skies to paint fire,
    I close the lid and offer you the box.
    Now, it holds the leftovers of love, I say.
    You open the cover and taste.
    Tastes more like seeds of love, to me, you say
    throwing handfuls into the wind.
    Seeding love? I ask.
    Making place for more, you say,
    placing the box carefully next to your feet
    not close enough to stumble not far enough to lose.

    You lie, again,
    on the hot sand.

    Naked.

    And I fight off desertís tempest
    and desertís wild spirits
    for the right of possession and the right of intimacy
    and after I win
    and after I lose
    I fill the box anew with burnt leftovers
    and diamonds.

    I guess it was hot around here, you smile, only half innocently.

    I turn you around to pick some more of the same
    encrusted in between your vertebrae,
    close the lid of the box
    and hand it over to you.
    You lay it under your head... To dream of all this love, you say,

    and you fall asleep,
    my fingers fondling your gravitating breast
    your toes twitching
    shaking off the dust of moon
    from in between them.

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Sunrise. Sunset. Etc.

    Your thighs
    part
    each follows its calling, its separate way.
    The hem
    pulls up,
    up. Further. Further.

    Sunrise.

    I fight the vertigo,
    blindness,
    paralysis,
    almost death. Almost?

    Symplegades! I scream
    yet... I come away alive. Much later. Barely.

    The thighs close.
    Sunset.

    Crepuscule sets in
    even before the hem starts descending,
    the hem descends.
    The hem has descended.

    You lick my wounds and gather my head to your chest.
    I hear your heartbeat.
    Your nipple throbs in my ear like a hundred pound sledgehammer

    I hope to fall asleep, fast.
    Knowing that at the end of night it is there, again.
    Sunrise.

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Lingerie Feminine

    The beauty of the word.
    The beauty of the thought, the image.

    The sous-entendu... innuendo, if you insist.

    The transparency in the kingdom of lace dripping from trees
    and silk gliding beneath water
    and woman
    touching it all
    with skin...

    The tip of a big toe disappearing for parts of a second one side of thin panties
    to reappear the other side of the ridiculously enchanting obstacle
    that keeps pulling upwards past ankle, past knee, past thigh
    ending in sweet supplication against those softest
    and curliest
    of hairs,
    almost begging
    for redemption.

    The rigid tip of a soft breast
    pushing in unexplainable surrender upon the inner side of an unpadded brassiere
    leaving just memories of areolas to peek slightly ashamed above the rim
    before clicks, never final, make an end to snake movements of hands
    returning to the front
    and trying, unconvincingly, to pull up that rim
    then pulling back down,
    slightly,
    let it show,
    slightly.

    A fluttering camisole sliding past a frightening forest of tangled hair-ends
    then past the smooth drop of freckled shoulders
    lingering seconds long upon the precipices of imprisoned cleavage
    before lingering additional seconds upon the precipices of imprisoned hips
    before fluttering further down to perdition around knees,
    then ankles.

    Stockings,
    pulling up as if by divine volition,
    militant fingers like as many horses dragging incessantly on
    until somewhere, mid-thigh or higher,
    the spirits of polymorphic elasticity bite into flesh
    to hang there until forever,
    or until torn asunder,
    or until called upon, to descend, anew.

    Pourquoi? I ask in my limited French
    meaning why the effort, why the spent time, why the mannerism,

    and you parade several times around me
    and several times in front of the mirror
    and several times above me after pushing me rudely to the hard floor,
    naked tiles, no cushion, no carpet,
    a silent choir of wingless, angry angels pulling my eyes this way
    then this way
    then every way
    before sending for winged reinforcements, angrier even
    to pull your stockings down... wait!
    your camisole up... wait!
    your brassiere away... wait!
    the flimsiness of your panties down... and thereís no wait anymore

    as I shoo them all away
    while tearing those wonders of lingerie feminine to thread thin tatters
    to allow for the wonders of femme to dress my flesh
    and turn me into an eternal worshipper
    of lingerie
    and femme.
    Of you.

