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The Ultimate Dimension

    Could have been the fifth.

    Maybe the fifty-fifth, safer, allowing other dimensions to be discovered
    yet keeping its absolute, undefeatable status.
    Indomitable. Ultimate.
    The ultimate dimension.

    The echo in my mind. On paper.


    Space, time,
    those uniform, shapeless, endless, no begin no end dimensions
    sized by our impossibility to size them
    same as the other still to be discovered leading to fifty five
    yet halting, ending
    there. Fifty fifth. Or shall I poetize it into filthy filth. Age.

    Of a deformity misleading, deceiving, lying.
    Shaped so well. Sized so well. Begin. End.
    The brainless beginning, the brainless end,
    nothing before and nothing after, whatever legends popular or urban maintain.
    And in between a few drops of love, some drops of happiness
    and all around these every variety possible of pain, indifference, toil,




    seas and oceans of these and acolytes
    and so many measurement units of the dimension lost to... sleep,

    I always nurtured a morbid fascination for those mathematical series
    of infinite members
    and finite sum total,
    the infinity of nothings adding to a nothing total,

    like life,
    like the ultimate dimension,

    like age.



    I cupped my palms
    around your verses,
    a nest,

    watched the thin shells of your thoughts crack
    and thousands of clamorous mouths started screaming for nourishment,

    I watched your heart crumble
    to feed them




    I tore a page from your book,
    rolled it densely densely
    and put a match to its end.

    No need for tobacco.

    I puffed in, inhaling deeply, then again, then again,
    burning words settling into my lungs before seeping into my blood stream
    while I kept busy exhaling pure paper,

    I looked at the book lying next to me.
    for a lifetime.


Like Ultimate Vision

    Cows in the middle of the highway,

    snakes pouring from exhausts
    with tail-less goats stampeding across rooftops
    and chickens obeying fetch!...

    Armageddon for children.
    Or for lovers.
    Or for who-the-hell-cares
    conjointly with volcanoes on the moon
    and red-tailed meteors on my roof
    and naked you taking away my breath and all fear of any kind of Armageddon.

    I count my ribs again,
    making sure you are missing while you tiptoe in the room
    overtly parading your bouncing pride and rave of flailing snakes
    trying to turn me stone
    when I avert my eyes
    to meet the viciously lashing tongues in the mirror

    and the part of me turning stone is the one that nails you to the wall
    and prevents you from sliding to the floor
    alongside those slashing canines you hook into my lower lip
    hanging the rest of you
    onto me

    like a summer’s blossoming garland.


Sometimes. Always.

    Sometimes I sit.
    Sometimes I listen to AC/DC.
    Sometimes I follow birds with eyes, ears.
    Irrelevant. I always find you.
    On the chair, in the crazy guitar riffs,
    in birds' feathers – nightingale, crow or eagle.

    Sometimes I growl.
    To a driver cutting in front, to a neighbor wise-ass,
    to the taxman's letter.
    To a failed rhyme.
    I find you. Always.
    Even when I don't find the rhyme
    you crawl into my lap
    and knit anew my untangling sanity threads.

    You button my shirt
    you zip my trousers
    you lace my shoes
    before you button zip lace yours.
    Sometimes you don't, either of,
    which is fine with me
    as long as you are willing to perch on the bedhead
    like a lark
    ready to jump me
    like a cobra
    ready to rend me
    like a hyena hungering for months in a cage
    with nothing but stuffed teddy-bears for company,

    you play hopscotch on my prostrate figure
    after you suck me dry of every ounce of passion,
    you drive thousands of miles to find a linden tree
    in that part of the world where they are still blooming
    to bathe my body in the essence of its flowers
    before the rite of ascension,
    you pour nails into my shoes
    just for the pleasure of pulling them out, one by one
    from my feet,
    as good an excuse as any to pull me out of the rest of my clothes
    for closer inspection of eventual collateral damage
    even on unaffected body parts,
    affecting them nevertheless,
    Always with a grin to put to shame any Cheshire creature, visible or not.

    Sometimes I dream.
    Never sometimes of you.


The Wait


    did your body conceal its infernal submission to caroling passion and mortal delights
    contriving the harrowing war of attrition ordained to enkindle my sky's Northern Lights
    and feigning surrender to life's grubby measure usurping the melody hidden within
    while lying in wait for the roborant treasure embedded in promises tinted with sin?


    you slide libertarian, whimsical fingers between your impatient, lascivious thighs
    evoking a scent that eternally lingers at mind's end of vision and reason's demise,
    do gargoyles pour pitch from the tower of churches to smite all of sanity's counterfeit smiles
    and as your reality drunkenly lurches, an unsummoned pain your serenity riles?


    plays in that sumptuous garden protected by decorous lashes coquettishly drawn,
    I wonder if passions forever neglected, or craves long forgotten in yesterday's yawn,
    your mystery drips with the feminine essence that mothers the marvel embedded in rhyme,
    you wake within candor's averse evanescence... oh, tamer of dragons and killer of time.



    to be left stranded
    between your thighs

    to wait
    for death to strike me of old age
    while chasing those perfumes you unlocked
    for me

    and when too tired
    to fall asleep
    alongside knowledge

    in omnibus operibus tuis memorare novissima tua...

    thus to acclaim the sin
    and mortality
    and cry the yesterdays lost and sing the tomorrows still awaiting me

    looking up at the valley between your breasts
    or down at the nails of your toes

    or nowhere
    except into that hell mistaken for paradise
    or vice versa
    while pulling feathers from angel wings and sharing with you the philosophy of flesh

    memento vivere...


Various Kinds Of Magic

    I walk the streets
    hanging on to your skirt like a lost kid,
    aged sixty plus in bones
    yet not more than twenty in scattered mind and mind abettors...
    oh, those perennial, immature abettors,

    You show me the lamps at the top of lampposts
    and I see archangels flashing swords

    You show me swans mid of a dirty pond
    and I see Odette in a pas-de-deux

    You show me a four-leaf clover
    and I see green winged butterflies

    I experiment with leaving the hold on your skirt
    and lamps burn and ponds cover with oil stains and goats eat all clover undiscriminatingly
    until I hastily take hold of your skirt's folds once again
    and the world's magic

    Magic! I shout
    pointing at yet another archangel, how many since I started following your folds?
    I even offer you a bunch of flowers I tore from a public garden
    never releasing my other hand's hold,
    and you accept with the grace of Odette.
    Can you pirouette on a four-leaf clover? I ask
    and you say you can even on one leaf of a four-leaf clover
    and prove it even with my hand still clawing wretchedly at your skirt,
    or maybe because of it?
    and the archangels appreciate and applaud.

    Magic, you say,
    there is more magic if you let go of my skirt, you promise
    unclenching my fingers one by one...
    Promise? I whimper,
    Promise, you whisper
    and as I pull back dejectedly into a corner
    you take hold of the hem of the dress
    and something wonderful starts to unfold.
    Beating archangels, Odette and clover. Suddenly I do not mind even the goats.

    Wow! Talking of magic...


Mirror Mirror On The Wall

    I looked in the mirror then went to the doctor.
    A perfect body, it said. Since when do mirrors say things?

    He (the doctor) checked one shoulder
    and made the sign of the cross once.
    Then checked my other shoulder
    and made the sign of the cross twice.
    I did not allow him to check anything else
    as I believe in the jinx of three.
    He sent me to X-Ray and MRI and PET and Ultrasound and Thermography
    and many others where I left my hard-earned money
    where they pinched me and punctured me and undressed me
    to tell me everything that I knew already
    about my no cartilage
    my early death
    my need for one probably two artificial shoulders
    followed by six-seven-eight-etc months of revalidation
    emasculation, or what sounded very much like it
    and I left with a catalogue the size of a half-bible
    about a variety of mechanical and electrical and steel and plastic
    and so on contraptions in a variety of colors and sizes and price ranges
    from one billion to slightly more...
    I decided I was just fine. Mirror agreed.

    He (the doctor, another) asked me to pee in a variety of rotating tools
    then to pee in a variety of bottles in a variety of colors (the bottles)
    then to stop-start-stop-etc
    and then he hmmmed and hooomed and haruuumphed for a while
    prodding pushing palpating where not I even reached
    before reaching the valiant conclusion
    (and after pocketing valiant wads of watermarked paper cuts)
    that if I wanted to keep doing it at my valiant age
    I have to accept his proposed chemical support
    that is, what was its name?
    mostly bluish,
    mostly expensive
    something that starts with a V and ends with a... hmm...
    no, not Valium,
    no, not Vaseline,
    no, not Voltaren, Vagifem, Vicodin, Varta... oh, yes,
    starts with a V and ends with an A...
    yes‼ Vitamin A!
    I decided to eat bio carrots. Mirror agreed again.

    She (the doctor, female I think if to judge by her fees and feet)
    was supposed to investigate my toe which she did
    before sending me for colonoscopy which goes with my age she said
    and only too late I discovered has nothing to do with Greek architecture
    when six male burly wardens got hold of me
    and one miniature female warden did things unspeakable
    with a variety of kitchenware
    smiling and apologizing and telling me of my inner beauty
    (something my mirror did not tell me at all)
    before sending me home with a bless and a limp
    threatening to send pictures to my (she) doctor
    which needless to say I did not visit anymore.
    I showed Mirror my inner beauty and she cracked in envy and distress.
    I even posted it on my Facebook
    daring anyone to guess.

