Hobbies - Poetry - Anonn
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    You have known man,
    You have born child,
    Yet shy.

    We touched once, almost,
    our stretched fingers feeling their way carefully
    inside a mesh of thorns and nettles
    inching slowly towards each other
    a breath an hour, a word a day... ouch!...
    You pricked your finger and pulled it hastily back
    gathering all of your limbs in your shell
    under a canopy of spikes and thistles
    and anemones and blossoming cherry trees and discarded down,
    the bleeding finger in your mouth
    writing stories about the kingdom of king Mighthavebeen.
    Time followed fashion and pulled back its hours, days,

    Hey there, fairy!

    I waited.
    Maybe the shell was empty,
    maybe you left.
    I knocked again,
    Hey there fairy, touch me?
    This time something stirred inside the opaque carapace
    and a thin feeler crawled out through a small fissure
    touching my face, then touching my ears, my eyes,
    finally touring several times around my mouth and inside it.
    It was only a thought, not a finger even.

    Hmm, feels like you, sounds like you...
    I heard the smacking sounds of your licking the end of the feeler.
    ...but it does not taste like you, does not smell like you.

    I stepped back, surprised, annoyed...
    no, not angry.
    How would you know?
    You never tasted, smelled me before.

    I did not like the pitch of my voice,
    suddenly shrill like an adolescent’s transiting into puberty.
    You laughed... thank God for a sense of humor.
    Wanna bet?

    I heard some bumps and thumps,
    then a few apples rolled out
    through a long crack which closed immediately.
    The odor was sharp, strange, a bit acrid.
    What’s this? I asked, a few old, rotten apples?
    They make the best of wine, you laughed back,
    and... there was nothing.
    Not even red shoes.
    Fairy!... I tried calling out.
    Just a few apples.
    Bitten by teeth, and worms, and words, and...
    I looked closer,
    tiny lines rolling, dancing, chanting.

    I picked up the apples and stuffed them in my pockets,
    my fingers tingling with strange sensations
    as the bleeding bite marks started seeping into my body.


    Was difficult carrying it in one hand
    and my suitcase in the other.
    Was even more difficult driving the car to the airport
    given that my car was a six positions manual stick-shift type.
    I got there though in one piece,
    starting, shifting gears, one emergency overtake and one cat safe,
    rolling down the manual window for the parking ticket...
    The toughest though was getting through passport control (easy),
    security (terrible), flight attendant (luckily she took pity on me),
    eating the rubber chicken only with a fork (my neighbor helped me),
    getting through customs (impossible).
    After deliberating with various officials for three hours
    calling a shrink to estimate my sanity
    and the local sanatoriums to ascertain none of their residents is missing
    and my embassy, ascertaining the same at my departure point,
    they let me in and even helped me to the cab stand.
    Some laughed. Some cried, I mean had tears in their eyes laughing.
    Some made signs with international meaning against their head.
    Did not matter, all was fine. I was finally on my way.
    You did not expect me.

    Hey there, fairy!

    You were uncombed, uncologned, unlipsticked... un... so many other un’s,
    brown slippers to your feet, a large run to your right stocking,
    your mouth taking its second bite into an apple,
    You watched me with a curious look,
    my one hand carrying it, the other hand carrying the suitcase,
    wasn’t clear if your examination ended appreciatively or devastatingly...
    you drooled the question out
    a piece of chewed apple jumping to my lower lip as you spoke
    ...oops... sorry...
    but before your finger reached out my tongue snatched the invader in,
    munching slowly, your embarrassed finger touching my lip.
    Hey there, fairy! I repeated,
    this time with no door panel between us
    and your head cocked to the left
    and your eyes squinted questioningly...
    Hmm, feels like you, sounds like you...