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ReWritten

    What Edgar Raven Poe would say
    if Edgar Poe would live today,

    would he omit the raven part from his demented poetís art
    when, with a glitter in your eye
    youíd cross his way?

    And how would Bill who Shakes the Spear
    rewrite that famous King of Lear,

    replace the daughters with a son to offer Lear a smite of fun
    while plotting wonderful sonnets
    inside your tear?

    Would Davidís lyre, cracked and old
    allow that story be retold,

    would he still rape Bat Shebaís love enraging Providence above
    if on a balcony across
    heíd sight your gold?

    I wonder, Genesis lost thread
    when Adam grabbed his Eve and fled,

    I wonder, would He have allowed a bit of sin beneath His cloud
    if He would know you were the one
    in Adamís bed?

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good morning

    I go to the library. it is raining. I do not like walking in the rain.
    so I complain. it doesnít help.
    I walk. I wait for the bus.
    I squeeze among wet passengers, looking for the dryer ones. still wet.
    the skirt sticks to my thighs. indecent. invisible.
    I walk again. walk. walk. wait for the tram.
    I squeeze among other wet passengers. worse than the bus.
    I walk in the rain. again. still indecent.
    reach the library. dry inside the building, wet inside my clothes.
    I shiver. I read. I finish.
    I sneeze.
    I walk. the tram is late. I wait in the rain, under a tree. worse than under no tree.
    less people this time, still wet.
    get to the station. walk. walk. walk.
    wait for the bus. wait. wait. wait.
    the bus arrives. wet. wet. wet.
    I descend, walk, complain, feel like a lady. a real lady.
    a cursing lady.
    indecent.
    I am finally home. the cat screams away.
    I undress, dress, sit, the cat tries me again. this time jumps into my lap.
    I love you.
    does it really sounds like a Hitchcock shorty?

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Ice Age

    I wonder which one it is,

    the ice
    or the age,

    or maybe both? No, not none. Thatís certain.

    I float above my earthly body,
    takes a bit of an effort, not too much Ė after all I started practicing, had to
    and I gaze at that slave to gravitation
    and calendar
    and what others think it should be his relevant duties
    related to gravitation and calendar
    and I kindly think ďfuck youĒ
    meaning you all figuratively and her alone literally
    gesticulating to that morose earthly me
    trying to get his... my attention
    before he/I blunders into the supermarket to buy bread, and radish, and tomatoes.

    Age? Who said so?
    I rummage through several shelves in search for the radish
    my floating self back into my gravitating self
    and both start laughing once we/I reach the freezer section.
    There is a wide gap building around me, mothers pulling the kids wildly away
    and women tucking their skirts between their legs.
    The security guard teases his taser, insecure. I keep laughing, harder.
    The garlic section is suddenly crowded,
    I find the radish.

    Ice? Ice? Ice you say, ice and age?
    Idiots!
    One look from her and the entire freezer section thaws
    one touch of her and the entirety of the polar cap melts, both of them
    and if it wasnít for my plea the polar bears would have died
    but she likes polar bears,
    she loves me.

    I ache for her touch, but I refuse the responsibility for the polar caps
    so I just look, aching, aching.
    Her age you ask, my age?
    Donít ask, guess.
    Just remember what hell did to the snowflake.

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Short Poem. Whenever.

    Itís not the writing of a long poem,
    that one is easy.

    Itís the writing of short poems I have a problem with.

    The day I will make it right
    you will be the first to know.

    You will not even have to watch your image in the mirror,
    just to close your eyes
    and tell me of the perfume.

    I will then tell you, if I did it right.
    Until then
    I will keep trying.

    No, donít cheat. I will know.
    And... no. It will not be lilac. Told you, donít cheat.

