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    What is this wine made of?
    you asked for the thirteenth time,
    your voice slurred,
    You count?
    I count.

    Was made
    meadow flowers,
    monday showers,
    curling peels of midnight carrots
    chewed by rainbow feathered parrots,
    crying willows,
    soggy pillows
    soaking grief off dusky garrets.

    What is this wine made of?
    you asked for the fifth time,
    your voice trembling,
    You count?
    I count.

    Was made
    lips imploring,
    tongues exploring,
    crashing pebbles down the valleys
    long that linden guarded alley,
    minted juleps,
    budding tulips
    dressing for the grand finale.

    What was this wine made of?
    you asked for the first time,
    your voice panting,
    You count?
    I... what?... sorry, what... oh, count?...
    my voice slurred, trembling, panting.

    Is made
    rhymes enshrining,
    limbs entwining,
    hip to hip in anger fusing
    chest to chest deluge infusing
    nipples crushing
    fires gushing
    scathe through skin and bone diffusing.



Parading Colors

    parading in front of my eyes
    to come...

    purple, underlining your eyes with memories
    once blue... now the red spilling into them
    up from lips waking to life
    and from a heart returning from misery’s fields,

    green, the color of mistakes
    chaining my will to stone laden baskets
    crimpled sheets wrapped around each stone
    broken promises wrapped around each sheet,

    white, hope’s feathers filling the void between us
    rolling around us like an oversized down bracelet
    saving our sanity as solitude turns music
    and music turns hesitating handhold,

    feel it? fingers braiding in need



Sisyphus, Retold

    Dragged my bed to the middle of the garden
    stripping it on the way of sheets, blankets, mattress,
    all falling behind marking a trail of wet bedlam
    and havoc
    and decisions yet to be taken
    impassively waiting for sanity to return
    as I plowed two deep furrows in the rain soaked earth
    and finally let the dragging end fall down with a thump
    getting rid of my hanging clothes
    and lying down naked to shiver happily on the wet planks
    the rain pouring its cleansing needles into my eyes
    and mouth
    and chest.

    I woke up at the itch of dotted red beetles crawling on my fingers
    and I carefully shook my hand watching them take off
    passing with a thankful buzz down way from my nose
    and up into the dripping branches,
    a bleak sun trying in vain to dry my steaming lump of clothing.

    I gathered the sheets, blankets, mattress,
    humid shirt and trousers and shoes, the bed,
    picked a piece of sun and threw it in watching them smoke then blaze.
    I did not wait for the black smoke to clear,
    just stood up and started walking in the new world,
    unashamed of my nakedness, love, age,
    one can be born anytime anywhere, I thought,
    and started climbing the mountain I just fell off days ago.
    I will find the berries to eat and the leaves to dress
    and the branches to build and the crevices to avoid
    and the bears and the vultures and the snakes to guide my way.

    I looked back at the heart dragging behind on steel chains
    the knife in my hand, hesitating...
    the steel too strong the flesh too weak...
    then turned and kept climbing.
    Soon I will be on my knees, soon on my belly,
    there is a sun there waiting at the top.
    It is worth the torment,
    and the fall.



The Art Of Gravitation

    When gravitation dipped its thin finger in your eye
    and dragged your purple mascara down your cheeks,
    its rugged brush leaving traces around your skin’s pores
    and around specks of dust and beauty grains
    an ephemeral masterpiece of asymmetrical randomness
    following unknown laws of human emotions
    ending in purple tinted tears hanging desperately to your chin
    and finally splashing heavily between handwritten letters,

    When gravitation curled its greedy soft fingers around your breasts
    liberating them from the confines of uplifting fashion
    and elastic bands and cotton padded cups and clasps and straps and lace
    stretching their beauty into that masterpiece of bouncing artful dance
    following the undulations of your hips and the spring of your step
    that only a gravitation’s hug can design
    and a lover’s cupping hand can undo
    without losing any of the entrancing grace,

    When gravitation failed to drown you inside the freshly laid white bedding
    in a glorious attempt to ensnare you in its masterful seduction plan,
    and in a frenzy of terrible vengeance pulled out its heavy sculpting maces
    and started hammering flat the nipples inside your breasts
    and the sleep creases into your right cheek and right arm
    and crushed the walls of that major blood vessel running up your thigh
    along the masterpiece of dormant femininity unaware of the assault
    and ending in your heart, driving unpleasant tingles down your leg,

    And when a lover’s hand negligently erased gravitation’s art
    wiping your tear
    cupping your breast
    and touching your nipple to life

    with love unending...



Rebirthing Eros

    your door,
    your windows, all of them,

    All your clothes... yes, them too, of course,
    remove your earrings, your hair clips, your rings,
    wipe off your nail polish,
    lipstick glaze, the mascara leftovers,
    naked, clean,
    only skin to your skin
    and depth to your eyes
    and beat to your heart
    and then...
    yes, of course you can,
    try it,
    float... float... see?... told you...
    till there’s only air to your skin
    and color to your eyes
    and serenity to your heart
    and you are so naked, so beautiful,
    so soft,
    ready to be born.

    Then... close your eyes.

    Open wide your mouth,
    open wide your arms
    open your thighs,
    wider too,
    I will wait to hear your wait
    then I will come to you
    and you will not know whence and when and how
    through the window, through the door,
    through... oh, sorry, forgot to ask, open up your mind as well, please...
    through your mind
    I will come to you
    and you will not know until you will know
    and I will tell you... touch...
    and I will tell you touch
    and you will touch yourself with... my fingers,
    with my dry lips,
    with the wet brush of my tongue,
    with my...
    touch!... now
    and wake up that dormant desire
    and the growling wolves
    and the pangs of hunger you never knew you owned,
    touch now and... no... no, don’t scream yet,
    no, not yet,
    just touch,

    And the crust of my thighs scratches your silk
    and the curls of my chest caress your velvet
    and the hooks of my palms pitilessly penetrate in between
    your flesh and your tendons and your bones
    as your abdominal muscles coil and uncoil and recoil
    like snakes rolling in the pits of hell
    the tip
    of your tongue
    the tip of my tongue...
    scream, now you can scream,

    And after having consumed you,
    the scream turns breath the breath turns sigh
    the blue flame turns mist
    gathers into your eyes...
    now you can open them...
    and rolls down into your mouth,
    you taste it...
    No, it does not taste like salt,
    it tastes like... man.

    I close the windows,
    I close the door,
    I part,
    you hover a few moments longer
    greedily reaching into the parting sensations,
    then slowly sink inside your bed
    the warm blanket of poetry enveloping you
    and snuggling against you
    and you fall asleep.




    You went all the way to Shangri La
    to see blossoming blue poppy fields
    and leaves cupping into goblets of rain
    and trees dripping liquid apples,

    You went all the way to Walhalla
    to taste wine aging inside grapes
    and thick nectar fed to you by hummingbirds
    and vanilla flavored cotton candy spilling out of opening buds,

    I know you went also to Eden,
    you tried Elysium, Omeyocan, Nirvana,
    even visited the newly opened pastries shop down from your street
    and now you have plans for a trip to the garden of the Hesperides.

    Why all your travel?
    Because all you have to do is open that closet door in your bedroom
    and... look in the mirror.
    Oh, sorry, my mistake, forgot to tell you,
    undress first.



Blaze In The Water

    you want to drown
    then let me
    write you

    death was... before

    breathe in
    my ink





    lark your throat
    nightingale your hand
    robin your lip

    I see you, hear you... them...
    roaming around
    looking for that thorn a legend promised you
    and drunken with the moment of discovery
    you rush ahead into the inviting sharpth
    ready to crush your breast and give you death inside one moment of glory,
    torn clothes discarded along the way
    vocal cords clearing towards the ultimate moment
    with one audacious move your naked breast thrusts forwards
    impaling itself upon...

    the thorn pierces my flesh
    when your impetus pushes the back of my hand into the deadly tapering end
    breaking it in between my bones,
    and your nipple eviscerates my palm
    when my fingers crush your breast
    and I give you the dream
    and I give you

    and the lark and the nightingale and the robin
    coalesce into that triple trill
    which tells the world
    you reached





    You hang on to its arm
    as it grabs you underneath armpits
    and drags you up to your feet
    one of your arms around its shoulders
    and you feel the muscle supporting you and the promise
    and you think you see a light
    and you think you feel a breeze
    and you think you hear voices,

    you start limping along in the tunnel’s darkness
    banging your head against unseen sharp rock edges
    twisting your ankle inside sudden potholes
    yet you smile, you trust,
    you start feeling the warmth

    slide suddenly along the rugged walls of a large pit,
    deeper still,
    the hand around your middle slipping away
    your arm around the powerful shoulders losing the grip
    and you reach a deeper bottom
    scratched, battered, crying anew
    when you realize that the light you saw was inside your eyelids
    and the breeze was your breath
    and the voices were the echoes of your own hesitating steps,

    and hope remains at the top of the pit
    not laughing at you
    just indifferent
    and promising you to find you again
    and pick you up again
    to let you fall even deeper still.

    You are human,
    all you can do
    is cry.



Let Go

    Hanging by your fingertips
    to a razor wire
    gravitation clinging desperately to your ankles
    like a memory,
    afraid to fall together with you into abandon
    unknowing of the depth,
    unknowing of the lands below...
    hell, beauty, veldt?
    Your eyes closed.

    Open your eyes. Look. There is a world.
    Let go.

    And as the hurricane embraces the arrow of your falling body
    your skirts blow above your head... cut the skirts loose,
    your hair flutters in a sea of ribbons... unknot the ribbons,
    nylons tear against stretched toes
    and silk invades forbidden valleys
    and lace clutches angrily inflamed summits...
    rip the nylon and the silk and the lace
    and fall to your fate blazing through life like a flesh meteor
    cleaving the hearts wishing to embrace you
    and the hands aching to hold you
    and the lips burning to touch you
    and live to look back
    and smile.

    Your desire sated.
    Your final lair a sea called fire...



The Woman

    Beneath a mountain the woman lies
    twenty wedding gowns her dowry
    fresh camel milk her bath
    waiting for a lover’s mouth to melt the ice in her breast
    and cut the wedding gowns to ribbons
    and tie to her hair.

    I cut a hole in the mountain
    and she beckons me in.
    “Come in,” she says.
    “Come out,” I say
    showing her the shears,
    my lips,
    and an empty poetry book.



Sea Maiden

    You left your warm coral bed
    asking to become woman.
    Shells your nails,
    and seaweed your hair
    and pearls your teeth.
    And my eyes? you did not ask,
    I did not yet give you a mouth.