    He (yet another) was not allowed to call himself doctor
    but dentist
    claimed there was not enough gold in Fort Knox to provide for my age needs
    which was just well, I could not afford it anyway,
    so instead he volunteered a variety of options
    tested already on guinea pigs and corpses
    and since I did not answer (my mouth was clammed open)
    he assumed assertively as positively answered
    and started piling a variety of DIY tools next to me
    the most frightening of which was a torch blower
    (he apologized later on for the mistake, "for my roof" he said)
    and which I appreciated with my connoisseur eye including
    a Makita router and a Bosch cordless drill and a Black & Decker grinder
    plus a variety of hammers - iron and plastic and rubber and a 10kg one
    (that's 20 pounds for the aliens among you)
    and a variety of glues
    and a variety of sand paper grades 500 down to 40
    and a variety of tie-wrap all sizes (depends on the customer...)
    I wasn't worried until he lined up a number of 10 inch nails
    when I tore through the three layers of tie-wraps
    and busted through the steel door like it was cigarette paper.
    He sent me the bill, nevertheless.
    Mirror agreed that the ladder effect of my teeth was sexy
    and allowed easier use of a straw implement
    and anyway she (Mirror) loved the way I kept decaying.

    She (the doctor, not the Greek one, female according to statistics)
    ordered me completely naked
    then inspected me minutely with a huge magnifying glass
    and (banned) asbestos gloves
    playing Etta James (you know which song) in the background
    before declaring my melanoma a melodrama
    my skin a crocodile disgrace
    my wrinkles a warning about the oncoming Apocalypse
    and her fee to be paid before she would return me the clothes.
    I left her the clothes.
    She threatened to change her diagnosis if I didn't pay
    thus effectively blackmailing me into taking a mortgage for the next five years
    or else.
    I did steal all the medical journals from her waiting room.
    I wanted to know everything about all the sicknesses I did not have
    just in case I live too long and I might get one of these.
    Didn't get anything except blisters, and there was nothing about it in those journals.
    Mirror claimed the black spots I called beauty spots are simply melanocytic nevi
    with the one at the end of my nose proving I was a witch.
    I tried to witch Mirror into a kitchen pan and failed.
    Proving mirrors don't know everything.
    She (the doctor, not the Greek one, female according to statistics)
    also had a mole at the end of her nose but this was no proof to anything.
    I heard her husband was a prince.

    He (the doctor, there are many preying on age, didn't you know?)
    told me that I have the knees of a young girl
    though I would have preferred to have the knees of an adult man
    but he seemed mighty pleased when he added that nevertheless
    he will have to drill three holes around – one for the light, one for the knife
    and one for God knows what thus he will remove whatever is broken
    and then I will be as good as new or rather old new or rather we'll see after
    but not necessarily play rugby
    or football or basketball or handball or baseball
    or hopscotch
    or rollerblades
    or bicycle
    and when I asked him about sex he was kinda circumlocutial
    (where the hell did I learn this word?)
    mentioning that as long as I followed doctor another's instructions
    and bought the thing that started with V and ended with A
    (i.e. Vitamin A as explained already)
    and ensured that in no case I rely on my knees to hover above
    whatever male/female/rubber/plant partner of my choice
    then in principle I may be able to lead a HH (happy'n'healthy) life
    as long as I did not abuse my healthy (i.e. repaired) body
    and limit said abuse to no more than once per year
    at which stage I decided that no wonder age is serious matter
    not suitable for young people
    and takes so many years of training
    while my she (not the doctor one) said she did not mind any hovering
    and neither did I, I decided,
    and Mirror defined me as the most beautiful in the room
    (the only one there)
    at which occasion I opened a bottle of champagne and poured it down the sink
    (liver problems said he, the doctor not yet mentioned).

    A perfect body, better not entrust it to doctors.
    Love, let's hang the mirror on the ceiling, what's your opinion?
    She (lover) agreed.
    We're still looking for a ladder but once we find it... oh-la-la‼!...



    you linger
    inside my empty clothes,

    I wonder who is looking for whom.

    evening falls,
    this evening, unlike the other evenings,
    I ache for you.
    the other evenings do not exist.

    did I tell you?

    I paint my roof
    making sure I don't fall,

    I listen to birds
    glad I ain't worm,

    I write
    sad there aren't ink stains on my finger tips.

    we make love
    when there isn't something better to do,

    I wonder why we make love always.

    I still feel the burn
    when you saddled my knee,
    do you remember making love with demanding fingers
    in plain view with no one seeing?
    as if it would matter.

    clouds play sheep today.
    leaves have fallen, months ago.
    I try to run between raindrops and come out soaked to my underwear,
    I wish you were here to dry them with your breath.

    words are a matter of choice,
    they choose me.
    I chose you.




    ...and every time you raised your hands
    your breasts would bounce
    like pebbles shooting across the lake
    and every time you bent in delight
    your breasts would push against the thin yarn
    shaping it in forms of desire unfulfilled
    and then you would raise your hands again
    and dance on
    heedless to my melting away
    in the cracks
    between the floor boards.

    I believe I even got sight of the roundness of flesh
    gazing from there, down below,
    upwards, way up high
    when you happened to pass above my puddle substance
    and drops of me stuck
    to your toes.

    Pieces of me were still asleep inside your sandals
    when you tossed them off
    and started undressing
    and I couldn't make it to the end...


Pastels, Three

    What about pastels two?
    There never was. Never will be.
    You know me better than I do, I guess.

    I pulled her dress down over her head
    smoothening it carefully on her shoulders,
    also on her breasts, concerned solely with the aesthetic aspects
    making sure it was stretched properly,
    smoothening it carefully on her hips,
    also on her buttocks, aesthetics my only concern as you know by now
    making sure it was stretched properly...

    You are such a pedant...

    I shove her feet into the pink sandals
    raising her legs slightly more than necessary
    not trying to peek along her legs but having no choice
    working so long and hard at the unfriendly buckles
    that I had no choice but to screw my neck this way, and then this way,
    and then raising her legs even higher than previously
    the buckles so mean to me...

    You are such a pedant...

    She pulled the trousers up my legs
    dealing extensively with the zipper
    trying to close it several times to her utter dissatisfaction
    thus trying it again and again
    then packing the source of the encumbrance better,
    then again, even better probably
    and then finally, with a satisfied, gentle, pat closing the matter
    to our shared satisfaction.

    You are such a pedant...

    She shove my feet into the sandals, no, not pink, brown
    and raising my leg this way then that way
    almost certainly trying to peek under my pants yet certainly failing
    until finally she gave up and closed the buckle to my great satisfaction
    and her visible disappointment.
    I didn't tell her anything about pedantry,
    it was clearly not the issue here.

    She hooked her elbow into mine
    and we went out.
    We walked slowly, in step,
    almost like soldiers on a private parade,
    her sandals tic-tic-ticing
    my sandals toc-toc-tocing.
    She pointed at a sky covered with stars
    Look there, a star!
    and I said yes, faking knowledge of her point of interest
    then I said Look above, a star!
    only for the pleasure of seeing the entire blinking canopy
    reflecting in her eyes.

    We got stiff necks after a while,
    returning home more by instinct than by sight,
    hitting every bench, mile stone, umbrella and dog beneath our field of vision.
    I'm probably covered with blue spots,
    and she finally succeeded to fit the key in the hole
    by kneeling in front of the door
    and bringing the keyhole into her field of vision.
    I promised to check every spot she could think of
    once I could lower my head,
    and she refused to wait asking me to use my hands instead.
    I believe I found a red spot, I ventured,
    And this is not one of the places that got bumped, she giggled,
    until we finally settled in a very uncomfortable position
    where we could see each other's eyes,
    hers still carrying star glints.
    I did not wonder,
    knowing of the other fires, even wilder,
    consuming her body.


    Remember pastel two?
    I remembered.
    There was no need to promise,
    there was no need for promises between us.




    elegantly separates to strands under the nudge of artificial teeth
    last shower drops soaking into the intimacy of a shoulder's skin
    while incense-like soft perfumes burn my nostrils
    into the expectancy of... expectation.

    Your hair

    split ends harbor sparks running all the way to roots
    like so many nanosuns mixed with crushed poppy petals
    smearing a trail of smolderless coal in between
    blinding me with desire... blind.

    I grab
    your hair,
    by the roots,

    fingers and web clench into the perfection of trap
    with the silken yarn's fire corroding though skin and bones down to emotions
    and bubbling on until my convulsing lungs ache for devastation
    murdering my senses... dead.

    You drop
    on the sheets,
    your hair

    like a crushed tomato like a scared flamingoes flock like a collapsing sun
    and you look like a haloed saint committed to absolute sin
    allowing suicidal moths to pull hair ends into a tri dimensionality
    neighboring the perfect ecstasy of... perfection.

    I invade
    your hair,
    I shatter
    I war

    the convoluting dragons biting their way from my hidden recesses
    into your body's layers of incandescent pollen and bubbling cauldrons
    finally unleashing them to paint your areolas and perineum and philtrum
    to end into the caving-in depths of the... depth.