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Next Apple

    Your fingers, delicate,
    delicately peeling apples
    cutting them to symmetrical square pieces
    before placing them on the thin, almost indecently so, dough.
    Next apple.
    Next apple.

    I sat at the window, following the fuzzy mental images on a yellowish cloud,
    yellowish?... since when are clouds yellowish?...
    then I remembered pollution and sulfides
    and beauty.
    You. Yours. Mine. Peeling apples somewhere unrelated to the cloud.
    Next apple.

    I am old, you said.
    You are the most beautiful woman in the world, I said.
    I am old, you said.
    I did not say you are the most beautiful girl in the world,
    this was Charlie Rich,
    I said the most beautiful woman in the world,
    making age irrelevant.
    You smiled, even if you did not know I had this dialogue with you
    and you picked the next apple. Peeling. Slicing. Next apple.

    Young Liz Taylor was the most beautiful woman in the world,
    ever,
    you insisted and I was glad that modesty deserted you for a moment.
    And you? I asked.
    The next is a wild tiger in the jungle, you peeled further,
    then, maybe, only then maybe I can place somewhere down the line.
    The bite you took from the unpeeled apple made me cringe
    with desire
    with pain
    with a need to taste your apple pie.
    My apple pie?
    You!
    Am I really beautiful? and your rosa cheeks compared to that unpeeled apple,
    before the bite.
    Next apple.
    Are there many apples? one of us asked.
    As many as you wish, one of us answered,
    a following apple sacrificed on the altar of the apple-pie.
    Next apple.

    There were no more yellow clouds.
    There were no more clouds... yellow or green or red striped blue,
    it was night and I was watching outside through the window
    seeing only my reflection,
    the rest of the outside a mystery. You a mystery.
    I let you finish the pile of apples
    roll the dough
    heat the oven
    close the ovenís door and set the alarm clock.
    Tell me again Ė how beautiful I am?
    Like the next apple, I answered.
    There are no more apples, you said
    and my reflection did not worry.
    Thatís what I said. Like no one else.
    Finally.
    You smiled instead of asking.

    Not even like Liz Taylor when young? you asked nevertheless,
    after all... you were a woman.
    Not even.

    The logic was flawed, somehow.
    I noticed.
    You noticed.
    It did not matter.
    It did not matter even when you took another apple from your pocket
    and placed it middle of the table
    watching it.
    Like a treasure found. Like a treasure hidden. Like you cheated.
    You cheated? I asked.
    Yes, you answered, we both cheated.
    I did not, I rebelled.
    I did not, either,
    I was just impatient to hear about the last apple before it was time for the last apple.
    Put it in the oven, next to the pie, I begged.
    Why?
    I want to say it again.
    You put it in the oven.
    Like no one else, I repeated.

    I closed the light, my reflection suddenly invaded by passing cars, street lights.
    I took your last smile with me to bed.
    Thank you, I said.
    For what?
    For apples.

    I fell asleep.

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phone

    you were on the phone to me,

    middle of the city
    middle of the street
    naked.

    sure, in my mind only... I hope.

    you were on the phone to me
    and I could see you, nevertheless, almost sci-fi,
    your hair fighting for its priorities with the wind
    and your eyes blinked flesh over blue several times
    and your lips touched the phone, once.

    after your teeth bit
    and your nails scratched
    my ear
    my nape.

    see, see the blood?
    you cannot, you are not on the phone now
    you were earlier
    but didnít look...
    ha, you did feel, didnít you?

    you were on the phone
    and you skipped two squares of a faded hopscotch figure on the pavement
    then called for a cat that refused to come
    then put one hand in the pocket
    looking for a hanky and finding a receipt from a shop
    where we bought yoghurt together
    and then you interrupted me saying I love you
    and smiling to the man just in front of you,

    such a big smile that he thought you were in love.
    with him.
    poor man.
    going home to a wife who never calls him on the phone.
    lucky me.
    bandaging my ear, there were you bit me. not the nape of my neck, too complicated.

    the phone in my hand was hot
    maybe the battery
    maybe a solar flare
    maybe my breath. probably my breath.

    maybe your breath.
    certainly your breath.

    waiting. for the next phone call. for the next naked.
    waiting.
    for you.