    And white sand your skin
    and white pebbles your breasts
    and white sponge your belly.
    You did not not ask again,
    just waited.

    And dolphin’s calls your mouth.
    And my eyes? you asked,
    I gave you a mouth.
    And your eyes rays of sun breaking inside the foam of waves.
    You blinked.

    I combed your hair
    braiding into it anemones
    and sunflowers.
    Then you left me.




    I touched the skin on your back
    with the back of my hand.
    Your flesh turned rough
    your kiss wild,
    you guided my hand all the way into hell and out
    my body following.

    I bathed you in jasmine’s essence
    and dried you with my regards.
    Then you rolled out of my bed
    and never returned.



Nightingale Winter

    Your beak
    clamped inside a fist of frozen tears,
    The chill of parting lover
    dragging early winter into your life.

    Let me cuddle it
    inside my mouth
    and whisper back into it the stories of fairies
    and gentle dragons
    chased out of your dreams,
    And as the ice thaws to salt
    your silence opens into trill
    blanketing my lungs with exploding carnations.




    I saw it wobbling,
    the bridge taking you from yesterday to tomorrow
    today forgotten in its puny misery and insignificance,
    so many the columns supporting it...
    what can I be but one,

    I could smell the rust eating into the shine of the nickel,
    the moss gaining over the once nicely hanging flower pots
    the foot of rock... crumbling,
    so familiar the smells from my own once home sweet home...

    I grated my teeth, shove my shoulders under a corner, heaved...
    no, nothing else on my mind
    but the brainless responsibility of a sturdy pillar
    knowing of no other duty
    than save the path, save the flower pots,
    save the nests of tomorrow’s nightingales nestling in between the flowers.



Rider In The Sky

    Glean the world inside your laughter
    From this now and ever after
    And while forest’s rambling singers
    Pick the grapes between your fingers
    Let your tongue with mine entangle
    As those tears your eyelids spangle.

    Munch the pears to drooling nectar
    Calming sorrow’s stubborn specter
    Then while feeding me the syrup
    Hook your foot into the stirrup
    To cut lanes through wheat and flower
    Watching dreams my mind devour.

    Let me gaze the clouds each morning
    Time you streak with little warning
    Waiting for your mane to flutter
    Right through sun’s explosive stutter
    Till my lips ungroomed and ashen
    Catch your crumbs of lurid passion.




    How does one hear the songs unsung,
    the beauty
    One does not. Lost.

    I saw it lying on its side,
    close to the tall building’s wall,
    its wing broken
    its feather stained with caked mud and blood,
    a bird.
    Cars and dogs and children rushing by
    unhearing the thousands of words unwritten.

    Hey, what are you doing? I shouted from far away
    seeing it drag itself towards the wall
    and starting to climb clumsily,
    its small claws hanging precariously to every bit of asperity
    to every speck of petrified dust.
    You will fall to your death, I shouted again
    seeing it losing its grip half way up,
    hanging pendulum wise on one foot
    then doggedly catching its grip again along the waterspout
    reaching the roof
    crawling underneath the gutter
    perching on the gutter’s edge
    with one wing flapping uselessly like a canvas corner ripped off the easel...
    Don’t... I called one last time,
    knowing birds don’t speak human,
    trying to bridge the species gap in that one desperate call.

    I know it did not say it when it said
    it is
    to fly
    to die

    and let go of its hold
    falling towards the asphalt like a rolling pebble.

    No... I almost heard myself scream
    when suddenly I heard a thunderous clap
    the wing locking back in place
    a shriek of pain...
    and the little shape graciously soared back skywards
    above the indifferent rumbling cars and barking dogs and laughing children
    the lark emerging from the mud
    the shriek turning melody
    my regard following it till it reached the sun
    and fell into it.

    My eyes teared with the intensity of the glare,
    and of the music.




    not like the day you were born
    but like now,
    your breasts full
    your hips round
    your legs smoothly shaved,
    the smell of woman evading your discarded clothing
    and your sunken desires
    and enveloping a skin turned sandpaper
    by the morning chill,

    Slam on the records player the best of black vinyl tangos you have,
    no, not a CD,
    black warm crackling vinyl
    then imagine me in your arms
    hug me so tight that the salt squeezes out of the sweat
    and pieces of coal between our chests turn diamonds...
    worry not, no one ever got pregnant from raving imagination...
    and then start dancing.

    No, don’t stop
    until the soles of your feet start to bleed
    and the needle has cut through the vinyl
    shaping it after your smile.




    on that high pedestal
    the adulating mob worshipping your whiteness
    your forms
    those words hiding inside the marble unseen till seen,

    I wonder if they hear those grains of the desert you so love
    filling in the liquid chambers of your heart
    the sparking creases of your brain
    your iris... so deep, white.

    The night comes,
    the mob leaves the museum
    doors close
    and the only memory of their visit are mud traces on the floor
    a few lost chewing gum wraps
    some notes in the guests book,
    echoes... dying.

    I pick up my mop, my bucket, my broom,
    and walk the halls cleaning, polishing,
    alone with works of art and works of heart and life frozen inside eternity.
    I stop at your feet
    gazing up, trying to catch that eye seeing all
    yet not seeing me,
    I take the ladder and climb up
    stopping right in front of you
    no one knows
    not even you.

    The marble... cold under my lips
    melting, quivering when I bite into it, slobber all over it
    my hand reaching for the heart, for the sand,
    a stain of pink waking up on a stain of white
    as your marble nipple turns glowing coal and your breast screams in lust
    preventing me from reaching your heart
    marble loins part
    and I invade your body with flesh wants
    and pouring life.

    I descend, crying.
    looking up as soft flesh turns marble once more,
    tears lost in the murky depths of my bucket
    untouchable as ever
    ready for next day’s adulating eyes
    and adoring din.

    No one knows
    the caretaker’s secret
    and marble’s sin.




    the woman,
    so lonely in her prideful pain
    in her prideless need
    sobbing her nights into the volcano’s gaping mouth
    and watching streaking tears explode into her much beloved

    I touched her shoulder
    with fingertips attached to the nerve ends of my
    she thanked me
    leaving pieces of her skin under my fingernails
    oblivious to the moment
    I ripped my way
    down her shoulder blade
    and waist

    I tiptoed away
    respectful of her memories
    and hopes and dreams and doves
    allowing swarming sparks chase me way beyond
    the volcano’s mouth
    with she not knowing

    the woman,
    stubbornly trying to extinguish the volcano’s thirst
    with her eyes
    while the alien observer I
    sends her flowers
    and admiration



The Poet In Me

    It is probably
    the poet in me.

    I blink,
    then forget to unblink for many moments
    lingering in that fairies land called Whatifs.

    Happiness is an oasis
    surrounded by ever rolling dunes
    in melancholic yellow.

    the moment gone,
    I finally unblink and turn my head towards the palm trees
    and the ripe figs
    and the bubbling brook with its clear waters
    chilling my skin
    and burning my throat.



your Poetry

    the warmth in the softness of soot
    carrying the memory of the fire creating it
    there, in the explosive furnaces feeding your mind
    and hand.

    i let my finger cross the page
    top left to bottom right,
    the black smear tracing my finger’s tip grabbing those of your ink splinters
    so delicately embedded in your art
    and painting it black,
    and red,
    and heroic smiles in pain.

    i look at my stretch of skin which touched divinity of inspiration
    and let the color sink
    and light
    my marrow.

    don’t wonder
    why i glow nights.




    Allow me
    your fantasies.

    Don’t let your mouth hang open too long
    reading lines
    in wonder of dreaming and daring,
    I fear that your innocent indecency
    may be mistaken for an invitation
    for wine to visit your palate
    and breeze to penetrate between exploding buttons
    and fingers to test the dangers of the adventurous borderline
    between silk
    and skin.




in between questions

    encircling me
    did you mean around my chest or around my waist or... lower?
    did you envisage
    my fingers
    sinking into that dense forest growing above the nape of your neck
    uprooting silk fibers
    to bind around wrists and down ears and above dancing ankles
    to catch the wind with ribbons and kites and headless stems?
    did you feel
    the fire engulfing
    the ends of bones
    and the deserts of skin
    and burning out of way those absolutely ridiculous props of civilization
    called clothes?
    when your mouth opened
    did you mean



the Room

    there’s a room,
    don’t look for it, you won’t find it
    though you know it
    as you know your insides
    as i know your insides.

    you are there already
    your mouth wide open
    gasping for air
    gasping for love
    gasping for flesh to fill the emptiness of that ravenous cavity
    cursed with virginal white of teeth
    and virginal red of tongue
    and virginal appetite for liquid coal pouring down your throat.
    to satiate your nights,
    thus liberating your fingers
    for that divine dive into my caverns
    at risk of beheading.

    that’s about my ravenous cavity,
    what about my marvelous cavity?
    you write,
    your mouth too busy gulping life.

    and your marvelous cavity unravels itself
    under the magic of deft fingers... mine or yours?...
    at psalms of revelation... mine or yours?...
    beneath shivering fingertips... mine, oh, mine...
    and as it gazes down brazenly at adulating invader eyes
    it slowly descends to meet its worshipers
    facing immediate annihilation
    preferring all terrors of peril
    to one desert of ignorance.

    the moment
    the touch
    the bones’ cutting blaze

    and you feed me your milk
    as my lips open up your poetry book
    and my treacherous tongue leaves me behind
    splashing drunkenly inside your intimate orchards
    and exploding barrels of wine.



Signing Session

    of course

    I queued up, patiently.
    I lie, of course, but I do not want to sound short breathed,
    or short tempered or short toleranced or short indulgenced
    or impatient.
    or short Englished.
    which of course, I am.
    all of these.
    of course they queued up, didn’t expect anything else,
    actually I just sat in a corner
    watching them wait for your scribble to loop and wiggle and twist.
    I was delighted. of course.

    you even smiled my way,
    of course, it might have been to the wall behind me.

    there are of course some more of course’s.

    of course I brought the book with me,
    of course, why else did I come?
    of course, why else did I come I know and no one else,
    well, maybe one else.
    of course I brought also my body with me
    else how would the book have arrived on its own?
    postal services? hey, I don’t need wise guys in this poem
    be they even gals.

    where will you sign it?
    bottom of the first page,
    bottom of my belly,
    bottom of my mouth?


    what will you sign it with?
    your golden capped pen before it melts in your hold,
    your five fingers groping for flesh on its way to boiling agony,
    your stampeding teeth leaving bleeding potholes all over my lower lip?


    yes is not an answer.
    yes is all the answers.