Pastels, Two

    Yes, you promised. Pastels two.
    I did not promise.
    You did. She stuck out a tongue that could reach the moon and retrieved it immediately
    before I could clamp it between my teeth.

    Butterfly colors.
    Not butterflies, just colors
    flittering underneath her eyelashes,
    before her eyes.
    A veil, hiding her thoughts.
    She could not hide her thoughts completely,
    I found them in her palms. Soft, velvety, flittering like the colors,
    Your thoughts have color, I said
    catching her by the waist and throwing her in the air
    to the real butterfly she wanted to reach.
    She did not reach. Not that she really wanted.
    Just wanted to listen to it, she said.

    I didn't peek under her skirt,
    not that I did not want to, just wasn't sure it goes with pastels.
    I did though touch the tips of her breasts when she descended,
    I believe this does go with pastels.
    She put her head on my shoulder
    allowing me to guide her to the end of the world,
    the butterfly hanging on to her other ear,
    a living earing.
    Along the way we sat on a bench
    the end of the world being far and the butterfly being tired. She too.
    Do you love me? she asked.
    Yes said the butterfly, and I was reluctant to correct it.

    It started raining stars. Drops of water too. And fireflies.
    I watched the stars dressing her and the drops undressing her
    and the fireflies turning her into shimmering pyre
    and people looked at us curiously
    as we continued towards the end of the world
    with the butterfly our only satellite.
    The moon in your eyes, there are two, I commented
    looking into her eyes.
    It was night. It wasn't cold. The wolves were silent.
    Your tips of fingers, they are warm, I commented.
    The tops of the trees bent, ascertaining my comment.

    I watched for a moment back.
    Her steps left luminous pools getting lost in the distance,
    Artificial decoration, I commented.
    She stopped, kissed me, leaned her head again on my shoulder
    and continued walking.
    I believe I looked ridiculous
    with all those stars and drops and fireflies hanging on to my lips.
    I want them back, she said.

    I waited for this request, oh, I waited for this request...


The Expectation

    The expectation.
    Getting longer the less time there is
    to expect.

    Like a kid waiting for his second ice-cream, after tasting the first,
    like a poet waiting for recognition,
    like an Olympic long distance runner
    seeing the accolades previous champions got
    and imagining his to come, this time.
    Unlike a lover knowing it all,
    more like a lover knowing nothing and imagining everything
    and expecting more
    than everything.

    I watch the watch,
    wall – wrist – computer – car – church tower...
    maybe one would be more forthcoming, less scrupulous,
    maybe one would be hit be a meteorite...
    complete collusion, conspiration, connivance,
    I even try a little bribe... "a new battery Mr. watch?..."
    no response.
    The long arm moves another fraction of arc
    and the expectation gets longer, somehow.

    Maybe a bit of skirt flutter, I try
    closing my eyes,
    it helps, a bit.
    Maybe a bit of a skirt hem indulgently lifting?
    Helps, even slightly more.
    Then what about no skirt at all, I burst
    and the rest of my day is ruined with mountains of accumulating expectation matter
    that just get heavier, and higher,
    and longer.
    Yes, mountains can get also longer
    in this case.

    I decide there is nothing I can do.
    So I might as well cut the grass, trim the hedge, paint the walls,
    action induced numbness
    and another day passes.

    Somehow, still, the expectation just keeps growing.
    Did I just discover the end of entropy?



    Half way up
    through your body

    and I lose my way, willingly, resting there
    I could spend the other half of my life

    if half there would have been.

    I find my way, willingly, exiting there
    I did not spend the other less-than-half of my life

    and I find repose on the left half of the first half of the last half way, up,
    listening to the regular chirp, rustle, purl, pummel, slug
    penetrating through overlapping layers of desire and nipple
    my infuriated eye and mouth and finger
    warring cruelly, desperately
    for nipple rights
    and desire concessions,

    a half lunacy of a half witted owner.

    The finger wins by default
    as I continue upwards, dragging along eye mouth and relevant appendices
    to find half of a mouth system called lower lip
    and half of a tooth system called lower maxilla
    and an entire vicious system called tongue
    that traps me
    further halving my wits and doubling my lunacy
    as it guides our forgotten lower halves into blind indecency

    till death does us unite.
    Or is it the other way around?

    Death dies.
    The unit splits into component parts,
    crawling halves wither to wrinkled skin
    separating along split lines smeared with essence of life
    and flowing salt
    and the appeased growls of chastened tigers.


Promises, Promises

    You promised
    to devour me,

    to gobble me up skin and flesh and bones and shoes...
    ...no? no shoes?... then trousers?...
    oh, neither trousers,
    you prefer no trousers,
    truth is I prefer no trousers too,
    no trousers
    under shirt
    yes, I guessed this was your intent,
    no under either,
    no under under
    nothing under

    You promised
    to make sure I am ripe,

    well-ripened well-seasoned well-aged...
    hey, what do you mean well-aged?
    oh, I see, well-aged like wine,
    like olive oil,
    like pickles... are you sure this is a compliment?...
    for you to bite, masticate, suck, swallow, ingest, gnaw, crunch...
    don't break a tooth on...
    ok, at that stage there is no risk to break any tooth, agreed,
    though I suggest a defibrillator in the vicinity
    in case of cardiac arrest.
    What do you mean food cannot get cardiac arrest?

    You promised
    to make me remember that I forgot,

    or never knew
    or never thought worth knowing or remembering
    or never imagined such scientific resolve could rest
    at the tip of fingertips
    at the tip of hairs
    at the tip of tongues... only one? are you sure?...
    nothing scientific you say?
    neither mirage?
    so what about these shivers
    and what about these goosebumps, yes, inclusive the big goosebump,
    and what about the collapsed lungs
    and constricted arteries
    and atomic warfare in my ears and in my belly?
    All part of your promise? Oh!...
    Do you always keep your promises? Oh!...
    Yes, I see, you did purchase a defibrillator.
    Intelligent move,

    though I doubt my own intelligence at demanding that you keep your promises

    though I start having serious doubts about

    though I'm kind of doubtful

    though... huh?... oh!... hmm?!... mmm!...



    When you stretch
    all the way from the North Pole to the South
    of the bed
    I measure the flatness of your chest
    and worry about permanent deformation.

    Then you subside to your earlier, human form
    and fit one resurrected nipple into my mouth
    to calm and pacify me.

    It does not... on the contrary.

    Oh, glorious failure!



    to: M

    I dreamed of you.

    I did not lose you.
    You were not there at all,
    there was nothing to lose or known to have been lost,
    just space. Nothingness. Like intergalactic vacuum. Like human compassion.
    Was there ever something?
    Never counted.

    Forty nine years, one month and seventeen days. Give or take a few.
    No, never counted.

    The ever fluid labyrinthine paths of mind
    suddenly fusioned in one infinitely intricate path
    from the moment now to the moment then
    and united us, again.
    For one moment.
    More than there ever was.

    You apologized, for coming to sit next to me.
    When I stood up to leave your side
    you stood up as well,
    offered me your mouth for a fleeting moment.
    Offered me your mouth for one never ending explosive moment of passion
    that stretched from "then" to "now",
    from "then" to the moment I woke up
    with that fire slowly dying in my mouth
    and that dimensionless sense of loss.

    Remembering that I miss you.
    I will probably always do.
    No counting the grains of sand,
    someone else does.
    No, not me.

    I count just the pain,
    oh, that unforgettable, tear-soaked pain.

    You did not change, you know?
    All these forty nine one seventeen and you did not change even one little bit.

    Oh, the lucidity of that dream.



    You were ready to jump in the pool for me,

    Dressed only in wonder and woman,
    for my eyes only,
    for a lust shared in words and magic and body
    allowing me to choose which
    and I choosing all
    and you

    You did not.

    Jump. Share. Answer.

    Today is a day of closing chapters,
    I close this chapter,
    I close you


    Another never proving eternal,
    like most never's
    like all never's

    Comes with the definition,

    Comes with the package.

    There was always something between us, from the start,
    it will stay


    The always as eternal
    as the never.



    I guess
    that the first time my fingers penetrated the enclave of your shirt
    we shared death,
    for the first time.

    Remember? You cannot,
    dead people do not remember things,
    they wake up "after"
    knowing nothing except the now
    and the before,
    not in between the two.
    I wonder,
    was there an earthquake?

    I guess
    that the second time my fingers ventured, elsewhere,
    we shared death again.
    Can death be as glorious as that, as memorable
    as life,
    or more?
    Or as unmemorable?

    I guess
    that I will keep guessing.
    Whenever my fingers find the life that I lose
    third time
    and on
    and ever
    that this is some kind of eternality that sews us inside the same shroud
    third time
    and on
    and ever.

    What good is memory anyway?
    To tell us of loss, passed opportunities, decayed senses and sensations,
    never again's.
    I prefer the guess.

    I guess that once my fingers abuse of your kindness again
    we die again, together.
    Then we wake up guessing again,
    waiting again,
    knowing somehow that death is life
    and there is no fire left burning down Earth's core
    since we consumed it all. At least for a little while.

    Pour me some sweet wine.
    Kiss me.
    Seat your nakedness on my knees
    and tell me that we'll never end guessing
    what your nakedness on my knees
    feels like.