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Miau

    I sat on the window sill,
    the calico curtains pulled out of the way
    you in my lap
    the cat in your lap
    the mouse in the catís lap.
    A woolen mouse, what else, itís a cat no?
    ďMiau.Ē

    My legs swinging outside the window...
    ď...not scared?...Ē you asked
    and I looked to the ground far below, the entire one meter of distance...
    ď...no!Ē I answered,
    proud at my courage.
    You sank deeper into my lap, proud at my courage.
    ďMiau,Ē said the cat, disappointed.

    I caressed your hair,
    blew inside your collar,
    bit your ear.
    My foot was getting numb but I didnít tell you.
    ďMiau!Ē said smart-ass cat.

    ďShall I write you a poem?Ē I asked.
    ďWith what?Ē You were right, with what?
    ďShall I compose you a poem?Ē
    Quiet. Considering. What is it that you are considering, I wondered.
    A moth landed on your bare knee,
    you let it be.
    ďRhyming?Ē I pushed my luck, inspired.
    ďRhyming,Ē you gave in, licking my lower lip.
    Good omen.
    ďMiau... miau...Ē went the cat, stealing the first rhyme line.
    Damn, when is that train to Timbuktu?

    ďThis is Orion,Ē I said, pointing
    and you kissed my pointing finger.
    ďThis is Sagittarius,Ē I said, pointing
    and you kissed my nose.
    ďThis is Ursa Minor,Ē I said, pointing
    and you kissed my lip, the upper one.
    ďThis is Cassiopeia,Ē I said, pointing
    and taking hold of your wandering hand
    before it caused too much damage to my concentration.
    Did not know you were that vengeful.
    ďMiau?Ē asked the cat
    and you explained that the cat was looking for Cat Major
    and when I said there was no Cat Major
    your hand wandered anyway and squeezed.
    ďMiau!!!Ē snickered the cat, satisfied. Women. It was a she-cat.

    I pulled my legs inside
    jumped to the floor still holding you
    you still holding the cat
    the cat still holding the mouse, still woolen that one,
    the moth long gone
    with a yawn.
    Damn, why do all moth references trigger a rhyme?
    I dragged all that surplus weight to the bed
    and sat down on it with a sigh,
    the mattress almost hit the floor.
    ďItís the cat,Ē I said, trying to sound persuasive.
    ďSure,Ē you said,
    getting up
    (the mattress jumped away from the floor, see?)
    and walked with the cat in your hands all the way to the door
    singing a cat lullaby. Probably a cat lullaby, didnít understand a word.
    You opened the door,
    let the cat softly on the floor...
    ďMi-Ē was all I heard before the door clicked shut
    and your feet flapped a triumphal return to the bed empire.

    You probably had cat simile plans.
    I didnít complain.

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Moods

    Missing you
    is like writing a poem,

    looking for the perfect rhyme
    and not finding it.
    Struggling, wriggling.
    Failing.
    Nevertheless enjoying, nevertheless hurting.
    Missing you,

    burning a poem then raging impotently under the raining ashes
    looking for it. Lost. Nevertheless.
    Missing you.
    Poetry of another kind.
    Insanity, like talking to flowers. Beautiful insanity.
    Nevertheless insanity.

    Like the last accord of the last song of the last guitar ever.
    Like the first moment following never. Or ever.
    Like a world that never knew butterflies. Never ever.

    I turn the tap off.
    I chew a tomato.
    I hear a car passing followed by a noisy bike.
    I blink in between and after, and before.

    Missing you
    is like having known you and then missing you.
    Yes, probably the closest.

    Bang, bang.
    Ying and yang.
    When a sunset marries awesome
    with the cherryís early blossom
    and your tang.