    Well, I always thought women could scream, till I heard you.
    Then I had to recalibrate my knowledge ten decibels higher.
    You screamed, dropping the apple and slamming the door in my face
    then opening it again... please, come in...
    and disappearing somewhere in the halls of female vanity
    somewhere... wherever, in the house.
    I pushed the door gently shut behind me,
    dropped the suitcase next to the door
    and sat down on the sofa, my back straight,
    my hand holding it right in front of me. Waiting. I did not move.

    I did not count time, time was irrelevant,
    I looked at the walls, the furniture, absorbed the unfamiliar smells,
    various sounds and unintelligible words penetrating from behind a closed door,
    a few bangs and yelps... took me so long to get here
    now I had all the time in the world.
    I think I waited for hours.

    Probably the same you emerged countless... maybe it was days?... later.
    As I was supposed to remember if I would have seen you before.
    As I imagined.
    Only this time there were black shiny shoes to your feet
    and golden threaded stockings ending somewhere unknown
    beyond the hem of the black dress which started a bit above your knee
    molding your forms like a lover’s glove into parts called hips
    and parts called waist and parts called breasts and finally shoulders
    acting as a white flesh clothes hanger
    hanging to the black cloth with two narrow black straps...
    did you choose the black to emphasize the white, I asked myself
    before letting my eyes settle on your face
    and dying there in ecstasy.

    You approached and sat next to me
    pulling modestly the dress towards your knees,
    the shine in your eyes inhuman...
    Is this for me?... you asked, pointing to it.
    It is for you, I tried to say, and failed, my hand holding it gone rigid by now,
    same as my facial muscles and my brain.
    May I take it? you asked further, approaching your hand and your body.
    That’s what I came here for, I failed saying again,
    afraid to open my fingers till you picked it gently from my hand
    and neared it to your face.
    And you want to tell me that you flew all the way from there to here
    holding an uncovered glass of wine full to the brim in your hand
    and you passed through passport control and security checks
    and flight attendants and an airplane dinner and customs officers
    still holding on to it and not spilling one drop?

    Yes, I failed saying a third time, and did not try again.

    You neared it to your nose,
    and I saw the fragrance ascending into your nostrils
    and clouding your eyes,
    then I could not see the clouds anymore as your eyelids descended
    and you took a long sip.
    Yes, it tastes like my apples... and before I could protest, you added,
    ...yes, it tastes like you, it smells like you.
    You sipped again, savoring, your tongue licking the glass’ rim.
    Am I your lover? you asked.
    You are my fairy, I finally found my cords
    and the sound of ripping cloth invaded my ears like hailstones
    as your wings uncurled on your back fluttering victoriously
    and the black dress fell to your feet
    and your white blinded me.
    Love me, you said,
    and I did not know if it was a question, or a request, or a command.

    I watched you turn the glass upside down
    and as the wine started pouring
    our cheeks touched, facing upwards
    the wine filling our mouths till there was no more mouth left,
    and no more wine.
    You caught the last drop on your closed lips
    and turned your face offering it to me.
    I decided to take the offer.

    The walls around us turned crystal,
    tiny cracks running through them
    in a nightmare of spiders carrying countless web threads
    spreading in all directions
    waiting for our mouths to touch... they touched...
    the wine mouthfuls blending to a toxic mixture of morning scented liqueur
    and as we started gulping the insides of each other’s mouth
    the crystal exploded in billions of stars
    settling into the endless canopy stretching above us,
    underneath us,
    on our skin,

    Where are we? I asked, catching my breath for a second.
    In the kingdom, you answered,
    burning my clothes with a touch of your wing
    and turning them to... wings?

    Love me, you repeated,
    and this time the command in your voice was unmistakable.


    It was my first flight, ever,
    my first love making beneath the stars
    and so close to them.
    Your laughter twinkled as I tried my wings
    and missed one or two turns chasing you and bumping into a star’s corner
    or crashed into an angry goose which started chasing me around you
    clinging to my right foot’s big toe.
    But within one sunset I was as good as you, within two I was better,
    within three I was ready to make love.
    Let’s make love, I begged, panting.
    Here, among the stars? you asked.
    Here, among reflections of your teardrops, I answered
    and embraced you with arms, with wings,
    caring not for falling... we were so high...