    I repeat myself.
    I even repeat saying that I repeat myself,
    I know.

    After all there are so and so many ideas and words
    allocated to the compartments of my mind,
    and so and so many dice these can be written on
    and throwing them again and again is bound to repeat a sequence,

    I try from time to time to add variety by adding a die I stole elsewhere,
    or a die with more than six faces like an octahedron or a dodecahedron...
    looking for other types as well
    though I sometimes cheat and mix in a sphere, ball, marble
    getting infinite compositions,
    most meaningless.
    sometimes I use a loaded die,
    this is cheating big time,
    I love certain combinations and have no choice but cheat. Is love cheating?

    I write about your shirt.
    I always write about your shirt.
    I write about your skirt, shoes, legs, places where legs end... or begin.
    I always write about your skirt, shoes, legs, places where legs end or begin.
    I write about pelicans.
    This is when I use a marble, hardly repeating itself.
    I write about your breasts.
    I always write about your breasts. Why not write about wonders?
    There are more than seven, there are seven plus two.

    Maybe I will try another dimension,
    not of space, but rather of color.
    The more the number of bits the more the number of colors,
    moving into millions, probably even billions, trillions.
    Probably too many for our too insensitive eyes.
    I am sure I am still going to repeat myself
    and still write about your shirt and the rest,
    like you see the number of still's in this sentence.
    Blocked in an interminable loop,
    a ray blocked between two mirrors and exterminating itself
    into either death or momentary laser, another word for death.
    Maybe because your shirt and the rest
    is all that counts.



    I remember the way
    into you,

    the way a blind man remembers all the hard corners and soft pillows
    on his endless pilgrimage inside the prison of his home,
    the way a pigeon pigeons
    and an elephant elephants
    and a dog dogs to his master, even after the master's death,

    I remember the petals' blossom in front of me
    and smolder in back of me,
    the nails I did not feel penetrating the soles of my feet
    and the terrible waves battling the ramparts of my insides,
    I remember that I forgot
    anything else but the way
    into you,

    I remember the way out of you,

    the knife pulling slowly out of the molten butter
    dripping gigantic sizzling drops into the quarry of rumpled bed sheets
    and staining your thighs
    with memories to become scars to become legends,

    the quivering flesh that was once me looking for your breast's haven
    and yet not daring to look backwards
    upon that way trodden so often into
    and out of
    because of its unassailable fright of it being the last

    I remember the way about to come in and then the way about to come out
    and then the echo of repetitions
    and the reflection of facing mirrors
    and birds pulling crumbs offered between your teeth
    while you guide me in my recurring blindness
    once more
    out to the land of recurring sight
    to find my way in



    we shared the body until death started leaving it

    when it split into its panting component parts,
    I, you,
    many breaths later,

    wondering how the utmost of art's creation, life,
    took only seconds to complete,

    wishing it was hours,

    knowing we were doomed to never see our efforts crowned with attainment
    yet thankful for the opportunity to nevertheless try
    again and again and again.

    a different, magnificent art of our own.



    I’ve had enough of your smooth, silken skin.

    I’ve had enough of your bright eyes and sunny smile and gracious walk
    and everyone saying it
    in the first or fifth or twenty sixth stanza
    and everyone thinking himself the master of romance
    before proportionally fitting his head inside a wooden oak frame
    tinted with the green of laurels
    and smiling at the camera.

    Yes, himself and his, I talk to and about direct competition my side of the fence, ladies.
    So shut up!
    Some green laurels, pissed on by a dog earlier in the day.
    Smooth, silken skin like butterfly’s wing edges.
    and what about all those ule’s like macules or papules or pustules
    and all those tion’s like excoriation or induration or maceration
    and fissures that have nothing to do either with the ule’s or with the tion’s
    and telangiectasia that has nothing to do with ecstasia
    and all of which have to do with the one you adore
    adore... yeah, I said it already.
    Where and how do you fit them in your adoring
    adoring... yeah, I said it already,
    Like saying I love your papules... would it still be romance and poetry?
    Like saying I don’t give a shit about your telangiectasia
    would it still be romance and poetry
    and I do not speak about the shit word.

    Bright eyes my foot.
    Probably half myopic the other half astigmatic
    and the cerulean blue or the coal black or the forest green
    no more nor less than hematoma blue or fingernail black or frog green
    dots and spots and stains and all.
    Sunny smile my other foot.
    Lips cracked from too much cold
    and wrinkles built in from too many years
    and uneven teeth chipped from abrasion or abfraction or attrition
    or insufficient visits to the dentist
    if not coffee stained or cigarette hued or wine bitten.
    And gracious walk my missing third foot,
    discounting my future walking stick,
    when she limps with seventeen blisters
    and her knees crack every third step
    and bunions and hammertoes and corns and calluses and platar fasciitis
    God only knows what it means
    but certainly sounding somewhere between ungracious and ungrateful to me...

    Ha, one says,
    he should write an article on medicine, not a poem.

    Ha, I say.
    Are you sure?
    Because then the moment comes.
    And she spills some blue on those eyelids batting above the myopic astigmatism
    and she touches some red to those cracked lips hiding the unevenness of teeth
    and she pulls some silk from the tip of the toe to the depth of the crotch
    above all papules and telangiectasia and bunions and calluses and co.
    and trusts the pride of her breasts foreways
    and shakes the pride of her mane windways
    and your mind’s eye sees only the pride of her womanways
    along with the smooth, silken skin
    and her bright eyes and her sunny smile and her gracious walk
    and you admit
    that it was always there.
    The woman. Your woman.
    Not the blue. Not the red. Not the silk. Made her.
    Always there. She. The one.

    Before you claim her again from underneath the entire masquerade
    with all the animal ferocity that turned you always and anew
    the same one.
    Bits of silk and of lip and of pustule lie strewn around the room
    and you refuse to wake up
    into the possibility of the nightmare of none...
    none of the myopia, none of the wrinkles, none of the bunions...
    Oh, God Almighty, let’em pour!...
    as she rapes you again and again
    and all you can think of is




    You approach from behind,
    your bare feet hardly make any noise on the tiled floor,
    they sound more like a dolphin’s flippers... hey, a mermaid’s?...
    I hear, rather than feel your breath on the back of my neck
    as fingertips slide slowly under my shirt, touch one of the vertebrae
    have no idea which
    and slide further up, maybe counting them and missing your count
    since you go back down and up and down
    then stop to gently tap the numerous muscles surrounding the shoulder
    which once were able to lift a truck, ok, an empty one
    and now hardly carry reason to justify even just their complex names
    though they suddenly shiver, uncontrollably,

    you smile.

    You allow the palms a symmetrical sideways movement
    one right
    one left,
    the same fingertips rustle through my goosebumps like a fairy’s feet
    skidding through forest’s drying foliage
    before they reach my armpits, move up, sideways, down...
    are these the muscles that once bent inch thick steel bars?
    they seem to be asking,
    no, these were inch thick iron bars, the biceps and triceps seem to be answering
    and I am sure there is quadriceps as well somewhere there,
    forgotten and proud
    and shivering with the ecstasy of those fingertips moving on
    towards the chest
    and its pectorals minor or major or whateveror,

    you smile.

    Sagging now.
    Once busting three rings off three rows of chains straddling them
    now hardly keeping astride a sad memory’s lane
    dust and gravitation calling
    while fingertips insisting on cruelly reminiscing them of passed times
    flutter atop dormant nipples
    waking them up to male pride and arrogance and vanity
    and tease
    and ask for forgiveness
    same time as counting heartbeats and finding a healthy double
    and measuring the chest inflations and deflations
    and finding a healthier triple
    before that bellow that starts rising from the depths of my lungs
    covers up for the shame of shivering chunks of flesh

    and you smile.

    You turn me around.
    You know. What was, what is, what is coming.
    You don’t care. You don’t mind. You crave.


    Gentle fingers carrying gentler fingertips
    hastily metamorphose into rude grapples carrying steel hooks
    and under wear and over wear and any other wear rips way off seams
    alongside any misfortunate fabric happening near by
    curtains bed-sheets table-cloths rugs... ha!... rugs turn rags
    and skin turns gash
    and flesh turns meat
    and human shaped cork joins the frenzy of a hurricane
    that turns the sea into hell’s hell
    and the reality into end’s beginning.

    End’s end. It’s over.

    Hooks recede,
    grapples soften,
    hair tickles my nose
    and a gurgle not unlike sunset
    follows a soft tongue assuaging the battle’s open wounds
    and turning them into sunrise shaped scars.
    I have no time to wonder if the hair tickling my nose is straight or curled
    because I catch sight of you in the mirror
    and the world stops

    and you suddenly smile.



    Do you remember that unforgettable, magical moment
    when we did not meet?

    I wonder if remember the unforgettable qualifies for oxymoron.
    I mean, in its question form.
    It would probably qualify more for oxen and morons
    as human qualifiers
    rather than the combined form
    for the literary qualifier. Close parentheses. Never opened anyway.
    Another anomaly. Guess that that moment qualifies for lots of anomalies.
    Like the moment that should have opened the skies
    or raced the stars
    or mixed fantasy with magic into mental kaleidoscopes.