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Making Love To You

    Making love to you
    will not stop Earth from its brainless loll and roll.

    It will, at most, move the magnetic pole one second or so,
    maybe also shift slightly a few tectonic plates...
    nothing anyone would ever notice,
    I think.

    Making love to you will rip me apart.
    Will disjoint my spine to single vertebrae
    so when I reach Hell theyíll have to classify me
    to a newly created species of mono-vertebrates.

    Making love to you is not the essence of love. Or life.
    Making love to you is the essence of everything.

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beautiful women

    oh, so many beautiful women in this world...
    I am lost.

    this one doesnít have your eyebrows.
    this one doesnít have your chin.
    this one doesnít have your right toe, this one doesnít sneeze your way, this one...

    I sink my face inside your hair, nose and mouth and stubble and all
    my chest pressing against the bareness of your back
    my hands cupping the softness of your breasts
    my lap accommodating the firmness of your flesh
    as my right knee is accommodated by your right popliteal fossa...

    ď...huh?Ē

    ...sorry, knee pit, and my left knee is in pain from balancing it all...

    ď...and the in between the knees?Ē

    ...thereís nothing in between the knees...

    ďso whatís that invading thing I feel?... a bit higher up?Ē

    butterflies are masterpieces. even moths.
    flowers should have feet, they should dance.
    shells were once alive, carrying memories in between curls and curves.
    the sun rises wherever you look at. look under the bed. see?

    ďno.Ē open your eyes. ďoh!Ē

    I pull the stockings to your feet, before anything else.
    I donít pull anything else
    to or up or down or over or around or whatever
    before sitting on the edge of the bed
    and seating you on my thighs
    your knees hammer-locking my waist
    your nipple tips burning the curls on my chest
    your ear and the rest of the head attached to it resting in my left shoulder nook
    while your fingers try in vain to clasp behind my back

    Ēyouíve put on weightĒ

    and I try in vain to calm down various parts of me, nothing to do with putting on weight.

    we find a suitable bench,
    covered with rotting leaves and dried bugs
    and freshly fallen drops. rain, not tears.
    you donít complain about the dampness,
    I donít complain about the dried bugs,
    we donít complain about the rot. smells like heaven,
    everything smells like heaven when you sit on it.
    I try to calculate the milliliters of water you expel with each breath
    just making sure there is enough left for the inevitable tears.

    ďletís make love one last time.Ē

    not the last time.

    ďthe last time before the tears.Ē

    there are many beautiful women in this world.
    none has your eyebrows.
    we hide under the grey blanket under the grey trees under the grey clouds
    and make love again under the eyes of all.
    none sees. none cares.
    your ass is frozen.
    you are hot like hell.
    pull your skirt down.
    there are enough milliliters left and you prove me right. I am always right.
    you fold the blanket. the Chihuahua barks at us, is it lost? it then chases a squirrel.

    ďitís time.Ē

    I scream. in my head. you scream. in your head.
    you are the most beautiful woman in the world.

    ďI know.Ē

    thank God.
    have some of my own milliliters left.
    I mix them with yours and make a mish-mash of your mascara.
    doesnít matter.
    next time I hope it is the same Chihuahua. I love Chihuahuas.
    I love. you.

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Rhyme

    If I made love to you, yesterday,
    it was because I did not want to wait until today.

    If I make love to you today,
    it is because I donít want to wait until tomorrow.

    This was yesterday.
    This is today.

    If I donít make love to you tomorrow
    it will be because I died anytime between now and then.
    Yet, if I do, it will not be because I did not die.
    Also not because it will be the yesterday of the day after.

    No.

    Rhyme.
    The future sensation of body and body.
    The rhyme of the senses.
    Rhyme.

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Shell

    You put my shoe against your ear
    And shed a silver tinted tear,
    I asked... My love, what does it be?
    You answered... I can hear the sea,
    my dear.