    You lifted your arms above your head, ballerina style,
    and started gyrating around an imaginary axis spiked through your body,
    my left hand’s fingers tracing a four lined thread on your skin
    starting at your wrists, and as you gyrated higher and higher
    my trace advanced downwards on your arms
    leaving a trail of conquering goosebumps at every touch point...
    goosebumps, involuntarily I snatched a glance around for that bellicose goose...
    reaching your elbows, lower towards your armpits,
    the first goosebumps inside your armpits and a shrill giggle...
    hey, it’s tickling... but you did not stop your gyration,
    rising further till my little finger started fluctuating
    having reached the beginning of your breasts,
    then the other fingers joined the vacillation,
    stronger, the amplitude growing, hill, valley, hill,
    the little finger invading the sacred areolae realm,
    pebbles bursting to the surface underneath the invader's dare,
    one more rotation... the little finger touched... mounted the nipple
    I heard the gasp, saw the shudder,
    your teeth so white against an almost severed lower lip,
    your vertical movement reaching almost a halt
    when my ring finger reached the nipple
    one finger above and one beneath, left breast, right breast, left breast...
    pale scarlet invading your cheeks from the middle towards the edges
    your breath suddenly rugged, uneven, your gyration stopping for a moment
    allowing me to cup the nipple between my fingers and squeeze gently,
    I knew you wanted to scream
    the tendons of your neck stretching like a hunter’s bow
    yet you preferred to keep it for later as, suddenly, you resumed your ascent
    my fingers now underneath your breasts,
    your rotation faster, your ascent faster,
    the skin above my fingers the coarseness of rough sand
    the skin underneath my fingers the smoothness of newborn petals,
    the hips, the navel, the belly squirming, growling,
    my fingers approaching that moment of fulmination
    the meeting point of all of your body’s sensations
    the soft wetness...
    touch... penetration... exit... touch... penetration... exit...
    oh, you screamed, oh, you screamed inside my head, inside my body
    inside the universe as it tumbled into chaos
    thunderbolts racing between your shrieking wing tips
    when you invaded my flesh with your presence
    lacerating my shoulder muscles with your desperate hold
    your mouth welding its burning perimeter against mine
    our exploding lungs acting and breathing as one
    our bodies rushing for celestial recognition
    your insides roaring in titanic satisfaction
    as the tsunami shivering its way from my ankles up
    finally exploded its devastating fury into your flesh
    and we burned our comet between the raining stars...
    raging, raging...

    Close your eyes, you murmured,
    repairing the damage to my wings with the poison of chewed laurel leaves,
    then covering my body with fine, warm sand
    and lying above me humming sad, wordless lullabies.
    And after the fantasy is over? you asked after the second conflagration.
    The fantasy is never over, I answered after the third one.
    Why? you insisted.
    There was no more sand in the universe
    so you covered me with the diamond dust you gathered for three nights running
    and now starting to melt between us, gluing our chests’ skin.
    Because it is reality, I answered, knowing.
    And when you leave?
    I pulled your head up, not allowing you to breathe for long minutes.
    You did not mind, you breathed through your skin.
    You close your eyes and I am back.

    We slept for three nights and days.
    Then I left.


    There was a letter attached to the box,
    I paid the postal dues and opened the letter.

    My Lover,

    Before you came I had kingdom,
    now I learned love.
    I have to choose,

    Your Lover.

    I opened the box.
    There were three apples inside,
    and a glass.




    The traces of a bleeding lip upon the pillow’s crease,
    The lipstick smears inside my shirt, a lover’s sweet caprice,
    A scented letter on the desk beneath a poems book,
    The dripping towels painting gloom on bathroom’s lonesome hook.

    I wrote my rhyme with fingers’ tips beneath your bouncing breast
    Then sealed the script with blazing lips against your vague protest,
    And once your mouth its arrant lust unleashed upon my skin
    I crushed your wants and drowned your sighs in honey clothed sin.