    There were many colored balloons on the streets that day,
    Deflated balloons, punctured,
    looking more like used condoms than symbols of festivities.
    There were also many dead butterflies, or dying.
    Crushed silver bells.
    Torn love letters.
    Never written poems.
    The earth did not stand still.
    It tried, too much inertia.
    I rested in the car one hour,
    then one day,
    then a lifetime... no, not in the car,
    in the deflated that followed the way of the balloons,
    the butterflies,
    the bells, the letters, the poems.

    I’m still there,
    obviously, I said a lifetime
    and I didn’t want to qualify for another oxymoron. Or ox. Or moron.
    Though I do.
    I most certainly do.



    There is no order to them or logic.

    To that first egg I ate, found in the garden as a kid.
    To that first breast I uncovered.
    To that first passionate kiss tens of years later.

    Sometimes to seconds, or thirds
    if hotter than the firsts.
    Sometimes to never-happened’s.
    Running away
    not even bloodhounds can find me there.
    Not even myself.


Biblical, almost


    you rested a moment in front of the open window
    the thin nightgown hanging loosely, sexilessly around your hips, thighs,
    like a torn bathroom curtain, or a textile barrel
    if textile barrels would’ve existed,

    my eyes moved higher up
    and suddenly the sexilessness turned inferno’s temptation
    as my eyes locked on the contour of the small breast
    with the small nipple further on along its curvature
    acting as an unconscious flesh hanger for that shapeless mess
    falling beneath it toward fathomless gravitation and the deeper abysses of my mind.

    Hold! I said. You held.
    Turn! I said. You turned.
    Hold! I said. You held.

    O, sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon, and thou, moon, in the valley of Aijalon!...

    OK, so there was no moon and the sun did not listen to my prayer
    but suddenly I found that love was not the only religion
    as my eyes descended to that shapelessly curtained area of afore
    searching for the source of the miracle
    and for a few glorious moments my world was composed solely of a few curly wisps
    marring the smooth divarication of your thighs from your body
    and burning upon my mind psalms from the Song of Songs

    Thy two breasts are like two fawns that are twins of a roe which feed among the lilies...

    Hold! I said. You turned.
    Turn! I said. You held.
    Hold! I said. You came.

    You kept coming until you were upon me
    and the shapeless curtain slid down from your shoulders
    giving in to fathomless gravitation and the deeper abysses of my mind
    and your flesh enveloped me in its various shapes and forms
    until the smells of Lebanon made place
    to the invariability of the smells emanating from your body
    and I was ready to write my own Canticles... later on.

    You look like you’ve seen a ghost, you said,
    once my horses disengaged from the carriage and went grazing in the valley of Aijalon.
    I’ve seen a miracle, I said,
    wondering if I should tell you the truth.
    Tell me the truth, you said.
    I’ve seen God, in your curves, I said.
    Then you are fated to die, you said, saddened.
    Such a glorious death, I said,
    making sure there was no doubt in whoever-makes-the-decision’s mind
    that my fate remained



    I spilled the wine between her breasts,

    I rushed to drink it before it reached the floor
    then followed the trail from the carpet upwards
    gobbling the drops
    until I found body,

    I stayed there for quite a while,
    as long as she let me stay.

    I tried the same between her shoulder blades,

    I was getting an expert at rushing down
    then finding body on my way up
    and staying there for long whiles.

    Shall I try the same? she asked.

    She was almost as good as I was,

    I offered her to practice more,
    she accepted.
    When she was better than me I asked her to help me practice anew,
    it was only fair to help me back.
    She agreed.

    We kept beating each other’s record
    until, exhausted, we decided to take a break.

    We leaned against each other
    forehead to forehead, toes taking a solid grip in the carpet
    forming a perfectly inverted V
    with various body extremities loosely connected to our trunks...
    hands, hair, and other dissimilar...
    following the power lines to Earth’s gravitation center
    in answer to its warm, maternal call.

    You won, she said.
    I did? I answered, baffled.
    Now it’s time for the prizes ceremony.
    Ceremony? I answered, my baffledness growing.
    That will be an egg-hunt.
    Egg hunt? I kept bafflednessing my way through the intricacies of English
    seemingly adamant on getting rid of all the questions marks I had accumulated
    in my till-now insignificant life.
    It’s not Easter, I added,
    bravely preventing the addition of another question mark to the collection.
    Should it be only at Easter that people are allowed the joys of life?
    she contributed her own question mark
    and no answer was necessary to an obviously rhetorical question.

    Close your eyes! she commanded.
    I obeyed.
    By now we were vertical again,
    our bodies one inch apart everywhere it counted
    inclusive areas that strove to close the gap,
    we didn’t give in like some mindless animals.
    Open your eyes! she commanded.
    I obeyed.

    I saw a chocolate egg’s wrappings disposed of negligently on the bed
    with her body undulating luxuriously close to it
    like the innocent virgin that she was probably not. Innocent, I mean.
    Better find it fast, she susurrated, before it melts and becomes a mess.
    I found it slowly, making sure it became a mess
    and getting the relevant cleaning job administered to me.
    It was at moments like this that I objected to God’s, otherwise perfect,
    anatomical design,
    wishing he would have given us at least a chameleon sized tongue,
    it would have allowed me to make a much better job.
    Not that I did it badly, mind you,
    with that special attention to detail and minutiae which was always my trademark
    thus getting any job perfectly done.
    Especially such a delicate job.
    Not easy, without a job description I mean, you know,
    I wish there would have been a prize offered for it as well.

    By the way, I got proof that she was not an innocent virgin at all. Virgin, I mean.



    Your words
    would make a Lapis Lazuli blush,
    she said.

    My thoughts
    would turn a mother of seven into a virgin,
    I said.

    Your body
    shoots desire like a porcupine shoots quills,
    she said.
    This is a legend,
    I said.
    Which part?
    she said.

    Your body
    can sing a body to like a siren can sing a fleet to its death,
    I said.
    This is a legend,
    she said.
    Which part?
    I said.

    We decided to test our metaphors.
    I will leave you to your wonders, though there should be nothing to wonder about.
    At least I stopped wondering.
    She too.


Music and Others

    I listen to Italian music.
    I watch Venere di Urbino.
    I compare them, compare the incomparable.
    Then compare both to you, also to your body
    as much as I remember it.
    Somehow I find notions of comparison anchored into my memory of you
    and I hasten to stick pins
    and tie silk threads between the relevant points...
    at a second thought I add silk ribbons
    and it looks like I created a colorful monster frog changing into dragon
    changing into butterfly
    the more I add ribbons.
    I hang some golden rings, some silver bells.
    I think I created a masterpiece. In my mind.

    I flip the LP over.
    Flip the painting as well but there’s nothing on the back side,
    probably some spider leftovers
    so I flip it back.
    I do succeed to change the lady’s position on the bed, slightly more revealing,
    I do not succeed to change even one note in the song playing.
    I try again to compare, to link,
    the magic seems to have been driven away by my fiddling, damn!
    I try Portuguese, Mexican, French, Japanese, Olympia, Maja, Danaë...
    I try even humming
    then sketching
    then both together. Nothing.

    Hey, I find an album.
    I find in it a soundless image of barefoot you picking a shell.
    I add a bit of waves, sounds, a bit of wind, sounds,
    pull up your skirt slightly above the knees fighting hard a desire to pull it further
    then open a top button... hmm, interesting,
    suddenly there is music of some kind
    and petals start shedding from your hair
    and a pearl rolls from your hand
    and you chase it into the sea until a whale swallows you
    and you never return.
    I mean you return, but you never return the same
    since your skin glitters like gold sand
    and your eyes shine like morning sun inside dew drops
    and your voice sings with the tunes of dolphins and violins and crystal beads.

    I turn off the vision. All of them.
    Turn off my mind, my thought, my daydream.
    Soon I will hold the miracle of bare you inside the bare of my arms
    and find notions of comparison
    to all and everything I ever thought magical.
    I will tie silk threads to your arms
    and silk ribbons to your ankles
    and thread pearls and beads and dew drops until you are as heavy as the whale
    and when you cannot move anymore
    I will tell you of my visions
    and make you part of them alongside Italian music and Venere di Urbino
    and Portuguese, Mexican, French, Japanese, Olympia, Maja, Danaë
    and all those thousands I forget
    next to you.


Doing not

    I did not brush your hair
    after you washed it. I wasn’t there.

    I did not mop your sweat after toiling
    or your stickiness after love making
    or the mixture of dust and pollen and exhaust fumes
    that settled inside your ears and under your eyelashes
    and lined the insides of your mouth hanging in there like poison ivy,
    I wasn’t. There. Sorry.

    Nor was I whenever responsible for the blue stains adorning your breasts
    lower back and upper back and lips
    matching bite by bite mine
    after seeding my life into you, before seeding my life into you,
    after, before, during, before, before, after, during, after...
    others did. Were. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there. Sorry.

    When the button tore from your blouse
    the hem of your skirt hung loose and there was a run to your stockings
    the width of a railroad
    the deep scratches the rails and the clutching hand the train
    for my first clumsy attempt your first clumsy surrender our first clumsy time
    I did not sew them all back in place. I couldn’t. I wonder where I was.
    I certainly was not there.
    On time. At time. That time. Then.
    I do not know even if there was any remonstration,
    I wonder. You know. I will still wonder.