    I gave up, I had no choice.
    I queued up patiently (ha), my turn arrived, you looked up at me
    I asked
    you answered, you smiled once more and this time certainly at me...
    of course I had a choice but
    why not give up when it is so convenient to give up
    and so promising
    and writing poems becomes such hard labor
    with muscles trembling into anticipative disintegration.

    I decided to wait for yes,
    wondering at the brevity of perfection.
    of course perfection.

    you vanished.


    the clash

    it sounded like hail
    it looked like dust
    it gathered light from the corners of earth
    materializing into fluttering skirts
    baring slim, barely materialized ankles
    mounting towards muscled, transparent still yet promising already thighs
    joining at the crossroads of existence evolving into body
    swelling into hips and breasts and dark nipples and curving lips
    pouring sparkles into eyes
    and nails into fingertips
    and a sigh escaping from barely formed tongue and throat and lungs...
    a whisper... was it a whisper?... as you inhaled divinity
    and the skirts deserted your newly ascending flesh,
    invisible strings attached to thousands of your body’s anchors
    snapping one by one letting a hand drop, then a leg, then another leg
    and finally all of you dropped on all of me
    as I lay in deceitfully innocent wait above the pile of itching hay
    and the creator of you released the creator you upon my world
    your flailing tentacles pulling me out of earthly attire
    to squeeze the sharp ends of straw into my punctured spine
    and the blunt ends of palms around my desiring craves
    and the red of mouth into red of mouth and wretched tongue pieces.

    who penetrated whose corporeal lair?
    who sucked whose life through node-less straws
    bridging eviscerated lips to dripping bodily fountains
    and bursting skin sores to bursting skin sores
    burning like the floors of hell on inauguration day?

    you sang,
    the trickle from your lip to mine as thin as the end of day
    the hay smelling of lilac
    and of no more innocent you.

    you never smiled before like you smiled after.



    the desert flows into the sea
    the mountains flow into the desert
    hordes of white butterflies desert the north pole to invade the mountains...
    new world? you ask
    before i turn my back for the last time.
    new world, i answer,
    my finger touching fleetingly the ink stains at the bottom of the first page,
    the blue stains surrounding the lust at the bottom of your belly,
    the blood stains drying on your lacerated bottom lip.
    blood, lust, ink, i add.
    life, you say
    but i don’t hear you anymore
    as the huge engine swallows the whole of me.




    under attack,

    are you naked already or shall i undress you
    if undressing is

    pulling open the two halves of shirt
    and the three halves of camisole
    disregarding the explosion of buttons
    and that one sleeve ending away from the rest of your body
    at the cost of silk,

    dragging skirt and intimate satin and hosiery down to toes
    or is it toes up to waist line
    or irrelevant as elastic bands and zippers and seams simply give in

    was there a brassiere?... never paid attention
    it is nowhere now
    as my tools of torture invade your premises
    and crevices
    and apices
    and you squeal and thresh and whiplash
    under the onslaught of those terrible tips of trade
    beginning with the one ending my tongue
    and painting blisters around your nipples
    through the many ending my many fingers
    plowing ruts inside your flesh
    and ending with the deep throated one delimiting that fat, stiffening worm
    assiduously spitting white stains of fire
    down your guts way
    and up your guts way
    and any which way turns your moans
    celestial euphony.




    there is something strange in your voice,
    so strange that acceptance
    is as meaningless as denial,

    it rolls off the words
    as if they were messengers strange to the message,
    it breathes in the background
    as if there was life waking up at a call you didn’t even make,

    maybe it is not even your voice
    but your being,
    and the voice is just another attribute like height, weight,
    and my hearing is tuned to another layer of you,
    the real you layer.

    the hidden woman.

    the woman.

    you don’t walk on water,
    no one does,
    I doubt Jesus ever did,

    yet I see flowers at your feet
    and though I don’t know if you walk on them
    you certainly seed them.




    bird, your grey of feather
    asleep in sprawling heather
    soaks in rainbow’s seed awaking

    deep a heart of tender aching
    cut by supple braids of leather,
    deep a breast biting the tether
    with a passion raking.

    girl, of gaze exotic
    let your touch pyrotic
    kindle butterflies of fire

    through those loins consumed by ire
    when a rhyme of words quixotic
    lands a kiss of fluff erotic
    raging with desire.




    if there is something
    I do not yet own of you
    is eyes.

    I know they must be dark, I know they must be deep,
    I know they must be soft, warm, glimmering,
    hidden behind those downcast eyelids
    that keep the savagery of fire tied to arm thick chains
    and feed it morsels of human fantasy to rein its rage
    behind those deceivingly

    if there is something
    I do not yet own of you
    is thoughts.

    I know they must be fluttering, I know they must be vibrating,
    I know they must be soft, warm, glimmering,
    hidden amongst those flowing verses
    that guard the demons of passion down rock sealed cellars
    and feed them morsels of human dreams to curb their howls
    behind those deceivingly

    if there is something
    I do not yet own of you
    is flesh.

    I know it must be smooth, I know it must be quivering,
    I know it must be soft, warm, glimmering,
    hidden underneath those layers of garment
    that strangle the beast of lust within steel lined fabric
    and feed it morsels of human phantasms to bridle its tempest
    behind those deceivingly




    And if I call you your names
    you never dreamed to have
    and tell you your secrets
    you never wished to know
    and break your mirrors in front of you to show you your nakedness
    in those thousand reflections of your flames of glory
    that others whispered to your physical skin yet I bit inside your mental breast,
    will that be sufficient to drive you into the insanity
    of flying, crawling, swimming my way
    and slap my face into two swivels around an arid throat
    for daring

    You flew, crawled, swam, slapped
    and the buds on your palm exploded,
    fragrances the thickness of tears and the color of a nipple yet to be uncovered
    inundating me,
    “Jasmine,” I said, “was worth it,” I said,
    “Worth what?” you said,
    “Hell’s anteroom of passion,” I said, and looked at you.
    Didn’t know your beauty,
    you blinded me.

    Was about time I started my poem,
    I started writing it with my left hand, left to right.
    “Are you left handed?” you asked.
    “No, it is the hand closer to my heart,” I answered,
    moving the pen to the right hand and writing right to left.
    “And now? Do you have two hearts?”
    “No, it is the hand closer to your heart,” I answered,
    breaking the pen in two and crossing the arms and the writing.
    “I see, ambidexter,” you said.
    “Yes, ambiance dependent ambidexterity.
    The worship of symmetry.
    The symmetry of eyes. The symmetry of cheeks.
    The symmetry of breasts and the palms cupping them
    left to right and right to left
    left to left and right to right
    left right to right and right left to left and the other way around.”
    “Sounds like ambivalent ambiance dependent ambidexterity.” Smile. Pause.
    “There’s a center to symmetries,” you added.
    “The center might be preferable to the symmetry,” you added.
    “You may start worshiping centricity,” you added.
    I wasn’t blind anymore,
    there were red-hot horseshoes floating in your eyes
    and they were stampeding all over me.
    “Yes, the universe rotates around a black hole
    and everything gets sucked into it,”
    I managed a scientific allegory
    meaning anatomical reality.

    You left it unconfirmed,
    broke my heart and the tension pulling away my unfinished poem
    and reading it aloud
    “love, above... love, above... love, above...”
    then looking at me, was it questioningly or quizzically?
    “Stutter?” you asked.
    “Corny, can’t concentrate” I justified.
    “Corny?” you asked.
    “Linguistically polite,” I justified my politically correct linguistics.
    Beauty came second to intelligence
    as your laughter told me.
    Your top button opened all by itself. Magic.
    “Tell me, what rhymes with laughter?”
    “And after laughter?”
    “It almost rhymes with enthusiasm.”
    “Linguistically polite again?”
    “No, imperfect rhyme. Once I tried to rhyme luck.”
    “No, but it has to do with it. Wasn’t allowed by my editor,
    claimed I’d be triple X’d.”
    You provided me with a single X’d sample, internetically speaking.
    I almost lost my breath.
    “You should have tried population,” you said,
    wiping my lipstick. Your lipstick. Hmm... whatever lipstick,
    with all those blisters suddenly popping on my lips
    it didn’t feel like hell’s anteroom, rather like hell's halls.
    My brain was boiling too.
    “Linguistically polite. Mental rhyme.”
    I was to blame. I claimed I worshipped symmetries.
    We laughed, then tried that after laughter imperfect rhyme.
    It was perfect.

    “Do you think that love-above has to do with positions?”
    you asked, changing positions. I was no macho.
    “Do you think that triple-nipple has to do with aliens?”
    I asked, counting. You were no alien.
    “Do you think that cogito-ergo-sum is misspelled?”
    you continued your inquisition of our shared body.
    We couldn’t share mind, fortunately,
    or I would have wallowed in jasmine once again.
    “You mean that extra letter?”
    I might have been a poet at the time, though certainly not at the moment
    and anyway, had no idea what the onomatopoeia for guttural yes could be,
    especially from a mouth full with that sane, unnatural stuff.
    So I grabbed a bunch of vowels and consonants
    and jammed them into the stanza.
    “Maybe they were being linguistically polite?”
    You almost choked, laughing your head off for about an hour
    while not giving up on the sane, unnatural stuff. Suited me fine.
    “Shall I spell it correctly, educating the readers?”
    I didn’t ask for a literal answer.
    You could have answered with grunts, letting me cope with the spelling,
    with interpreting.
    You decided to go the literal way
    giving up on that sane, unnatural stuff. Idiotic, suicidal me.
    “And risk being triple X’d?”
    You had a point there.
    “Did I tell you you were for a long time my succubus?” I told you.
    “Did I tell you you were for a long time my incubus?” you told me.
    Didn’t know men and women called that differently.
    We did some more after laughter.

    It was getting late. Late in day, late in time. Late in life.
    Called you your names you dreamed,
    told you your secrets you wished,
    broke your mirrors and brought each shard to your eyes
    so you could see your nakedness, all of it.
    “How does the mirror remember what it sees, to show me? Magic?”
    “Technology of poetry. Like technology of pottery.
    Touch it. Change it. Burn it in.”
    It wasn’t a full answer. It wasn’t a correct answer. It wasn’t an incorrect answer.
    It was the only answer.
    “Did you hear about honorificabilitudinitatibus?”
    As a matter of fact, I did.
    “Yes, Shakespeare’s hapax legomenon.”
    “Do you have a hapax legomenon as well?”
    “Yes.” You waited. “You.” It was the answer you waited for.
    The following after laughter was incredible.