    When dawn has drawn its timid glow upon your naked spine,
    I gleaned your sweat with laurel leaves and mixed it with my wine,
    Then wiped you dry with panting breath and whispered in your palm
    The secret ways of poems raw, my love’s emerging psalm.

    I knew, when day once more turns night and larks through meadows hide
    Inside my room, inside my bed, inside my arms you glide,
    And while you feed me apple peel and teach me of your tongue
    I weave inside your brittle wings all words of songs unsung.




    Shroud my want with your want,
    the softness, the warmth, the gliding soppy texture
    shying in the depths of your embarrassed privation
    so delicate to the touch.

    Soak my want inside your want,
    the lotus turning sarracenia
    grinding muscles milking my body’s last moments of agony
    before that inevitable one moment of death.

    Sate my want through your want,
    when I alleviate my crave for salt licking your sweat
    and paradise is the time you let me share your womb’s luxuriant doors
    and their secret nepenthe.




    Inside a narrow tube,
    Only one way to crawl,
    Knowing of the tyranny of loneliness waiting at the outer side
    heel raised in wait for quashing a permanent curfew
    on my life.

    After the sun has set
    Before the moon has risen
    Under the darkness of starless skies
    clothed in the impenetrable morosity of clouds
    Eyes closed... where did it come from... the light?

    A thin wand touched my eyelashes,
    I did not have to open them
    to see fragile fingers coming my way
    touching first my brow
    then my elbow
    then sliding between my own outstretched fingers
    and offering me... togetherness.

    The wand turning apple,
    You took the first bite
    and I followed
    savoring the taste of your teeth carving symbols in my future.
    The tyranny vanquished by a lost fairy
    now cuddling inside my rekindled



That One, Once

    Close your eyes,
    as you did so many times
    before knowing me.
    Close your eyes,
    knowing me.
    Do you remember
    the moments to come?

    Arms brushing, lips brushing, knees brushing...

    Hesitation, shyness,
    the strange unknown alluring,
    temptation shrieking
    in your eyes, questioning.
    The blush, real.
    Turning urge
    at tips of fingers
    finally clenching.

    Shirts unbuttoning, shoes dropping, cottons tearing...

    Palm to palm,
    toes touching
    naked lights naked bodies
    navels near impatiently
    crisp bed sheets
    crease to old faces
    till whispers turn sighs
    and bodies contort
    like wet towels.

    Muscles burning, skins stretching, lungs choking...

    Open your eyes
    till you close them
    after knowing me.
    Open your eyes
    not knowing me.
    You will remember
    the moments to pass.




    “Hey, you missed one piece,” I said,
    handing you a crumb of glass I misplaced somehow.
    You did not complain,
    after all, mending hearts was your art.
    You took it in your mouth,
    rolling it around with your tongue,
    from time to time unlatching your lips
    to let an impish flare escape your furnace,
    then, when it was the thickness of honey
    you bent over my chest and let it drool out
    filling that cavity you were wondering about earlier on.

    Your décolletage was large,
    my pain immense,
    yet I could not refrain from admiring
    the roundness of your hanging breasts.
    “You are ogling my breasts,” you laughed,
    your tongue filing with small movements that last spot you repaired.
    “Are you sure you are in pain?” you asked further,
    knowing of my hell.
    “Yes, I am,” I answered,
    wincing as you started stitching my chest back.
    You were not very gentle.
    “Why did you hide that last piece?” you kept interrogating,
    knowing of my hell.
    “Because I wanted to die,” I did not lie.

    You knotted the wire several times around a rib,
    pushed the end up and nipped it with your teeth.
    For a moment your mouth was close to my chest
    the hot blast burning my hair and blistering my skin.
    “Ouch,” I did not complain.
    “For a grown up, you ‘do not’ a lot of things,”
    and you got up, ready to leave.
    “Please, stay,” I did not ask.
    I begged,
    the chameleon in your eyes playing its hues like a colors fountain
    in green, brown, blue, gold, silver...
    “You have funny eyes,” I commented unnecessarily,
    “what is their real color?”
    “What do you choose it to be?”
    “Can I choose?”
    “Can I choose you to stay?”