    When the first wrinkle cornered your mouth,
    when was it? I did not see it being sculpted in your flesh.
    I will never ever see it, it will not happen again.
    That first. Wrinkle. In your flesh.

    Wonder why I turn mad beast when I meet you now
    and rip your clothes and rave your flesh
    and leave the devastating colors of my conquest all around
    and all inside the adytum
    housing your breath
    and housing me for that short time measuring only against eternity,

    I try.
    To brush your hair, and sew your button, and mop your sweat.
    I will never succeed.
    I will keep trying.
    Maybe you will forgive me.


Let's see...

    Let’s see, what do I miss mornings?

    The piece of Mortadella, one, or two, or three
    (can I have one more piece... please?...)
    that finds its way between your incisors
    like a 3-stars Michelin delicacy
    and my scrutiny does not reduce any your corrupted

    Your rolling ass, sometimes with panties sometimes without
    (you don’t mind, do you?... ha, if I mind...)
    on the way to the bathroom
    from the bathroom
    to the fridge
    from the fridge
    to the suitcase
    from the suitcase,

    The horrible black liquid
    you call yuck and I call bleh
    and we call elixir
    and everybody else calls slaughtered coffee
    that you postpone pouring down your throat
    (but I must...)
    one day, two days, a week,

    The even horribler (bad English is second nature to a poet) cat
    that sounds like a locomotive in heat
    after someone stepped on its tail (the cat’s, not the locomotive’s)
    which you fed as if it was the incarnation of Isis (really?...)
    and you the reincarnation of Cleopatra (oh, really?...)
    and I noncarnation at all (oh, no, not really...),

    You could have sung me a song though you didn’t
    but it was an option,
    you could have scrubbed my back though you didn’t
    but it was an option,
    you could have told me I was the most handsome man in the world
    though it would have been a lie and it was not an option,

    The never hurry of your regarding me,
    the never hurry of my taking your hand,
    the never hurry of us walking down
    then up
    then down
    then etcetera the beach
    the only hurry a jump left or sometimes right
    (this gull looks like’s he’s going to shit on our head...),

    The simplicity of it all,
    oh, the simplicity of it all
    and you the Regina of it all
    and I so feeling like telling you I love you.



    It’s raining.

    Remember when we did not make love in the rain?
    I did not forget. How could I, how can I
    when all I ache for
    is the hair plastered to your scalp
    and the summery dress plastered to your curves
    and the transparency of panties plastered to your visible insides
    which I grope for
    and grab
    and grip to remove with one savage movement

    watching the rain cleanse you,
    before I dirty you, once again.

    Remember the scene, was it mid a daffodils field it did not happen?
    Scattered petals stick to your skin
    and crushed stems roll around your ankles
    witnesses to the debauchery that took place just moments ago
    in that delightful composition where you are the flower
    and I am the ogre
    and we are the art
    and the rest does not matter
    as we paint ourselves all over the canvas

    stains of doubtful origin mixing with the green of grass
    and the blue flooding your eyes.

    I don’t remember.
    There is nothing to remember, there is no time to forget
    once your hungry breast turns beast feeding on my giving mouth
    and my flesh begs forgiveness off your imploring fingernail

    before time convulses perilously close to demise
    before I start peeling the torn petals I seeded inside you
    before I halve you with my running finger
    unaware, unashamed, unavailing,

    “Remember the first time we made love in the rain?” you ask
    and I wake up to the reality
    of maybe.


Rain, Two

    Of course I asked already the question,
    the same question, exactly,
    probably the same spelling
    the same punctuation
    the same rhyme scheme, rhythm scheme,
    the same innuendo... ha... innuendo my ass
    as the whore said to the bishop stepping through his discarded attire
    with flashing, green toenails...
    the same intention, malintention, lustintention, loveintention,
    love... do you believe in eternal intention
    and love

    I awake from slumber’s prison shaking cobwebs from my mind,
    Plucking drops of lilac’s perfume from the wrath of years maligned,
    The eroded line of reason stammers through a moment’s fear
    As, again, my finger lingers on that haunting, fading smear.

    Was it when I combed the thistles from your mane of knotted hair
    While my spine creaked a capella with the cabin’s wooden chair,
    Was it when you drank my vigor like a marshland’s hungry leech
    Clawing nails between the sessions from my body’s crumbling beech,

    When you rode the coiling muscle through the agony of lust
    Culling life’s emerging blossom from my years’ forgotten dust,
    When you baptized my numb finger in that lush, primeval swamp
    And accepted my submission with a victor’s sneering pomp,

    Or, when sharing mouth and language, tongue and whisper, tooth and blood
    The caress obliterating your assenting vestal bud
    You forgave my desecration with a heart impaled by love
    Laying it inside my fisthold like a fragile, bleeding dove,

    When I grabbed you by the glory of Medusa’s writhing coils
    Your incinerated sanctum my crusader’s law and spoils,
    When you dragged me through the thistle, thorn and bark invaded field
    Long before my ropy essence in your sanctum’s shrine was sealed,

    On the bed, the ruffled carpet, between nails and broken glass,
    With the stank of dying candles and the weary clank of brass,
    Still, the question bounces crudely like a dying storm’s refrain...
    Will we ever, ever ever, ever make love in the rain?

    Of course, I ask the question,

    Of course, the best questions are those left unanswered,
    I know.
    Until the answer.
    I know.



    I want to be indecent.

    I want to peek under your skirt
    and check the color of your panties
    and the line where they press against your flesh
    and the line where your flesh presses against them
    and imagine the way the crushed forms look hidden
    and imagine the way the liberated forms look unhidden
    and check for symmetries
    and asymmetries
    and anti-symmetries
    and co-symmetries
    and some betraying spots
    of lust.

    I want to let you undress me
    missing each button once
    and each zipper twice
    and each buckle three times
    just in order to try again
    and touch again
    and push and pull and drag again and again and again
    investigating before
    then investigating during
    and then finally investigating after
    looking for those betraying spots
    of lust.

    I want to search for you
    while you try to hide all the way around me
    and let you find me
    while I try to hide all the way inside you
    and while you discover unshed layers of cloth
    to rip off my waist
    I discover unshed layers of cloth
    to rip off your thighs
    sharing in the search for those tongued mouths
    and sharing in the search for those toothed mouths
    and sharing in the search for those toothless mouths
    when and where
    we finally share
    the betraying spots
    of lust.


Hunger in X lines, various

    Hunger in 6 lines

    The loss equals emptiness,
    The emptiness equals crave,
    The crave equals pain,
    The pain equals torment,
    The torment equals madness,
    The madness equals my hunger for you.

    Hunger in 5 lines

    It is after I’ve gobbled up to my full pieces of your body
    and I lie content like a snake in the sun
    assimilating the physical and the psychical and the philosophical
    alongside the prejudicial to my sanity
    that I understand my hunger for you.

    Hunger in 4 lines

    Pull the melting prey from a python’s belly,
    Drag the slashed prey out of a lion’s claws,
    Rip the squirming prey off an alligator’s jaws,
    Cumulate the hunger and it is half my hunger for you.

    Hunger in 3 lines

    Sometimes I wake up inside your body
    and as you slowly digest me, satisfying your hunger for me
    I learn of my hunger for you.

    Hunger in 2 lines

    I can live in hunger, I can die of hunger,
    I am not willing to give up my hunger for you.

    Hunger in 1 line

    Nine days in the desert, and all I die of is my hunger for you.

    Hunger in 0 lines, because words aren’t needed when hunger is stronger than poetry


Corny. So what?

    At times
    I find myself
    At times
    I find myself
    the most corny trite cliché
    the most prosaic and most poetic

    of you...

    At times
    I see you.

    Wearing a long, white evening gown
    glittering with sparkles of silver and diamond and dew
    and living fireflies scuttling out and into the undulating folds,
    a white train dragging for miles behind you
    as you advance step after step, golden sandal after golden sandal
    red painted toe after red painted toe
    with small colorful butterflies fluttering mindlessly around the low décolleté
    and around the wild curls descending way beyond the bare shoulders
    and around the thin, long fingernailed fingers that lift away from your body
    and invite me
    to dance.

    At times
    I see you.

    Dancing round and round and round the round floor
    your feet barely touching the shiny tiles
    your smile engulfing me and the room and the world
    and the orchestra hesitating between waltz and tango and dreamscapes
    with you never hesitating between dreamscapes
    and tango
    and waltz
    and star filled skyscapes,
    the fireflies following in your wake like sea foam
    and the small butterflies blinding my eyes, trying to guard me
    from the blindness
    of your radiance
    and failing.

    At times
    I see you

    in your nakedness,
    all pretense to civility and politeness and innocence desquamated
    leaving you in that pure
    clean animalic form
    that demands my soul’s soul and my flesh’s flesh
    when I squeeze in my fist the red off the red roses building your bed
    and pour the bloody drops over your lips
    and nipples
    and between your toes
    to taste its bitterness with my tongue
    and mix it with the softness of the flesh
    and the sweetness of the breath
    before the breath makes way to breathlessness
    and after, if there ever is an after.

    At times
    I am not a poet.
    At times
    I love you.
    At times
    I feel like corny. So what?



    I tried to braid three thin streams of water
    into one plait,

    I failed, of course.