    You thundered away - swam, crawled, flew.
    I gathered some lipstick stains, some glittering shards, a shorn button.
    Tried to press it all in my fist, cut myself
    didn’t know if it was lipstick or blood,
    it dripped - must have been blood, I tasted it - it tasted lipstick.
    Went around the room once more
    then tried to run
    chasing a moth, chasing a shadow,
    chasing the lingering molecules of that mélange of after laughter and jasmine,
    thinking of linguistic incongruities which made it worth living or dying
    in a castle of words and dreams and inexistent keys to puzzles forever unsolved
    except in poets’ minds,
    laughter and slaughter, charm and harm, lust and lost...

    I saw you,
    didn’t have to keep my eye stuck to your bedroom’s keyhole
    I hid a mirror shard in your luggage.
    You undressed,
    you dropped above the covers, not underneath
    allowing my eyes to see, roam, wander, intrude, die
    as your body swam in the linen, your eyes swam in the sea,
    your mind swimming in words
    leaving flittering shadows on your white patches of skin
    and mixing there with fingerprints
    seeded by hungry hands,
    You looked my way.
    How... how... how...
    yes, I did sound like the neighbor’s Chihuahua,
    I moved the mental needle to the next mental grove - how did you know?
    You measured the thickness of your nipple between thumb and forefinger,
    then brought the curled fingers carefully to your mouth
    and blew the chimera my way,
    your mouth forming words.
    Damn mirror,
    all it could bring over were damn images
    and I was no damn lips reader.
    Why do you do that? and I wouldn’t have known that I asked it loudly
    if not for the damn neighbor’s damn Chihuahua.
    How... how... how...
    no, not the Chihuahua, my mental needle melting once more
    as you smiled, cocked your head to one side
    (damn you mirror yet again, unidirectional sound transmission, huh?)
    picked up your lipstick
    and crowded some meaningless letters on the shard:
    I hardly had time to copy them down, that the mirror went dark.
    No, lady, at this game you don’t beat me,
    ghoti is as good as a family member to me.

    I set down to decipher, picking the right words right away,
    hiccough being the first, followed by mount, nation, ashen, know...
    my lady was telling me

    I sat down,
    eating each day an apple,
    waiting for that red nipple to reach me.
    Dragging a whole woman behind it.




    To feel sorry for you?
    Joking, yes?

    To feel sorry for all those wretches
    who didn’t share your bed and flesh.

    To feel sorry for all those bastards
    who shared your bed and flesh
    but didn’t share your mind’s fire to be consumed by its offerings
    and their only memory to carry forward
    is their pleasures, yet none of yours.

    To feel sorry for me,
    for not sharing your bed and flesh
    yet having shared your mind’s fire and living that of your bed and flesh
    which you have offered me in between wretches
    and bastards
    and interminable streams of words ranging from hesitation
    to abandon of senses.

    There is a bench there,
    at the crossroads of the east-west with the north-south
    which we walk to-from different somewheres
    to continue from-to different elsewheres, after.
    You know of it, it is in your guide to life. I know of it too. I wrote it there.
    You wrote it in mine. Who wrote it first in whose?
    Or, if and after,
    we may find that it was the collusion of wretches and bastards
    who put the cross at the crossroads,
    maybe even built the bench.
    I lay claim to the flower.
    Don’t ask which flower, you may never know,
    you will always guess.

    I am there already, on the way to my elsewhere.
    I dropped the suitcase,
    sat on the bench, leg over leg, waiting.
    I see you approaching, on the way to your own elsewhere,
    you drag your suitcase on wheels,
    a bigger suitcase,
    I don’t think it carries more dreams than mine, probably more beauty.
    I can settle for that, I expected that.
    I guess also more shoes.
    I see you smile. I wanted you to smile. Hi.

    You cross legs too. Your skirt slides away from the knee.
    If I say you’re sexy will you find it insulting?
    I don’t mean it as compliment, just as information.
    If it was to be a compliment I would say desirable, alluring, seductive.
    Not fascinating. Fascination has to do with imagination, unreality,
    memories. That’s for later.
    Now it’s for the flesh, mind, and your explosive mix of them.
    You are desirable, alluring, seductive.


    I give you the flower. You drop it in your décolletage,
    I wonder how deep it fell. Dance? I propose.
    Waltz, what else, with clumsiness on my side
    and with a bit of luck as well I fall, and you catch me.
    I don’t fall, you don’t catch me, we dance.
    The flower somewhere there,
    it didn’t fall,
    I wonder why it didn’t fall, where it did fall,
    what does it smell like. Not the flower.
    Waltz is not supposed to be a touching dance,
    our thighs touch fleetingly, then solidly,
    then interlace and I feel your pulse. I am not supposed to feel your pulse,
    do you feel mine?

    Where is the flower?
    Past hesitation.

    Mouths interlace, hands interlace, eyelashes interlace,
    clothes interlace thread by thread by thread
    I have to find the flower
    knowing it not to be there which you don’t know
    knowing I don’t know the smell which you know
    knowing that knowing is meaningless
    when your fist clamps the knots of thread and my fist clamps the fist
    and we pull it all away cloth and shoes and nail polish
    and what is left is skin
    interlacing with skin with skin with skin
    much skin many skin all skin
    and penetrating skin
    when I drag you to the bench
    and as decking boards sink into your back cutting it to slices of pulsating flesh
    your loins cut my body
    into lumps of pulsating death.
    And pouring sweat is the sole reprieve
    as insistently lambent flames
    burn through the wood and bones. Silence.

    Abandon of senses.

    You pick up the suitcase handle,
    your nakedness doesn’t bother you, the flower does,
    but you do not ask
    as you start going towards your elsewhere
    and I start going to mine.
    So beautiful, a naked woman waltzing her way with a rolling suitcase.
    It is accepted mathematical certitude that all elsewheres finally meet
    somewhere. Unknown. Even to mathematicians.
    I said, I will never tell you about the flower,
    you will always have to guess.




    your head in my lap,
    your hair flowing all over
    I start counting them, each and every single hair on your scalp...
    hey, stop that giggle,
    not like monkeys do, like I do
    with a real academic goal in my mind...

    and you stop that giggle
    though from time to time you sound like something between a guggle and a guffaw.

    I take the first,
    smoothen it and lay it aside from the others though it keeps trying to jump back,
    so easy,
    two, three...
    by the time I reach eleven you stop giggling or guggling or guffawing
    and by thirteen you start cooing,
    by thirty five you purr like Tom who, finally, got a bellyful of Jerry
    though, when I declare victoriously one hundred!
    with no dreadlocks or knots or things, you don’t seem impressed
    and by one hundred and nine there’s no more sign of giggle but a lot of wiggle
    as you impatiently ask if there are many more to go.

    of course there are many more to go,
    you know your hair better than me
    and all I know are averages of one hundred thousand per head
    and I intend to add my soon (a few weeks?) acquired knowledge
    to the general pool...

    oops, talking too much,
    lost my count and have to start all over again.

    what about counting buttons, instead? you ask suavely,
    much easier, much less of them.
    much less doesn’t sound like perfect English to me
    but your words make sense
    and, anyway, it’s your body
    and anyway, it is much easier to keep count
    as I can open those counted already so as not to count them twice,

    a sharp intake of breath,
    you frighten me
    I hasten to put my hand on your heart, unfortunately there is a breast in between
    but I can feel it – thump, thump, thump,
    you are alive, thank goodness, I can go on,
    two, three... after each count checking your heart for safety,
    still a bit worried, as it seems to beat faster and faster
    but then, your breath is quite stormy,
    so I guess your blood gets oxygenated enough,
    what a great miracle is the human body,
    four, five... sorry for breaking six, my hand trembles with no reason...
    I reach twenty nine, the last one, thirty! I try to declare
    and for whatever reason my throat is constricted,
    maybe the same reason that made me, probably, skip a few numbers?...
    doesn’t really look like thirty
    and your shirt opens
    and falls both sides of your chest
    and a transparent piece of fabric covers your heart and the breast above it
    and a nipple above the same breast who seems to bite its way out of the fabric
    (who, not that, you should have seen that nipple biting)
    and another piece covers your no heart and its own breast above it
    and a nipple emulating the heart one...
    you have no more buttons to count? I hear a muffled voice
    that might have been yours (my ears constricted as well)
    and as it seems that you like me counting
    I pull the fabric out of the way and start a new cycle,
    this time counting nipples,
    one, one, one... yes, no mistake,
    I count the heart one several times, touching it each time with another finger,
    then with couples of fingers,
    then alternating left hand fingers with right hand fingers and by the time I reach two
    my fingers are a mess and I am a mess and you are a mess,
    two, two, one... just couldn’t stop myself from counting.

    morning finds us, our heads in each other’s lap,
    our mouths counting,
    each of us stuck at the count of one for a long time already... well, there is only one...
    hey, how can I say what one
    when there are different names to the subject of my count and that of yours?
    we don’t even count loudly,
    our upbringing having taught us about that unforgivable table sin
    of talking with our mouths full.
    we can moan, though, and we do it plenty.



to know you...

    ...when you dance,
    is there wild hyssop sprouting between your toes
    underneath the fluttering cloud of hovering butterflies and exploding drops of sun,

    when your toes leave swirling traces
    in the clay’s indulging flesh
    and your thigh my morning graces
    there, where skin and silk enmesh?

    ...when you bathe,
    is there an invisible volcano smoldering beneath your ribs
    as water sizzles furiously around the pride of downy monuments and burning nipples,

    when your ribs demand my fingers
    for a trip inside the sun
    and a sirens’ chorus lingers
    while your body comes undone?

    ...when you make love,
    is there life beyond the imminent moment of raging death
    hidden innermost the folds converging into the gardens of Hesperides and immortality,

    when your death wakes to desire
    and your body reaves my arms
    slaying Ladon’s hundred choir
    as they glean your garden’s charms?




    how many flowers are there in r?
    one, i answered, touching your mouth.

    and how many rivers, two?
    yes, and i touched your eyes, forcing you to blink.
    i would have preferred that you closed them for longer than just a blink,
    so i could touch you
    and you would wonder loudly who touches you
    in qualitative, rather than quantitative bewonderment.

    then there is no lust in r, right?
    it sounded intuitively correct, but was terribly wrong
    and with your eyes, unfortunately, open
    i could not prove it.
    endless, i answered and did not touch you.

    days passed.
    you do not touch me.
    i undressed you, still not touching you.
    days passed
    you do not touch me, you repeated, shivering, not with cold.
    close your eyes. why? days passed.
    endless no lust or endless lust?
    you were right, you were so damn right
    that i blushed.
    what is three in r? error? warrior. narrator? of resurrection. who? whose?
    i was about to not answer, your eyes open.

    how much lust is there in u?
    i did not care your eyes were open,
    i had to answer. you had to be told. i touched you. lust. endless. endless lust.
    and dream? endless.

    i wished you were dressed so i could teach you tatters,
    thirsty so i could teach you mirage,
    cold so i could teach you bottomless sun and iceberg magic,
    i was dressed, thirsty, cold
    so you taught me
    with fingernails knocking letters off my spine
    and nipples sculpting words off my teeth
    and thighs
    carving poems off my loins.

    how many lives are there in i?
    and happiness?
    and love?
    endless, i answered, sealing your mouth and making love to you.