    You dropped your coat on the back of the chair...
    “...move a little...” you pushed me with your knee
    and I shifted my body on the bed, letting you stretch next to me.
    “I am a heart mender,” you said.
    “Is it a profession?”
    “It is an art.”
    “How many hearts do you mend at one time?”

    You pulled out your breast and guided my mouth to the nipple.
    It was hot, yet bearable.
    I started gulping rivers of life.
    “Why did you want to leave?” I asked,
    my mouth spilling the simmering liquid all over your chest.
    “Because you did not ask me to stay,” you answered
    wiping my mouth with one finger.
    “I did.”
    “I stayed.”

    You scooted downwards till your eyes were level with mine
    and offered me your furnace.
    “For how long?” I asked.
    “For as long as it takes your heart to mend.”
    “It may take a long forever.”
    “Forevers are long per definition,” you smiled,
    still wiping.
    You were right,
    was I getting senile or drunk?
    “Both,” you laughed out loud
    and I smothered the laughter in an instant
    taking your mouth hostage in mine
    and drinking all that hell pouring from your body.
    Funny, it tasted like bleeding... tangerines.




    Like you’ve never been touched before.
    I was not.

    But you bore child, and you knew man
    And fingers round your ankles ran
    And in that endless stretch of life before the birth of us
    Two thousand suns ten times have died in ocean’s torpid pus
    And lust began.

    Did sand turn mud inside your hourglass?
    It did, I waited.

    The lust I see behind your eyes
    The rampant crave between your thighs
    I’ll pluck the sparrow in its flight and seed it in your soul
    Then sink my hand between the suns and steal a handful coal
    To light your sighs.

    I will teach you time, I will teach you love.
    Please, do.

    The skin against your beat of heart
    I’ll paint with mouth’s forgotten art
    And when your dress from shoulders falls to brush against my shoe
    The blushing scarlet paints your toes invading with its hue
    The miles apart.

    Like you’ve never been touched before.
    Like now...

    We’ll count the broken blades of grass
    And drops of dew to gold and brass
    And while I melt inside your skin ablaze with crawling death
    I hear the wail of wounded larks inside your singing breath
    And eons pass.



The Poison Of Life

    In a field of fresh blood poppies
    I was an old snow butterfly,
    a warrior,
    fiercely protecting my realm against those savage intruders
    searching for the poison of life.

    I looked around,
    scanning the horizon
    then halting for a moment,
    that irregular white stain there... could it be?...
    intruder!... I shrieked,
    curled my antennae into balls
    gathered my wings into arrowheads
    and attacked it like a mad gone sandfly
    landing for one moment on the lone surviving poppy
    mid of the white desert
    ready for the kill...

    the poppy sighed...

    ...and fragrances of my childhood’s forest embraced me
    with a caress of lilac, and jasmine, and blossoming apple tree orchards,
    and white lily fields, and wild red-rose bushes...
    my antennae uncurling
    my wings fluttered once and I fainted
    falling into the humid darkness of that poppy’s heart.

    I woke up in the warm cradle of ten fingers,
    the giant’s face gazing down at me,
    I suddenly remembered the horror stories of my adolescence
    about the giants called humans
    and their fingers ending in pins
    and that poppy on their face called mouth.
    I cringed, ready to fight to death
    as the giant bent her head towards me...
    oh... those inebriating fragrances breezing out of her mouth...
    and while her little finger was touching the nearest poppy petal
    her lips... touched my wings.

    I gasped, seeing the boiling red absorb into her finger
    flow into her shoulder, neck, mouth,
    and then
    through her breeze
    soak into my wings...

    the poison of life... a kiss?