    I laughed until I sprained my spine,
    And what about the smell of brine?
    I asked. You looked at me in pain...
    You mean the smell of sweat and rain,
    and wine?

    Of flesh admix with primal clay
    Left from that sixth and final day
    Which culminated with your birth?...
    Now praying, that you seed my earth
    and stay.


    You cut my heart and cut my breast,
    I fell from mirthís conniving crest,
    I ripped your cottons ribbon-thin
    And lay my ear there, in between...
    your nest.

    Open your thighs, then more, then more,
    My woman, lover, wife and whore,
    And let me listen... To? ...the sea,
    To waves alloyed with lifeís debris
    galore.

    You laughed. You mean my bodyís waste,
    My ever lewd, my never chaste?...

    I mean the love that burns my mind,
    The wish of one and only kind,
    and taste.

    I mean the smell that turns my sleep
    To heaven, seven fathoms deep,
    The bedlam of a vicious brawl
    To chirping song, a clumsy crawl
    to leap.

    I think you love me. Yes, I do.
    I think you love me. This makes two.
    We shared the tongue, then shared the tang,
    then waited for the siren song
    to die anew.

    *

    You picked my shoe, pulled the laces tight, then made a surgeonís knot, then tightened it. You followed by a fishermanís bend and tightened it. Then a sheepshank, followed by a sheet bend, followed by a bowline, each time tightening it until the laces almost cut into your flesh. Ending it all with a Gordian knot... how the hell did you know about the Gordian knot (and how the hell did I know about it)? Punishment for my laughter? I asked. You did not answer.

    I picked the ends of your curls and started tying them to one another. One by one, just a simple overhand knot, but tight. Un-unknotable, of course. Punishment for my laughter? you asked. I did not answer. I still think you enjoyed it.

    I could not go home. Not with all those knots. If Alexander could do it then I could as well. I took a Japanese knife and cut them all.

    We could not make love. Not with all those knots. If Alexander could do it then you could as well. You took a Ladyshave and shaved them all.

    Freedom!

    Who needs freedom?

    We probably turned into Alexander and Alexandra. It was our job to conquer and we conquered. There was nothing left of the otherís flesh unconquered, absolutely nothing.

    *

    I guess it was the strangest scene
    Define it godly or obscene,
    We fell asleep with roosterís voice,
    Each ear against its sea of choice,
    your king, my queen.

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Saying Things

    Saying things like
    I dream of you
    sounds childish, doesnít it?
    Corny, old fashioned, puerile. Ha, as if it was true.

    Same like saying you are my sunshine, or my sunset, or my sun lotion.
    Made up this last one, no one says you are my sun lotion. Maybe sun god.
    Or Sunday. Or everything under the sun.
    Or assunder. Oh, asunder... I thought it was more like ass u... sorry.
    My imperfect English. And interpretation.
    No, donít forgive me, just allow me some... sun. Yours.
    Doesnít matter what I said earlier, things change from line to line,
    day to day. You to you or me to without you. Idiot!

    Saying things like
    I want to f--- you.
    See?... you suffer from an interpretation malady as well
    I meant I want to find you, what did you mean? Aha, knew it.

    If I said I want to find you to f--- you, you might have been justified,
    though just barely,
    I would have meant most probably I want to find you to feel you, see?
    No, fish would not necessarily fit, yes, grammatically yes
    but contextually no. Form? Hmm... Feed? Well... Fill? Well, well...

    Saying things like
    I burn for you
    might have led you to ask sub-intelligent questions.
    Type internal combustion engine? candle wick? ulcerated stomach?

    Or you might have referred to f--- above, your interpretation.
    Or drop a bucket of water over me.
    Or look for the smoke.
    Or ask me over-intelligent questions
    type so where is your poetry? so where is your wine? so where is your body?

    Saying things.
    Better leave things unsaid.
    No place for objections, questions, misinterpretations.
    And some more misís, type misapprehension, miscalculation, misdirection
    (most of them long words).