    You did not stretch your toes.
    I did not bend down,
    our lips were level
    they touched.

    I did not want to die.
    No, I wasn’t that young,
    but not before knowing the rest of you.
    “You float,” I whispered between four lips.
    You disappeared two inches lower.

    “You broke the magic. I didn’t float,” you blamed me,
    your tone defining my key responsibility in the disappearance of the dinosaurs.
    “I am not,” I pouted,
    letting you cross your arm into mine
    and drag me away.
    I couldn’t see your lips anymore,
    only when peeking rightwards.
    “You were and you are.”
    “Were and are what?”
    “Were responsible for the dinosaurs.
    Are responsible for breaking the magic.”

    “You floated,” I insisted doggedly, “you thumped to the floor, proof!”
    Not that I cared, you were leaning my way,
    I could feel your breast pushing into my arm.
    “No,” the tone this time defining me three year old and with a lisp,
    “the floor thumped into me. Up!”
    Now, now, this was an angle I didn’t think of.
    But there was a flaw to your logic.
    “Impossible, I was on the floor, your mouth aligned with mine,
    I should have felt the acceleration.”
    “So? yes, you were, yes, I was, no, I did not float.” I was about to protest.
    “We floated,” you concluded triumphantly,
    squeezing my arm a bit more. Your breast a piece of rock.
    Since when do rocks drive men insane?

    What? Preposterous.
    Then, physically speaking, the floor would have had to hit me first,
    carry me above you, hit you, thump, stop... preposterous.
    Though, come to think of it,
    what was that jar tearing through my spine
    a short moment before your thump? The one I thought was fireworks?
    Well, they were green stars and red stars.

    Your breast insisted.
    I decided to forgo physical matters
    for the benefit of physiological ones.
    “Is it your heart?” I asked, watching the thump showing through your shirt,
    feeling it in my arm, watching the button working hard at not breaking.
    You watched mine, I never paid attention to it till now,
    it behaved the same. I guess it was your heart. Mine was mine.
    “No.” You should not have answered. So what was it? A cat?
    You took out a cat and put it in the basket you were carrying,
    “Couldn’t leave the poor thing alone.”
    You closed your shirt again. “Now it is my heart.”
    The thump now twice as strong. Twice a strong as mine.
    The poor cat must have taken quite a beating.
    “This is a crazy world,” I remarked.
    “This is your poetry,” you answered, calmly, squeezing my fingers.
    There was undeniable promise in that squeeze,
    I guess it said... take it as far as you dare, I’ll always take it one step further.


    Two palms. One fist.
    Wooden door. Open. Close. Cat food. Two palms. One fist.
    Door. Another door. A bed frame, brass. A mirror, crystal. A woman, you.
    A dying specimen of shivering humanity, I. Two palms. One fist.
    A cat. Out of the bed, cat! A bed, smooth like a virgin’s belly, except for the cat.
    Out of the bed, cat!

    Your left, thumping half an inch out of your chest,
    my left, thumping one full inch out, winning the thumping contest,
    like cartoon characters in a tri-di movie thump! thump! thump! meow!?...
    (okay, final, cat out, door closed)
    Free me! free me! we tell at the same instant,
    hands reaching for top buttons at the same instant.
    Buttons. One, two, ten. Shirts fall.
    Shoes. Thump, thump, thump, thump. Belts. Click.
    Open, pull, wiggle, down. Matching whites. Safe, for the moment.
    Unmatching whites, yours. Off, first.
    The engine under your ribs goes insane, half inch turning one and a half,
    winning the contest,
    the cage creaking, almost breaking,
    my palm shoots forwards to protect you... liar!... I cup your breast,
    the matching whites, off... both... skin, only and always skin...

    The mattress swallows us, drinks us, chews us with its linen teeth
    our enamel joining in the melee
    as burning palms blister and scorched throats groan and bellies applaud
    while body parts engulf body parts
    harvesting cupfuls of sweat
    and mouthfuls of saliva
    and bodyfuls of exploding elixir... thump! thump! thump!...
    sorry!... I mutter, feeling your bleeding lip in my mouth
    and you don’t call me liar, you know I know I am.

    You smile, oh, your smile.
    You smile, oh, your smile.
    You smile, oh... oh... what are you doing?...
    I watch your naked poetry bouncing all the way to the door...
    oh, no!... “kitty, kitty...” but I do not really mind
    as you turn around
    and I am presented a glorious view of the reverse side of the bouncing poetry
    bouncing as well, though differently,
    and some of my interest is not bouncing at all.
    “Poor thing, it mustn’t feel neglected.”
    You slide between the mattress and my body,
    sighing contentedly when my hands discover everything that bounced
    and some other parts of me settle around the non bouncing parts,
    the cat settling between my shoulders.
    I wonder who of you two is purring.
    I find out, soon enough, it is the cat.
    When your thumping starts again
    and your mouth loses first its lips then its mind inside mine
    and we throw away mattress and linen and cat
    falling on the metal frame
    and as the red-hot iron springs brand ribbons of smoldering ruts in our flesh
    we sink everything that is flesh inside everything that is flesh
    thumping nectar into our lives.


    “Meow...” you plagiarize, some time, much later.
    Oh, you, bad girl, such unacceptable behavior for a poet...
    your ensuing punishment terrible.
    I move one hand, most ostentatiously, starting to caress the cat
    until such time as you repent.
    “Meow...” you repeat,
    and I am about to move also the second hand from nipple to cat
    when you bat eyes, get on all fours above me,
    those hanging fruits maddeningly close, and murmur...
    “...this time I merely plagiarized myself, no?”
    The tribunal in my head protests... infamy!
    the one in my body screams... clemency! (I wonder for whom)
    I, the implacable judge and jury
    You imbecile! I shout to my own self,
    not aloud, ashamed in my uncovered imbecility
    then my cat hand joins my nipple hand
    my thighs penetrate between yours
    my mouth curses the moments lost idling
    and attacks the congregation residing in yours with all tools of flesh
    and ivory and muscle and oxygen and nitrogen and groan
    while our bodies shamelessly plagiarize their earlier music of
    thump! thump! thump!
    slowly turning into the cacophony of
    thump! meow! thump! meow! thump! meow!...

    The meow wins in the end, even when we don’t hear anything anymore,
    having wrecked the walls of Eden
    and settled in the incredible bliss of stupefaction.




    I volunteered to close them,
    the buttons,
    each clanking with the finality of a deathrow-cell’s bolt,
    first... clank!
    second... clank!
    third... by the time I reached the one before last
    my brain was a mess of mush
    and I, the poor copycat of a gibbering idiot...
    one before last... clank!

    I couldn’t bring myself to close the last one
    try as I did,
    I couldn’t.
    You volunteered to help.

    You pulled my trembling hands aside, gently,
    then your fingers touched the one before last,
    I didn’t have time enough to point your mistake...
    you opened it... mmm...
    you waited,
    my shivers could have powered three hundred-kilowatt power stations
    and yet I found enough control to hold the one before the one before last...
    I opened it... mmmmmm...
    you saved me the embarrassment,
    and continued to the one before the one before the one before last...
    by the time we... who was it?... reached the first
    the m’s ribbon could circle the Earth three times around the equator
    with enough left to smother the sun.

    We smothered the sun.




    the scientists,
    thank God they are.

    Spreading the blame from the flatulent sheep of New Zeeland
    to the gasoline guzzling Cadillac’s of Elvis.
    Irrelevant that he died
    before. Because he isn’t really dead,
    as every self-respecting member of the CrackPot party

    the scientists,
    thank God they are
    otherwise they would have sentenced you to the stake.
    the one to blame for global warming.
    Woman. Lover. Witch.
    Or is it Fairy?

    Tell me, you never told me how old you are.
    Millions, tens of millions of years?

    Cause you brought about the demise of the dinosaurs,
    not that you wished it,
    and the best you could repent
    was seeding us, humans, instead,
    You burned that ugly Kalahari scar in the heart of the continent
    and only compensation you found
    was lining it up with breathtaking sunsets,
    You boiled death into that mighty lake of the Jordan Rift Valley
    and tears of remorse sculpted magnificent salt sculptures
    alongside full-moon’s reflected magic,
    you wouldn’t deny it, would you?

    You stumble at times,
    and your toe lends its scathe to the ground
    sending entire worm congregations scurrying down
    to the chillier safety of Earth’s magma belly,

    You smile at times,
    your forgetful enthusiasm carrying your face southwards,
    for moments,
    and ancient icebergs melt, victims to that momentary dazzle,

    I think of you, at times
    and I turn




    like the sharp, culminating end of orgasm,
    your poetry,

    like the raving appetite of your carnivorous nipple
    biting chunks of mouth
    from inside out,

    like the viper escaping my control
    to pierce your hymen
    and spit its hot, delicious poison into your womb.

    you’re a virgin
    until you make love to me.

    and as I lie, there, next to you
    you know how sharp your poetry is.



Fauna & Flora

    tell me
    of making love to me.

    of letting loose the birds and the bees and the tyrannosaurus rex and my fauna
    amidst the flowers and the trees and the dionaea muscipula and your flora
    to thrash in your mud
    and drink your springs dry
    and cross the species gap through the portal to your wilderness
    and beauty.

    open your eyes.
    open your mouth, open your thighs,
    clench fists around the bed posts
    to bathe me in the abandon of your most intimate of perfumes
    and as the saber clustered jaws are about to rip your roots open
    the labia close around the ugly head
    and ingurgitate it breath, scales and hide.

    and now, who is the prey? you murmur,
    and all I want
    is die forever in your hunger.



The Stain

    I rushed forward... halt!...
    your palm shot forward, the shimmer around your finger ends unmistakable.
    I stopped.

    You stepped to the pool side,
    jumped feet first
    the slashed arrows of joined toes, pelvis, dangling breasts
    cutting the water with a hiss
    turning whistle
    turning bedlam
    turning hell
    as a geyser shot upwards like an atomic mushroom
    sucking the whole of the pool into a frightful display of steam and rainbows...