    I streaked into the clouds
    the blood red of my wings forcing the sun to blink
    then zoomed back down
    blazing a trail through that endless field of white poppies.
    So the legend was true, I thought,
    drunken with the knowledge
    as I chased the woman giant
    clinging to her hair
    and dying there.




    The chocolate
    melts slowly in my mouth
    I look at it carefully... it’s your finger.
    Where have you been lover, just a few moments ago? you ask.
    I try another finger, it starts melting too,
    at this rate there will soon not be much left of you
    just a lump of chocolate melting in my mouth.

    Do you know that mouth rhymes with south? you ask, offering me a third finger.
    And with drouth.
    Drouth is so archaic.
    Drouth is so beautiful.
    Drouth cannot be beautiful.
    It can, when it is strewn with you-flavored chocolate sticks.

    You look a moment downwards, I guess towards my naked belly,
    then explode with laughter.
    What is so funny? I pout angrily,
    not angry enough to forgo a fourth finger.
    If you don’t know it by now you never will,
    and you wiggle tighter into me.
    Women have a logic of their own, I know,
    so I do not pursue this line of questioning.
    Care to go for my nipples? you whisper in my ear.
    Nipples? You mean those pinky lumps at the end of your apples?
    Yes, them.
    Do they also taste like chocolate?
    I don’t know, but they melt.
    You tell me what they taste like.

    Women have a logic of their own, I told you already.
    It was worth a try,
    after all, what was I risking?

    Hey, lover, wake up.
    I refuse to leave the land,
    cherries hanging just at the level of my mouth,
    and peeled pineapples... hey, that is a miracle...
    and grapes the size of apples and apples the size of breasts...
    I open my eyes, still suckling,
    my eyes heavy with sleep.
    You run a finger upwards on my cheek, it feels like a new toothbrush...
    You should get a shave, you are prickly.
    I shaved one hour ago.
    You slept for three days.
    I am almost tempted to jump up in indignation
    and call you a liar... oh, no, I think,
    you are trying to trick me,
    I will not give up my prey so easily... and I clamp harder on the nipple.
    Lover, I have to pee... hard...
    Mmm... I moan.
    I didn’t pee for three days...
    Mmm... I moan, trying to say liar.
    Of course, if you want to make love first...
    Mmm... I moan, not trying to say anything
    just keeping my prize in my mouth
    and rolling with you endlessly on the crushed lawns of Eden.

    I give up reluctantly,
    licking my lips and looking at it greedily.
    See, you wail, it is all red and raw and swollen and hurting.
    I kiss it.
    See, you smile, it doesn’t hurt anymore,
    and you sprint to the bathroom.
    I hear the sigh of relief
    as the sound of the stream leaving your body hits the water.
    So, you cry above the noise, does it taste like chocolate?
    I have no answer for you,
    how could I tell you about trees growing peeled pineapples?

    I leave the house
    still wondering about that laughter,
    what in blazes could be so funny about a melting chocolate stick?
    Then I open the note you squeezed into my hand before leaving.
    You might be a great lover, lover,
    but in your heart you are as innocent as a newborn.

    Now, that is an insult!
    I kiss your signed name,
    fold it carefully and stick it in my pocket.
    I smile all the way into life.



Another Definition

    this ration
    of passion

    when I sink my fingers inside your ribcage
    looking for the heart
    and you squirm, knowing of lust flowing in,

    this mire
    of desire

    when your lungs capture my fingers
    avoiding the wasted effort of having to look for them
    all the way into your mouth,

    this chasm
    of spasm

    when the milk flowing in our bodies
    finds its dying nest
    in the other’s moment of oblivion.



Negating Entropy

    dip the end of my pen
    in your passion
    for the while of your residing in my universe.

    Or my spit word
    will turn glowing marble
    rolling up your mountain into a swelling ball of fire
    sucking you in
    like a butterfly
    engorged by the sun.