    If I donít say things you can think whatever you wish,
    and this includes immoral and prurient and carnal
    and some more and none less
    and even everything else.
    No, donít try to outthink me, itís impossible,
    the mires in my mind are too deep to scout or dry, leave them be,
    just dig your own mires, mosquitoes and alligators and all
    and once I fall in just devour me.
    See, I do reveal some thoughts, take it as a guide.
    There are pearls in the mire, you know...

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post-card

    I watch you
    through the balcony door

    from the safety of the bed

    you sit on the wooden chair
    knees pulled to chin,
    thighs white and taut mold into the promise of white, taut panties
    and twined finger-soldiers lock shins away from dance moves
    while red stains, pulled by impertinent wires ending in the sun
    play like marionettes in cascading Medusa curls,
    serene,
    the only life sign in the colorful post-card eyes chasing underneath closed eyelashes
    other times
    other places
    other ones,

    flesh, ikon, saintly,
    you could have mothered Moses,
    you could have mothered Jesus, you could have mothered Mohammed,

    you chose to mother the glow in my eyes
    that envelops you

    as I watch you
    through the balcony door

    from the safety...

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Intimacies

    I fish for lonesome grains of sand adrift inside your mouth
    Absolving you from letting cranes migrate all beauty south,
    Then comb the dust of copper leaves from strands of knotted hair
    Uncovering, oh, mortalís chance, a nippleís mythic lair.

    I scream my wonder to the gods that fathered sunsetís tint
    Beyond the endless canopy inset with fluffs of lint,
    My restless mind drives restless hands through barren mounds of earth
    Distilling from the crumbling clods the magic of your birth.

    I swathe the bench with clumps of moss and tufts of dying grass,
    A broken thorn blends much ado with vain attempts at class,
    Then lay a stone beneath your head to watch inside your eye
    The poems left untold, unsaid, the wind through fields of rye.

    You leave my fingers rend to rags the garbs above your skin
    Invoking crows to peck my eyes should I refuse to sin,
    I join your life... while splaying nails my spine encroach and flay
    And thorny nests are meshed by crows with carvings off my clay.

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Like A Woman

    You are.

    Like that most ancient of riddles
    not solved, yet.
    Never will.

    You are.

    Like that seed sprouting, growing, opening into red petals
    all know how
    no one knows why. Why?

    You are.

    Like that recurring memory
    I never had
    and always will.

    You are. You are not

    morning, long turned life
    evening, long turned life
    life, long turned parking lot for any memory that ever counted to wait for.

    Like a woman
    you scream, birthing me into incredible love
    and endless bliss.

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Mail

    Wean me
    from you.

    Wrap me
    with giving flesh

    Fold around me layers of skin and muscle and fat
    gift-tied with ribbons braided from tresses you cut years ago
    stowed away
    for this occasion

    Lick the stamp
    right into me
    let it burn like branding iron, like a broken bottle, like a scorpion sting

    Ship me
    away, into nothingness,
    one way

    Inveigle me
    into dementia.

    Donít wait for my return.

    Thereís no need.
    I never left.

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Bird On A Wire

    Bird,
    on a wire, on a fence,
    on a ruminating cowís horn,

    on the end of a twig still hanging by miracle rather than by logic to the trunk

    and I watch your belly
    inflating and deflating as you trill and trill and trill

    and I think ďand what if you were woman...Ē

    If? you ask
    leaving wire fence cowís horn and twig, still trilling

    to sit cross legged on my chest and dare me prove the contrary.

    Woman,
    on a wire, on a fence,
    on a ruminating cowís horn,

    on the end of a twig still hanging by miracle rather than by logic to the trunk

    and I watch your belly
    inflating and deflating as you trill and trill and trill

    and I think ďand what if this woman would have made love to someone else?...Ē

    If? you ask
    leaving wire fence cowís horn and twig, still trilling

    to sit cross legged across my loins and dare me prove the contrary.