    You rested there,
    standing on the bare, tiled bottom
    humid stains rapidly drying away from your skin
    mist surrounding you... now, hurry, make love to me...
    and I jumped after you, tearing my clothes along the way
    to lose mind and body
    inside you.

    I started hurting.

    I pulled back, watching the tiles blistering, cracking,
    the shimmer back to your finger ends,
    lambent flames rising lecherously from ankles to belly, to mouth
    licking your skin clean of my touches... how dare they?...
    I advanced, disregarding your warning
    and placed my index on your nipple, watching my fingertip go up in flames
    a stain of black, carbonized bone resting on your flesh
    like a primitive, one word poem.
    This is a touch nothing will remove, I said.
    My lips flamed, the pain insupportably beautiful.
    This is a touch nothing will remove, you said,
    moving your lips away from my mouth.
    Thank you for pain, I said.
    You watched your blackened nipple.
    Thank you, for poetry, you said.




    I paint your curls

    from chameleon-green to wine-burgundy
    with in between reds,
    and violets and blues and phosphors,

    I glide each and every steely spiral
    through pursed lips,

    then pull it straight with tips of fingers
    to touch the root with tip of tongue
    in pagan adulation,

    I dip my thumb
    in you,

    suck it in rebellion
    before rubbing it gently against each root
    to wipe it clean of color,

    you are ready for love making.
    I am tired. I fall asleep.

    I wake up from your softness
    and you laugh.
    Your face looks like a variegated zebra,
    and you make love to me.
    Then you stand up and you make waltz to me.
    Naked? I ask.
    Is there any other way? you ask.




    open your fist
    to palm,
    let the ocean spill.

    you opened your fist.
    you returned, many days later,
    to the room with the brass bed
    and silk bedding.
    now is the time to make love,
    you said.

    not yet, I said,
    opening your fist to palm
    and carrying bucketfuls of pearls
    to feed the ravenous tongues of foaming waves.
    finally I dropped the bucket,
    trembling with fatigue.
    now is the time to make love,
    I said.

    not yet, you said,
    dipping a soft sponge in you
    and wiping every nook clean of sweat, stank, stupor.
    now is the time to make love,
    you said.

    you sank to the bottom of the silk
    and I sank to the bottom of you
    feeding my hunger on the endless strawberry fields of your breasts.
    now is the time to sigh, you said,
    and we sighed.
    our bodies the vibrating, over-tuned strings of violins,
    the ocean a boiling cauldron of fighting vipers.

    I hear baby dolphins singing, you sang.
    I smell wild flowers praying, I prayed.

    the brass
    a contorted mass of metal,
    the silk
    gaping toothless, smoldering mouths.




    measure me
    with the life-line of your open palm.

    how many times it fits between my mouth and my toe
    once your little finger escapes the death trap of my teeth
    and decides to wander.

    no, don’t stop at using the left,
    try also with the right
    to ascertain accuracies
    and tolerances
    and units, do you do it in inches or millimeters?
    mine or yours? the shivers, the sighs.

    no, not yet with your lips, first with your fingertips,
    of course more than life-lines
    especially when you do it with your pinky...
    oh, sorry, it still hurts? revenge? ok...
    oh... that’s not revenge, that’s emasculation...
    oooh... amends gladly accepted, always...
    oooooh... who’s is this thin voice, actually?...

    do you know that flesh heat expansion coefficient is bigger than metal?
    do I really need to prove it?
    no, I thought so.

    shall I now measure you?
    no, not in life-line units, in tongue-tip units. is it ok?
    first... over clothes.
    yes, after, under clothes.
    of course I promise to undress you in between,
    what kind of a man do you think I am,

    don’t care actually, I think I will start with your eyes. you prefer mouth?
    fine, I’m no body-parts racist, mouth it is.

    ummmmeoummiummm... thanks, baby,
    for a moment I thought I’m gonna lose my measuring tool.
    you know your teeth are squirrel sharp?
    Yes, I once was bitten by a squirrel, it was summer and...
    sorry, talking too much instead of measuring,
    where was I?

    (quiet. sorry, no onomatopoeia to describe it to its variations.
    of course not absolute quiet, the disturbing kind of quiet
    like a locomotive puffing out of station)

    (many hours later)

    undress you... now?

    (many more hours later, locomotive metamorphosed to jumbo jet, etc)

    yes, I admit, your skyline is much nicer than mine,
    sure, the hills,
    certainly, the v... v... (sorry for the stutter)... vava... valleys.
    thanks for the clap.

    (almost broke my spine. long kiss, that’s for healing the uncomely stutter)



    we clamped. we clumped, clasped, crammed, like octopusi suckers
    upon wet glass panels like nine inch nails
    inside rain soaked trunks like...
    how does one define which is the real pain -
    the one between teeth,
    the one underneath nails, the one in the crushing embrace of convulsing muscles?
    how does one define which is the real lust -
    the one between teeth,
    the one underneath nails, the one in the crushing embrace of convulsing muscles
    as we gulp other’s body’s outsides and other’s body’s insides
    and loins grow lianas
    welding their shudder inside a constrictor’s grip
    while around us bedposts buckle and window panes warp
    and bedding unthreads into primal cotton bolls and flax bast and silk cocoons
    enwrapping our quavering flesh with that primal glow
    of the first man kissing the first woman
    how does one define passion?
    when we fall into the sea
    and we reach bottom with last of sizzling pools evaporating around us
    and dead fish and withering algae salt lumps clutter the bottom of that newly born

    put your head against my nipple,
    then let me put mine against yours, followed by my mouth
    followed by my finger followed by your finger
    followed by your closing palm
    followed by my thrusting pelvis followed by your wrapping thighs
    until nothing is left
    bedposts window panes bolls bast cocoons
    dead fish
    withering algae
    salt lumps


    measure me
    with the thickness of hair
    covering your intimacy.
    let it caress me,
    if it takes a lifetime.
    a lifetime is the measure
    of as long as it takes.




    ...like marvelous, magnificent, magical, majestic, mind-boggling...
    yes, the last kind of pulled by the hair...
    that’s a French expression...
    what about melodious?
    yes, though kind of a different idea...
    what about mignonne?
    sounds like French too.
    it is. same like the meandrously deformed marvelous, magnificent...
    sure, malicious sounds like delicious but it’s not.
    comes from French too.
    what about mast... hey!... erful? oh!... hmm...
    I’d rather stick with mind-boggling, mere modern English.

    mythical, mysterious?
    are you trying to seduce me or melt me?
    would make it easier to undress you. masterpiece?
    this is a noun. am I a noun?
    a soft noun. like marigold, marguerite...
    these are flowers.
    you are flower.
    she smiled. finally.
    mischievously. yes, comes from French too. sounds like deliciously, too.

    her mouth moist, her mood mellow,
    her mellisonant murmur mangling my marrow to mud,
    my moth-eaten heart masquerading mighty marauding mastodon
    before metamorphosing minuscule maundering mouse
    when I decided to give up on my m’s, muttering (oops!) an inaudible...
    let’s make love?
    do I hear a question mark?
    it was high time for an exclamation. not mark.
    so I stopped talking and started doing.
    (my favorite)




    Swim with me through wine’s delusion,
    Let me guide your yearning’s paces
    When your heart concedes confusion
    as it sheds perfervid traces,

    Leave your clothing neatly folded,
    Let me be your passion’s monger
    As your breast is gently molded
    by my fingers’ wasting hunger,

    Be the virgin, hug the vision
    When you yield to my suasion
    And I make that first incision...
    see the butterfly invasion,

    See the rainbows’ raining color
    When your spine curves in submission
    And my howl’s your body’s sculler
    through a world in lasting fission...

    Quiet. Now, you count the flowers
    Sprouting round your blushing nipples
    As the fading lust devours,
    leaving ever lasting ripples.



walk on

    don’t walk on
    even if you can.

    walk on me,
    even if you can’t.
    i will help.
    send me your toes,
    don’t worry you didn’t cut your toenails,
    or filed them or polished them
    not even if you just tiptoed out of the shower
    and drops of soap mix with drops of water mix with drops of you
    and slide into the corner of my mouth
    as you step
    on me, over me,

    send me your ankles,
    before they move down to your toes
    and before they move up to my next destination
    and just as my fingers roll around them
    measuring circumference
    and elegance
    and distance to that other destination i mentioned and can’t forget,
    i will let you roll them on my teeth
    way of corncob
    and on my lips
    way of ice cream
    and on my tip of tongue
    way of honey fighting its knowing into my educated conscience
    and its promise into my primeval beast.

    send me your thighs.
    send me your thighs.
    send me the destination of your thighs
    from the vortex of the vee of your valley
    to the vertex of the vestibulum of your venus
    my eyes to enchant
    and my mouth to delight
    and my senses to obliterate as you slide and you ride and you glide
    smearing me with the leftovers of your satisfaction
    and after
    and during the unceremonious demand sinking fangs in my shoulder
    and claws in my spine
    and thin screams in my eardrums
    while i sink in you.

    don’t walk on water,
    you can.
    walk on me.
    you can.




    hey, look in the mirror, what do you see?

    no, you don’t have to undress before
    though, if I was the mirror, I would have preferred you... almost.
    almost dressed or almost undressed? depends.
    depends on what you did before.
    or what are you going to do after, and with whom...
    oh, cannot be both the mirror and the whom,
    difficult choice.
    you’re right, knew you to be as sharp as the shards of glass you hide behind lips
    and the shard of lust you hide between your verses,
    you’re right
    I could be one or the other, depends when and for what,
    now, why didn’t I think about it?
    maybe because I was too busy bandaging my wounds?
    sure, not yet those behind lips,
    yet already those between verses.
    verses unwritten yet, you say?
    what about already cutting?
    hey, I am the one who bleeds, thus the one to know.

    hey, look into my words, what do you see?

    yes, you better undress, at least during.
    or before. not after, since there will be nothing to undress after,
    at most some dregs, maybe some dressless buttons,
    maybe a torn strap still hanging to a white shoulder
    still hanging to a brassiere cup still hanging to one covered breast,
    how did I miss this one,
    was I so blind? how can you blame someone who looks straight into the sun?
    of course you can ask why it was with a telescope,
    you should be ready to a most idiotic answer.
    or romantic. or neither. or both. or none.
    or poetry,
    did you know that the border between great poetry and idiocy...
    ok, let’s call it insanity, sounds better though more irrevocable in its finality...
    did you know that the border between great poetry and insanity
    is inexistent?
    not that each of one is the other
    but rather that they cover up for each other.
    and when they try to cross those inexistent borders
    they suddenly discover the missing thorns and razor-wire and grapples
    and the blood mixes and the suns mix and humans succumb?
    hey, how did I get to abstracts when I want to talk lust?

    hey, look into your fantasies, what do you see?

    my wings? no, you wrote those there.
    your wings? no, I wrote those there.
    our sharing sweat and sharing blood and sharing bones?
    yes, this looks more like my fantasy.
    hey, I never excluded sharing fantasies with you, did I?