    I tried to squeeze blood
    from a red rose petal,

    I failed, of course.

    I tried to forget that we made love, once.



    It’s been long since you shed your garments.

    They lie scattered on the floor, some on the bed,
    some even outside, in the garden
    probably dragged there by a stray cat
    or a stray pelican
    or a stray other lover... hey, I see you wagging your finger
    when reading this part,
    I will nevertheless keep it,
    adds to the poetry...

    The chair is not too comfortable,
    the thick slabs of plastic bite ravenously into your bare flesh
    leaving artificial, deep, horizontal, red furrows
    crossroading several times with the natural vertical one,
    a strangely undulating geometry I watch attentively
    when you get up and move away from me
    to drink a glass of water even though you’re not thirsty
    or to watch through the window even though there’s a brick wall there
    or to pick another pen even though yours is still writing
    and disappearing, unfortunately, when you turn around
    and move towards me... no, not really unfortunately,
    the new view superseding the previous one
    if not in size then certainly in elegant interest...

    You sit down again,
    write again,
    writhe again,
    I know the words you write by the way your hanging breasts wiggle
    now it is I, now love, I know what will follow... wrong!
    it is dancing
    and you turn your head and sparkle at me and crystal bell at me
    and your finger disappears from view for a moment mysteriously
    only to reappear not less mysteriously yet slightly shiny
    as it stretches toward me
    and I approach my face letting the strange smell invade my olfactory system
    climbing to my brain
    devastating a surface comparable only to the Alps forming
    then turning it into an avalanche of Alps crumbling
    to finally nudge the ancient sleeping beast
    into the Big Bang
    just the moment time was created... or shattered... or who cares...

    You slide off from me, watching the garments and the neighborhood on fire.



    I hate the ending
    when there was no beginning.

    I hate the missing in-between
    when passion missed the chance to change into devastation
    and rage to turn into death
    before life

    I hate
    my hand away from your breast.

    I hate
    missing you.
    In my life.



    Walk behind me.

    Step in my footsteps... guess
    where they were,
    will be
    and tie your shoes to each other by their straps and drag them
    after you,

    maybe they will leave a rut as deep as an ant’s trail
    or Earth’s core
    or the other side of the universe where all ruts meet

    and I met you.

    Walk in front of me.

    Let my eyes follow the undulations of your flesh
    and the storm of your hair
    and the tips of your fingers as they draw circles
    then rainbows
    then butterflies and waves and lines unending
    always ending pointing
    my way,

    shall I catch them?

    You dance, maybe.
    You smile, maybe.
    I close my eyes and follow your smell
    and the smell of the tips of your toes
    after you stepped in sea water
    and through cut grass
    and on dry hay.

    Walk. Beside me.

    I will draw your profile above the horizon line
    then will write your eyes inside drooping boughs
    and if we have time
    I will touch your left breast seven times, like the times of wonder
    like the days of the week,

    like the age when I first smelled lilac.

    Walk, beside me,
    don’t hold my hand

    just sing
    while nibbling my ear and untying my shoes and tying the laces
    and ensuring I fall with you on top of me
    and the rest of the sky
    on top of us,

    swallowing us
    into the perfection
    of inexistence.



    They thought of us
    As father and daughter, ha,

    You thought of us
    as passion and desire, wow,

    I thought of us
    as summer rain and linden trees, yeah,

    We stopped thinking.
    Once we closed the door behind
    and we turned animals
    as frightening as fighting mongrels
    as tender as suckling puppies.

    As impossible as a flower
    huddling against the sun.



    I did not kneel to God
    and he raged,
    he had no choice.

    I knelt to you
    and you loved,
    you had a choice.

    I asked forgiveness
    from God, from you.
    God forgave.
    You did not.


Miss your ass...

    Miss your ass, sunshine...

    So many s’s in such a short sentence...
    hey - s’s! woman, not asses, what is impaired here, I wonder -
    my accent or your hearing?
    Would you have preferred sunset?
    The same number of s’s... oho! you and your one assed mind...
    what do you mean I and my one assed mind,
    would you have preferred me with a multiple assed mind?
    Aha, see?
    Told you so.

    Miss you.

    We were seated in that crummy restaurant
    and I was eating my soup
    and you watched me eating my soup
    and Chris Rea was telling us about the Road to Hell
    and all I wanted at that moment
    was for the soup to never end and for Chris Rea to never end
    and for you to never end.

    We were on that hill
    thinking that no one sees us
    and caring not that no one sees us
    and you were looking for a four-leaf clover
    and I was looking for your body
    then I was looking for a four-leaf clover
    and you were looking for my body
    and finally you found the four-leaf clover
    and I found the four-leaf clover
    and we found our body, or is it bodies, or did it matter?
    It did, oh, it did.

    You pulled your skirt up until your undies were showing...
    well, maybe not, maybe it was my imagination...
    you pulled your skirt up until your undies were showing
    and started chasing first seagulls,
    then seaweed,
    then seashells investigating each for the eventual pearl
    though there was no chance for pearls
    but your laughter was all the pearl I needed
    and after you filled your pockets with mostly sand
    I took you to our room
    and undressed you completely
    making sure there were no shells in your fists
    and no wet undies to your hips
    and just pieces of me making believe for both.

    We watched swans.
    You sang.
    We were alone in the cinema.
    I peeled cucumbers and you made soup.
    You cried when you left.
    The cat made strange noises you claimed it was hungry I claimed it was crazy.
    You brought the wine, sweet.
    I watched you when you were not watching.
    I watched you when you were watching.
    The first time I was shy, the second time I was desperate.
    We always walked hand in hand. We always walked hand in hand.
    When we made love the last time it felt like the first time. Not vice-versa.
    You are beautiful with a flower behind your ear
    or with the sun messing your hair
    or with the wind stealing your skirt
    or barefoot
    or naked
    or dressed
    or chewing
    or sticking your tongue to me in the mirror hoping I see.

    Miss you.

    Miss your ass, sunset...

    You’re asleep, you don’t care for s’s. Or asses. Or how many.
    You dream of me.
    I know.
    Why else do I miss you?



    Sure, I love them. All your bodies.
    How many do you have?

    The morning body.
    Stiff from last night’s death,
    its overflowing refuse asking for a liberation
    you graciously grant
    to sounds of raging cataract turning soft rain and ending tinkling bells
    before mint flavors invade your mouth and artificial rain purges your skin
    leaving it fresh and chilly like a freshly peeled cucumber
    then half-transparent sheets of artificial skin
    put an end to that intimate sightseeing I was privileged to share
    followed by an additional layer of less transparent skins
    followed by some constricting contraptions around your feet
    after which you savagely pull off the warmth of the comforter
    from around my mellow body
    and with a smile dazzling the sun out of the room
    you pull my ears
    and smack my lips
    and point to the door like a puppy ready for its morning intake of life.
    Not one word uttered until that moment
    and yet, you told me the story of eternal beauty. Once again.

    The 11 o’clock. Body.
    You have one as well.
    The one after the first flood of words had passed from this world to no return
    and before the next flood is about to be unleashed upon me
    and while you keep the fridge’s door open
    contemplating the possibilities and opportunities inherent to its content
    and able to calm the few cramps of pre-hunger
    I keep my eyes on the outline against the fridge’s light
    and imagine it a bit rounder
    and a bit thinner
    and a bit lither
    and a bit stiffer
    and many other bits as well
    waiting for you to finally pick an apple
    and sink your teeth in it
    - is it gloriously or provocatively? -
    and turn towards me with that conqueror glint in your eyes
    hesitating between throwing the apple away and sinking your teeth into me
    finally deciding the apple was the better decision
    and I breathe my relief - is it? – waiting for the next o’clock
    when maybe there will be no apple left in the fridge
    and no choice left between your teeth.

    The 3 o’clock body.
    The 4 o’clock body.
    The 5:30 o’clock body, and I insist on my poetic license,
    and the other o’clocks.
    The night body. Your night body. My night body
    at some non-o’clock time, during the night.
    You left the top on. A bit chilly, you said.
    You said nothing about the bottom, I didn’t ask, didn’t want to know.
    You fell asleep, I could tell.
    I fell asleep too. I couldn’t tell but I knew when I woke up.
    You were still asleep. Restless?
    You moved. I moved closer. You moved closer still.
    Still asleep, I could swear. I did not swear, didn’t want to wake you up,
    I touched. Your thigh. Bare. Higher up. Bare. Higher. Bare.
    I found about the bottom.
    Expectation? Invitation?

    I pushed further against you, you stirred, I pushed a bit more,
    you pushed against me,
    I felt your hand sliding from my chest to my thigh pausing in between
    longer than necessary for a good night wish
    or a pleasant dream
    or a pre good morning wish
    or anything else except delivering a message
    before continuing its way toward the knee
    which I objected to by delivering a return message formed as a moan
    or was it a groan
    or was it a wail
    or it does not matter what it was since it penetrated your eyelashes
    and found its way further to your brain
    commanding your hand to stop
    and start its move back, upwards... did it make it?