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Bird On A Wire, Two

    Like a bird on a wire,

    I watched your belly from down my hell to up your heaven
    and if decency would have been a virtue
    then your glorious virtuelessness burned through my eyes to their roots
    as I examined minutely every detail
    from the tips of your hanging pinks to the roots of your majestic curleds
    slobbering like an army of dogs over a boneís promise of raw meat,

    for moments few undecided between shivering fingers
    helping gravitational brutes pull upon the stiffest of above mentioned pinks
    and between chattering teeth flossing themselves to virginal spotlessness
    with the largest of above mentioned curleds.

    Then I gouged,

    beyond your memory of hymen
    into your reality of womb
    impaling you to the ceiling

    and as you hung there on the one support point
    the rest of you engulfed the rest of my flesh, like a canopy,
    assimilating it until there was nothing left of me but the blood

    rushing madly inside your veins.

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Your Head On My Shoulder

    Your head on my shoulder,
    thatís all thatís needed.

    Keep it there
    donít move it away,
    follow me in dance
    let the slow entrance us
    and all our senses converge to that sole contact point
    as I pirouette and you follow
    and I slide and you follow
    and I backtrace and you follow
    pirouetting, sliding, backtracing
    your skirt sweeping the floor and your fingers drawing hieroglyphs
    in the air
    on my imaginary skin,

    donít stop, donít stop...

    Roll, the other cheek, if you wish,
    roll, the other shoulder, if you wish,
    never disconnecting
    even at the cost of biting into my shirt, my flesh
    never touching me any other way
    but head to shoulder
    with skirt swishing across the floor and at times across my leg
    as you pirouette, slide, backtrace.

    Donít, donít move it away,
    even if the music changes
    even if the orchestra drummer makes eyes to you
    even if the music stops,

    let us dance head on shoulder all the way up the stairs
    all the way into the room, on the bed, under the covers.

    Your head on my shoulder,
    thatís all I need.

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My Best Poem Ever

    Writing my best poem ever.

    Meaning what? If all I wrote until now was trash
    this would mean less trashy, right?
    But still trash.
    If, on the other hand, all I wrote until now was great
    then I would be known
    and there would be no need best poem ever, right?
    Right.

    Now, there is another possibility.
    That no one discovered me yet.
    Yeah, sure...
    Or that I donít have enough money to buy criticsí opinion.
    Yes. Sure.
    Or that I ainít famous enough so it wouldnít matter critics or talent.
    Yeap. Thatís for sure.
    Posibilities, not possibility. At least inconsistent, as poets go... yey!...

    Your eyes open, pale blue. Sad.
    Your body stretches next to me, soft. Magnificent.
    Your mind wanders, searching for the edge of darkness into light.
    Pain into delight.
    Once upon into now and forever.

    I will never write my best poem ever. Iím in love with it.

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a momentís frenzy, my mind

    you jump, like a goat. like a god. like a goddess.

    Elvis, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Jerry Lee... who else?...
    Blue Suede... No Particular Place... Good Golly... Great Balls... what else?...

    you jump and you roll and you scream
    your head bobbing front back
    your ass sweeping left right
    your tits bouncing up down
    and your hair flows around you like Medusa fighting Aeolus
    lashing the wall paper into ribbons and my skin into tatters as I try to keep pace
    failing
    loving
    madly.

    how old are you if not sixteen
    how limber are you if not steel wire
    how hot are you if not heart of match heart of volcano heart of sun?

    you let your clothes fall
    and I tie them knots making sure you can never wear them again
    you chase your shadows
    and I paint the walls white making sure you never catch them
    you sweat
    and I burn all towels making sure you turn white under the salt of your life,

    and after the clouds of moths dissipate
    I gather ribbons and tatters and salt
    and make mad love to you
    barely able to keep you down as The Big Bopper hits the first accords of Chantilly Lace...

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