Parading Colors

    Which of them?

    The red red?
    Or the crimson red? Or the pink red, the scarlet red,
    the burgundy, vermilion, alizarin, ruby, amaranth,
    the Ferrari red, the Coca Cola red, the IBM...
    “...blue!...” sorry, carried away,
    the heart of the cherry, the petal of the poppy,
    the death of the sun,
    molten iron...
    “...Canada’s Red Serge, Garibaldi’s Camicie Rosse, Boston’s Red Sox...”
    you were not playing smart ass, you wanted to show knowledge of matter,
    your lips.

    Your lips, I repeated.
    Your lips, the upper, the lower, the inner, the tip of the tongue, the palate
    my teeth pulling
    my tongue, lips fishing
    for the morning’s leftovers
    for the moment’s delights
    you didn’t tell me you had cherries for breakfast...
    “...I didn’t...”
    you were a bad liar, I knew you didn’t lie,
    your nipples.

    Your nipples, I repeated.
    Your nipples. the left, the right, the left, the right, the areolas creasing
    my fingers teasing
    my palm’s heel crushing
    my palm’s heel bleeding, punctured
    you didn’t tell me there are nails in your brassiere...
    “...I wear none...”
    I opened my eyes, leaving the frenzy of Eden just to ascertain,
    your loins.

    Your loins, I repeated.
    Your loins, I repeated in third, pulling the knees sunrise and sunset
    and invading the crimson, the pink, the scarlet,
    the Ferrari, the poppy
    with lust hanging in shreds at the ends of lips, tongue, fingers
    and exploding in blinding fireworks shrapnel
    you didn’t tell me of the liquid fire coursing through your desire...
    “...I’m sorry...”
    which you were not, which we were not,
    your passion.

    Fulmination. Cracking sun. Genesis.
    The thousands of cats lying asleep under our skin burst out
    in a melee of razor claws and razor wires and razor teeth
    slicing our skin to long
    fringed ribbons
    that knot and snarl and tangle
    flesh cutting through
    penetrating through
    flesh, wounds, cavities,
    muscles sucking life from muscles
    mixing it with saliva and ambrosia and the milky white of tectonic plates
    sucking the life out of cracking timber
    while tongues thickly lined with stegosaurus spikes fight for the supremacy
    of widely open mouth caverns.

    The war is over. Armies slowly recede.
    Passion licks it wounds,
    dripping drops of life
    leaving behind it a trail of sparkling, boiling mud,
    never for a moment giving up its prey
    and pillage,
    your sighs follow, the shivers subdue.

    I found another red,
    the crown in the jewel, I say,
    keeping close contacts with my spoils of war
    my finger the softness of newborn plumage around your nipple.
    My finger reluctantly leaves the nipple
    and lifts up to your face
    touching your cheek.
    Red. Blush.




    Let reality in.

    Your mellifluous curves,
    the shapely handfuls of flesh
    their reality the perfect fit in my palm,
    milk in a spoon,
    a stiletto’s hot blade cutting through a breakfast’s melting lump of butter.

    Your breast, let it discover the novelty of an unbridled nipple
    forcing a decision to either grow inwards
    or sink into my palm
    and burst out the back of it,

    Your nates, let their perfect smoothness be marred
    by cupping my life-line in hunger
    and adopting its morphology in the perfect vacuum
    bordering skin to skin,

    Your heel, let it forget a life of trodden slavery to a haughty body
    as it bites its machined perfection
    in between my wrist and my thumb and countless other fingers
    begging for lust denied all of years.

    My ragged lines,
    the shapeless gathering of flesh knocking at your door
    their reality the submissive molding
    to whichever deformation fits

    Let your after tomorrow’s memory
    be tomorrow’s



The 37th Chapter

    or After... touch!...

    Dip your toe in the ice-cream jar.
    The right one. The big one.
    Now, the left one. Yes, also the big one. The toe, I mean.
    No, not the ice-cream jar, the jam jar. Not raspberries, black cherries. Good.
    Now stretch.

    Your right leg all the way west, west is a bit further, girl, a bit more... that’s good,
    this is west.
    The left one now... no, not east, I am not that cruel, is south ok?
    Fine, let’s try south-south-west?... great,

    What do you prefer, my thumbs or the tip of my tongue?
    Sorry, explanations after, not before...
    ok, my choice let it be. Thumbs.
    Which honey do you prefer – acacia, tupelo, linden...
    OK, clover it is,
    let me just make sure I do not overturn the jar as I settle between your thighs...
    I will try, I will try again, closer still?... close enough?...
    well, if you move that westward limb a few parts of an inch west-west-northwards...
    great, now ok? No, I will not touch you, yes, we are close,
    yes, later, no, not with anything yet but thumbs... touch!...
    feel me?

    This is my right thumb, gently rubbing the honey in that open fold
    lining the joint of left thigh to belly, up, and down, up, and down,
    this now is my left thumb sliding along your right joint,
    hey, are you cold, why do you shiver,
    shall I try to smoothen your curls?
    I know, it is worth trying no?... first rub the honey into the roots,
    then stretch the curls, one by one, fine – two by two, then again,
    yes, if I pull my right your left curls, softly softly
    and my left your right curls, softly softly
    there is a whiff of pink showing up, may I caress a bit of honey inside?...
    not so deep?... oh, deeper you mean?...
    my right thumb’s right facing fingerprints
    tracing your depth’s left wall’s right facing smoothness... my God,
    I get lost in all this left right mess
    do you think that these are honey beads hanging to the ends of my eyelids,
    not if I judge by salt content... do you think I am about to sweat?
    do you think I am pouring sweat already?
    So, that which will happen now,
    is that my democratic thumb emulates its republican brother,
    and I will save us all the embarrassment of going through the left right rigmarole, ok?
    Do you think that those exploding beads
    falling from ends of eyelids there, among the honey laden curls
    try to compete with my thumbs?
    Can I now pull one thumb out... which would you prefer?...
    please, pull your thighs a bit wider,
    yes, I identified it there at the top, proud, rigid, throbbing, may I now just... touch!...
    God, what was that wrathful sigh?

    Now I can start writing my poetry.
    Hand me please that sheet of paper, thank you,
    let me try to smoothen it upon the mound of sticky curls, like that,
    a bit uneven, let me try to smoothen it once more, like that,
    hand me please the pen now... why does your hand shiver, honey?
    what do you mean mine shivers more? oh, I see,
    I wonder why, I will try to start writing anyway... oops, girl,
    what is this wet spot middle of the paper?
    No, I don’t think it is honey, let me smell it...
    no, definitely not honey, rather mordacious for being honey,
    girl, was it something else you wanted all along, not poetry?

    So why didn’t you say so? Sure,
    this is the reason your toes dipped in ice-cream one and jam the other,
    you like ice-cream and jam, no? Especially black cherries jam, no?
    What shall I do with the sticky paper?
    Who cares? Sure, who cares, you are right.

    OK, girl, take hold of it between your toes,
    don’t worry it is sturdy enough, you cannot damage it,
    roll it between your toes, rub off all of your ice-cream – melted, so what? – and jam
    around it, on it, in it... yes, you can start pulling it
    I know you are hungry, pull, pull, wait a moment – just let me turn around,
    now, better, easier?
    Yes, I start feeling your lips, girl,
    do you mind if I give up my thumbs, favoring - just for this once
    the tip of my tongue,
    I am going to touch you, girl, to clean that little tip from honey
    and passion, and need... no, I will be as gentle as a fire flame,
    almost there... oh, girl, I feel your lips start drinking, teasing...
    soon my mouth will touch too, do you feel my breath?...
    soon I will not be able to tell anymore, girl,
    my mouth full my lips sealed my tongue glued
    and no one will know that above was the embodiment of prudish PG
    compared to the coming triplish Triple X...
    almost, girl, almost...



Waking Up

    Feeling like a rogue offender
    On his way to full surrender,
    I let skin to skin transgression
    Weave with fingers’ indiscretion
    last night’s splendor.

    Do you sleep, or seed the notion
    With that flesh devoid of motion
    Letting east’s ascending shimmer
    Feed me traces of your glimmer
    and emotion?

    Is there kinship in that mellow
    Beat beneath the breastly jello
    Where an early hours thunder
    Blessed me, when I set to plunder
    your sweet bellow?

    Smells of sun cut through defenses
    Fending off your weak pretenses,
    I try breathing through your nipple
    Yet your areola’s ripple
    robs my senses.

    Lazily, your smile starts dawning
    Moving on to shameless yawning
    Stretching tips of toes to fingers
    As my breath inside you lingers
    shivers spawning.

    First the grunt, the moaning follows,
    Pouring gasps fill morning’s hollows,
    Fingers dig inside my shoulders
    Cutting through my muscle boulders
    scaring swallows.

    Swift’s the death, all lewd and gory,
    Reaves the monster bed and quarry
    And as rage wanes to contentment
    I retreat with deep resentment
    from your glory.

    Oh, that smile of angel seeding
    From a lip that’s slightly bleeding,
    I retrieve my skin from ashes
    Begging for your kissing lashes,
    mercy pleading.




    I watch them closely
    fluffy, shapes never seen before
    so enticing that I start writing on them

    They will dissipate, I know,
    therefore I am writing on them memories of you
    which I don’t have,
    so appropriate
    no one will miss them but me. Not even you.

    They chase me,
    mirage? I wonder
    smiling back, I think they smiled first
    before dissipating.

    I have the concrete ready too.
    For the real



The Heart Of The Lilac

    Open your gates,
    call me,

    To the nuphars covered mire
    where wounded dragons dive to sate their burning thirst with fire,
    Where suns come to die
    and a king dragonfly
    trades his wings for one night with a queen butterfly,
    Where a razor as sharp
    as the thrill of a harp
    cuts thin, bleeding ribbons through heart and through eye.

    I visited the white lilac.
    I visited the wild lilac.
    I visited the warbled, wizened, withered lilac
    asking for the way to the fire lilac.
    It told me look for it in the open wounds of dragons,
    in the glowing coal of dying suns and slices of dragonfly wings,
    in the tattered ribbons of eyes.
    In the tattered ribbons of heart.