    Suddenly your whatever o’clock body was alive
    like a cat slashing
    like a cobra striking
    like a woman conquering
    and your top got lost same where your bottom got lost
    and your ripe flesh exploded in a thousand melted drops of salt
    and your insides exploded in the one perfume of hell
    making sure nothing was left of me except curling ribbons of skin peeling on the bed
    and a few drops of life rushing to meet your perfumes
    and the majestic beauty of your inner self.
    We fell asleep, never bothering to separate.
    Why separate

    The morning body, anew.
    Stiff from last night’s death, anew.
    Which death? you asked
    and I did not dare answer, afraid to break the magic
    of unknowledge.


Snapshots, long, short, etc.

    Our long, romantic strolls
    to the supermarket,

    Our long, philosophical debates
    about preparing vegetables soup,

    Our long, torrid nights
    filled with sex... making love!... sex... making love!... sex... making love!...
    ok, making love... sex!

    Our short lives
    Monday to Friday or Wednesday to following Thursday or May 3rd to May 15th
    and all the long unlives in-between

    Our eternal inexistence
    one hundred years from now... alongside with everyone else’s...
    alongside the eternal trail of pearls you left in mine,

    Our silences, many
    studded with words, more than silences,
    ridden with punctuation marks, more than words,
    flooded with hidden meanings, meaning, one.

    Our long, insistent handhold.
    Crushing... my heart.
    Crushing... mine.



    That was hot?

    was not hot,

    is hot.

    Tying one ankle to the bathroom door handle
    and the other to the bedroom’s candelabra
    and pulling
    until your shoulders are your only support
    and your dress falls down your face
    when I kneel in front of you
    counting the rebel curls peeking both sides of cottony invitation
    wet spots spreading into the flimsy textile from the cleavage in between
    subject to my finger’s encouraging forays into that well known
    eternally virgin
    ruthlessly hungry

    The unzipping sound above my knees
    and sudden chill invasion
    of earlier

    Joining the tearing sound
    between your navel and knees

    Just before ravenous mouths invade those lubricous, attar infested territories
    in the ominous creation

    and release

    of art.


don’t blame me, you started it


    like the ten commandments,
    like the ten fingers,

    the monstrous importance diminishing with each passing day to come
    as my imagination clicks off my bucket list
    a monday, then a tuesday, then a wednesday...

    still to come my mind tells my body and vice-versa
    and each forgives the other for the gargantuan task ahead of them
    knowing that at the end of it all
    only butterflies will survive,

    and the spasm of locked fingers.



    are you sure?
    not nineteen? nineteen hundred, nineteen thousand?
    feels like nineteen million
    and i console myself by changing the count units from days to minutes,
    then to seconds,
    then to milliseconds, nanoseconds, shall i try picoseconds?...

    still too many but bearable,
    bearable like young nettle on sweating skin,
    like red-hot shackles around wounded ankles,
    like... nine.

    i imagine myself living with nine fingers,
    somehow, that seems easier.


    eight. osam. opt. huit. acht. octo.

    the bastard counting system between binary and hexadecimal
    that helped me share so much love
    with my computer
    talking the only language we both knew fluently,
    machine language,
    the language of brain to brain,
    heart to heart. direct. blood system to wiring system. i. it. we.

    so simple.
    8008. 8080. 8088. Z80. KP580BM80. my life. you.
    octachord. octet. octave. octuplet. my music. you.
    octillion. octodecillion. my tinglings. for you.
    octogenarian. the horrible fate awaiting me
    soon made irrelevant by my crush. on you. with you. in you.
    i wish i had tentacles.
    and you.


    seven. days.

    He created the world in six
    took a day off on the seventh.
    does it count as six or seven?
    i guess seven, end-to-end, peak-to-peak, total, complete, whole, etc.

    creation in reverse.
    starting at seven.
    demolishing, destroying, pulverizing. time.
    no need, it does it itself. to itself. to me.

    who cares?
    in seven days i will have seven days less to live.
    in seven days i come to life. again

    with you. with you. with you. i hear the flowers opening.



    the perfect hexagonality of honey’s sweetness.
    the perfect geometricality of a cube’s surface.
    the perfect deafness of the devil till you have to call his name thrice
    before he even notices you. he? it? she?

    tetrahedron. diamond. tetragonal disphenoidal cellulation. carbon. life. you.
    my life.

    none of the sharp edges.
    all of the soft edges.
    waiting. at the end of six. days.


    five days.

    sure, less than six,
    still, too much, close to infinity.

    a world, an entire world.

    like the pentateuch, like tradition,
    like you, my tradition,
    like the perfect atheist and yet holding the pentateuch, his tradition, you
    dearest to heart.
    no paradox. reality carries no paradox.

    a world
    in time in mind between us, around us,
    connecting us.

    five days.

    i asked for four
    and soon the powers to be will abide by my wish.
    i feel almost omnipotent.

    ok, so i can’t divide it by two, impotent there,
    without falling into the complexities of fractions,
    imaginary space,
    you, again, endlessly again,
    endlessly you...



    one of those numbers that mean nothing to no one.
    unless you’re sitting on the chair waiting for the switch to be thrown.
    unless you’re still to fall after nine thousand nine hundred ninety six.
    unless you’re the one who lost a finger to fate.

    unless you’re four steps away from deliverance
    and counting, relentlessly.

    still counting.


    well, let’s see –
    it rhymes with we,
    rhymes with tree, with sea, with free,
    and under my own decree
    even with insanity,
    or, in shakespeare’s timeless words
    just to be or not to be.

    comes always after four.
    or before?
    or nevermore...

    matters not, oh, bliss and rose
    as my time through valleys flows,
    in my mind
    a triptych glows
    in passion’s throes.


    binary. 0 and 1. black and white. night and day.
    rhyming and rhymeless.
    life. death.
    an entire world.

    any two points define a line.
    any two hearts define a love, or not.
    two days define the distance between now and eternity,
    which of course will change again tomorrow,
    and the day after,
    and i don’t want to think about the day after the day after.

    are you ready to converge two into chaos?
    i am.


    one. God.
    one. Lover.
    one. Choice.
    and i made my choice because his choice was to give us free choice
    and if He wouldn’t have wanted us to have free choice he shouldn’t have made the choice
    to give us free choice and i guess He agrees with my choice
    or else He has no choice but to agree with my choice.

    still waiting for Him to strike me down, He didn’t yet
    so i guess He is still pondering or else He is not there to ponder
    though in view of our bumpy relationship for an entire life (mine)
    there is nothing He should ponder or get upset by,
    after all there was a certain understanding between us
    and i kept to mine and He to His.

    which makes sense in a world of singularities and single absolutes and grace.

    He still has one day to make up His mind about my choice, we’ll see.

    one. day.
    the day before none. day.


    the day of none. day. zero. nothing. only colored marbles falling from rainbows
    and puncturing me like harpoons...
    ha, all the mythical misunderstanding regarding eros and his tiny arrows...

    the none day when clothes turn pyre
    and flesh minced meat
    and asteroids may hurl towards earth for all we care
    in that moment of noneness
    and ecstatic despair.


It’s that time of year, again.

    You’re not young, anymore.

    You’re over thirty,
    I think
    though judging by your bedroom ill-manners
    I wouldn’t give you a day over twenty nine,
    ok, maybe one day,
    two if you insist but not three, agreed?

    You don’t hang on to a sleigh, anymore.

    Like a couple years back
    with frosted hands
    and running nose
    and cheeks to make a mid-summer sunset pale
    and skatesless shoes gliding until heels... stilettos?...
    ok, stilettos grind to commas and finally break
    leaving just a bleeding layer between snow and flesh
    and that exhilarating feeling
    of life.

    You don’t stomp through fresh snow, anymore.

    Looking for those deep spots
    where your hat’s pompon disappears under snow’s surface
    and you risk getting buried alive
    turning all snow around you
    to a lake if one would just wait long enough...
    one never did,
    yes, remember the fire? the blaze? the hunger in your chest
    there, where I once touched?

    You don’t make love to me, anymore.

    You did, once, upon a time while watching the magic of colored bulbs
    or listening to the tinkle of crystalline bells
    or inhaling the frozen steam from my mouth
    and mixing it with leftovers of cinnamon and almonds and raisins
    to feed me such love
    that I keeled over
    with seizures
    of pleasure.

    I close my eyes.

    I wait.

    I wait. I wait. I wait. You always liked to make me wait, didn’t you?

    Is it really cinnamon
    or the flittering edges of a dying memory or...
    or what?... says the voice
    and flittering edges of fingertips slide in between my fingers
    and flittering edges of lips transcend into my reality
    before transcending close to my mouth
    and flittering snowflakes melt on the edges of my eyelashes...
    hey, don’t cry!... who cries?
    it’s the damn snowflakes
    and frozen hands slide inside my shirt to pinch my nipples
    as stilettos crush my feet
    and with a wild gesture I tear off the pompon
    and the rest of whatever is not natural you
    and whatever is left reminds me of those bedroom ill-manners
    that betray your age
    and leaves me exposed to all and any kind of legal pursuits
    type statutory rape or class A misdemeanor or class B felony
    or who the hell cares
    when various parts of us lie knotted in a variety of maritime knots
    and you start feeding me cinnamon
    and almonds
    and raisins
    and all those colored bulbs and crystalline tinkles
    that are the real

    My mouth tastes like a salt mine.

    I do not open my eyes.
    I do not dare.