    Turn on the tap,
    let water
    glide between your breasts,
    call me,

    Let the savage horse herds
    hiding deep in your words
    under softness of feather and frailty of manner and trills trailing dreams of a lone nightingale
    storm through hay and through day and through fingers’ bouquet
    prevail and assail like beleaguering hail
    like a gale
    through my ley.

    Show me the way
    into the thorn, into the claw, into the fang,
    into the heart of the lilac.




    Your fire,

    Your blazing fingernail,
    where, how?

    The tip of your tongue
    running ahead of ruts
    cutting through the scaffolding of giving flesh
    blobs of boiling saliva rolling along the bleeding banks
    as deadly acid
    seeps into my heart and kicks it back to life,
    where, how, when?




    don’t open my fist,
    don’t tickle, sink it between your thighs
    cut with an axe,


    if you do
    the teeming, billions thick monarch nation will die
    never knowing why,

    i will, before i bleed to death,
    as the one caged kiss you placed on my palm dissipates into nothingness
    and there’s no reason to life
    to me
    or to monarchs.



the chosen

    there was always one, since birth of sun,
    not much after birth of time, much after mother of time’s
    and death.

    a creature of the wild, always, almost always
    for the span of a generation, for the span of some of many years
    or many of some
    or all but a few always, almost always. years.
    rarely, a season
    and the chosen a flower
    and even rarer a day.
    the chosen
    a butterfly.
    guileless, ignorant, pure of heart
    to pull the sun into the sky then to put it back to bed. unknowledgeable of its duty.
    master, over life and death. innocent.
    the chosen.
    rarest, if ever,


    you hit the alarm clock. you moan, you curse
    trying to find immediate variation on the f subject
    to address your job, your boss, your alarm clock,
    buzz again, snooze over, f again, then s, then you move to esperanto
    making yourself smile.

    you don’t know. no one knew before you,
    you don’t know.
    you will never, know.
    c’mon, woman, get your ass off bed, you have no choice,
    you have a job to do and you do not even know it.

    there is a sun. waiting.




    the wine
    gliding inside you,
    sliding down the wrong side of your chest
    instead of outside
    instead of down your chin and down your neck and between your breasts,
    not bathing in the acid of your stomach
    but crawling beneath your bra
    carefully circumventing your navel and making its way underneath the elastic band
    reaching between your thighs
    to bathe, drown, die
    in the bubbling acid of your womanhood,

    where i will find it
    after pulling off all and the rest of the soggy over and under and superfluous garments
    to suck you dry
    and turn you burning leaf
    middle of the desert
    middle of the sun
    middle of the chaos
    of deliverance.

    your oh!
    the summum of pleonasm.



Lust Demented

    Lying in bed,
    Thinking about your
    Thinking about purgatory
    and purgatorial flames enveloping me,
    the consummation of the act by the art
    penetration annihilation breath memories.
    Beauty. Yours. Body. Soul. Word

    I struggle
    inside my nakedness.
    I wobble wiggle warp,
    rigidity setting in together with images of a mouth opening
    thighs opening
    gaping maxillae sharing same space
    same tongue, same teeth, breath,
    gaping loins sharing same space
    same skin, friction, fluids, flames, fate.

    enveloping us both
    with its razor-wire cruelty
    forbidding anything
    but lust demented.




    belly muscles
    flaccid, flabby, floppy,
    a touch
    a whisper inside navel’s skin
    and belly muscles turn steel, sinew, stone,

    hidden inside muscular tongs
    crushing vertebrae into disjointed links with a hyena bite
    as ankles lock around waist
    and my two halves
    ask for the pity
    of dying inside that adytum
    of shivering poetry and thirsty quicksand,

    your hunger sated,
    my death confirmed,
    you allow me to suckle the rigidity of flesh
    amidst the ruggedness of corona and endlessness of breast.



between rhymes

    your little toe
    where shivers grow
    from whispers thin
    to tremors mean...

    I investigated it
    from head to... toe of toe,
    sounds funny doesn’t it?

    counted eccentric circles
    and concentric circles
    and open circles and scars and bits of peeling skin,
    lifting it closer to my eye to get a closer view, or so claiming
    and actually trying to get a better view
    there, where your skirt peeled higher
    and the thigh line met the cotton line met the thigh line
    and several tiny, rebellious curls evaded the cotton clasp
    unfurling lustful, spiraling ends out of the white shadow...
    was that a tiny, wet spot there
    spreading under my demanding regard
    and your ascending moans?

    I dared,
    stretched my index finger beyond your heel,
    beyond your knee,
    neared the spot, touched, pushed, tore, penetrated...
    rage or abandon
    as you tore me out of clothes
    and let the rest of me invade you
    plowing a blazing rut through your layers of cloth and flesh
    and the ceiling wrapped our struggle
    in a rain of stars and peeling plaster?

    a butterfly!
    a battle cry!
    the sunrise dies
    between your thighs.



wound in womb

    not deafening thunder decibels
    following lightning,

    neither lightning preceding thunder
    with its thousands if kilowatt fire-horses
    making love to the heart of the blazing oak,

    silence. preceding the gasp.
    gasp, following silence, preceding silence.
    silence following gasp.
    before i touch. during. after.
    then pull away wallowing in perfumes and nectars and poems
    of that eternal wound in the womb
    which, this once,
    housed my humanity.



like trotting elephants. like trotting snowflakes.

    heavy, loud, violent,
    like trotting elephants
    my lust poetry
    for you.
    like rut. like rave. like rage.
    none heavier
    than my desire.

    hushed, light, vulnerable,
    like trotting snowflakes
    my lust poetry
    for you.
    like wind. like waft. like whisper.
    lighter than my touch.

    which do I choose? which do you choose?

    because the words
    are all
    the same.



the source of life

    pull it down,
    the top line of your dress,
    pull it down beyond the mound of soft, white flesh
    that hosted the milk of life
    and the mound of hard, red fire
    that fed it,

    keep pulling, disregard snapping seams
    until you liberate the healed scar which adorns your belly
    and fed you your life,
    disregard my impatient howl
    and my impassionate rage,
    pull until the source of all life blinds the community of my senses
    and don’t give in to my demented demand
    until you reach mid thigh,
    and mid calf,
    and mid little toe and mid nothing
    and you are naked.

    and I will take your little toe
    in my mouth
    and suckle there the life
    of my poetry.




    Hand in hand?

    Letting the tree pass between us,
    or do we pass around it
    unclasping hands
    until it is gone
    and then we meet again
    the other side of it,
    what did we do with our hands?

    What did we do with the rest of our bodies
    as everything clasps with everything
    and trees keep shattering against that flesh boulder
    oblivious to anything but lust?

    We lie on our backs,
    your one hand modestly covering my modesty,
    your other hand modestly covering your eyes,
    my modesty does not carry as far as yours,
    I jump to my feet giving up on the pleasures of modesty coverage
    and start pulling dandelion heads
    blowing waves of lazy pappi upon your prostrated body,
    watching them hang to your scalp’s hair
    and eyebrows’ hair, and eyelashes,
    and nose hair and no, you shaved your armpits but they do hang to...

    I stop enumerating. Which does not stop me from watching further
    as they settle in imperfect v shape
    turning the shadow to milky, puffy snow
    calling, inviting, demanding.
    You worked so hard to cover my modesty,
    now you wish to uncover it?
    You formulate my thoughts into words,
    my desire into and awkwardly phrased invitation,
    I kneel, approach, blow... softly, oh, so softly...

    the snow
    the shadow
    the glint... oh, madness...
    I swoop
    my mouth assaults your modesty
    baring it, revealing it,
    climbing along a fluttering belly until mouth meets mouth
    and modesty meets modesty
    clasping, penetrating,
    clouds of pappi billowing all around us together with clouds of butterflies
    and apple-flower pollen
    in envy.
    And wonder.

    Hand in hand,
    the tree jumping above the hand clasp,
    your free hand dragging my clothes,
    my free hand clutching the bunch of pappi
    still carrying your intimate



Top Of The Food Chain

    Even your dog,
    if you had one,
    would have bitten me if he knew my thoughts of you.
    In envy.

    Even your parrot,
    if you had one,
    would have clawed my flesh away
    and stick a dangling piece on each of his talons
    for the world to see
    and beware,
    if he knew of my thoughts of you.
    In anticipation.

    The sun, you have three,
    one in the sky
    two in your eyes
    if he knew of my thoughts of you
    would have burned me from the inside out
    and then from the outside in
    leaving just a charred skeleton with a stone dangling from its neck
    an example to warn and to follow.
    In impotent, celestial rage.

    don’t. Why?

    I am human.
    So? Better?

    You locked the door from the inside,
    two turns, all three locks.
    Then let the keys drop out of your hand, out of the window, one by one,
    and before the first had time to somersault once on the asphalt
    all twenty three stores below
    you bit.

    Armageddon, the little grand-grand-grand-son
    of you.

    I was still alive, though feeling like food at the top of the food chain.
    Why didn’t you say?
    You wiped my body with your skin.
    You didn’t ask.




    Don’t fall in love with me
    I am not lover,
    I am sun.

    Ablaze in his own ferocious, pompous, self-imposed destructive inferno.

    Sunflowers, poppies, don’t follow me,
    don’t make love to me
    or you will die in the fire
    and I
    will not even know.




    you decided to wait for the knight in white armor,
    the one astride a white winged beast
    preferably a horse,
    horse hide color irrelevant.

    about to come knocking at knocking down your door,
    he comes, maybe, at most wearing a white t-shirt
    driving, maybe, a white Fiat Punto,
    maybe a Ford Focus, maybe not white, maybe with unmatching tires,
    maybe he won’t come
    at all.

    made of grains,
    you remember the one you did not grab
    dropping in front of you aching for you,
    you stepped over, around, beneath, beside
    looking for the knight, hoping at least for the t-shirt...
    gravitation mercilessly pulling the grain down,
    grains fall, shatter, dust rolls with the wind.

    You watch yourself in the mirror,
    the only white
    in your hair,
    and the hole in your heart the size of the Sahara.



Leonard Cohen

    I let the Leonard Cohen slide in,
    pushed the button to the relevant track
    and turned the volume to maximum,
    What did I expect,
    an Earth shattering experience, a miracle?

    The sounds started flowing.
    I waited a few more moments
    then started reducing the volume,
    until zero.
    The insolence of silence.
    Like the Waltz that never was.
    Like the end.