    My fingers,
    linger upon your naked form
    immodestly tracing places otherwise modestly forbidden.

    You pull the bed sheet to your chin,
    not to prevent me from touching
    but to capture against your skin
    all the sensations flowing out of your body.




    The essence of love

    Sweat, saliva, the broken steam of ruptured breath
    and the sticky mire of exploding lust.

    Crush it all in a bottle
    with desires of you
    and don’t bury me
    in the North Pole
    or the only continent left over
    will be the tip of the Everest.



Black Beauty

    I saw her approaching
    as black as the night
    as beautiful as a painting still hiding inside the tip of the brush
    then swiftly passing by
    leaving behind a trail of perfumed molecules
    tinting the air around me with evaporating shadows.

    I was lost in visions of starry nights and black pastels...
    “...hi,” I heard a voice
    and I raised my head to a face not as beautiful
    to a perfume not as penetrating
    “...hi,” I answered
    and then you smiled.

    It was all you had to do to blur the world and turn off the lights
    and cut open my heart.
    “Your heart, it is cut open,” you said
    laying your palm on my chest
    and your lips inside my mouth.

    We rushed out of the airport,
    black beauty no more than just another hurrying passenger
    receding with the throng behind,
    the hand holding mine
    now my entire universe.




    Your tongue
    my sacred possession,
    whipping into my skin the ruts of your passion,
    singing my ears with tuneless desires
    as it digs between my teeth for lost crumbs of sanity.

    You grind pieces of apple and tangerine and grape seed
    until the syrupy mush ferments into sparkle
    and your mouth turns decanter
    when you lean over me
    and your tongue drips thick ambrosia pearls
    straight down my throat.



Apple Wine

    I did not know about
    the fire.

    I knew about the beauty
    the light
    like passing through landscapes
    then carrying remote memories

    But I did not know about
    the fire.


    I entered the room,
    the tapestry on the walls talking to me with an air of familiarity,
    I neared my eyes to read... my words,
    copied with neat feminine calligraphy
    rows and rows and rows and oceans,
    how many miles did the tip of your pen travel
    copying my poems to your life?
    “How many miles did the tip of your pen travel
    copying my poems to your life?”

    Of course you did not answer,
    you did not know.
    “Many more than the miles which brought you
    to my house.”

    You locked the door,
    turned around and handed me the key.
    “Just in case the fire is too much for you...”
    was there a smile, a grin,
    a condescending tone
    as you pushed me away from you, gently,
    and sat on a chair?
    “Undress, please.”

    I have seen the world, I have met women,
    I was a grown up.
    The blood suddenly surged into my face
    drowning my eyes, I choked,
    the moment of my re-discovered timidity unbearable,
    was there innocence in my barely audible
    “Because I want to discover you.”
    I looked at the walls surrounding us,
    so much of me... all of me there.
    “You have discovered me already,”
    I think I said.
    “Yes, your mind.
    Today I hunger for your body.

    There was no command there,
    just desire, raw, primeval, beautiful,
    as pure as the first Hydrogen atom...
    funny metaphor... the thought flashed through my mind
    as I started opening my shirt,
    tiny flashes of lightning crossing sporadically the gap between your lips,
    the distance between the ends of your fingers, the thin hairs of your eyelashes,
    the sharp odor of ozone reaching my nostrils almost knocking me down.

    I fingered the key dropped in my pocket,
    snapped it,
    and dropped the shirt to the floor.
    I wanted to know the fire.

    I watched you,
    You moved your index finger to the top button of your blouse,
    exploding it,
    the next down,
    another explosion,
    when all were done you shook your shoulders
    and the blouse floated next to mine,
    my eyes riveted to the transparent white of your brassiere...
    with a sharp move I removed my singlet
    the hair on my chest sparking with static.
    You stood up and neared me,
    guided my finger to the strap hugging your shoulder
    and it melted at my touch
    the blob of incandescent matter rolling down and searing my finger
    and as I pulled my hand back in agony
    I watched it cutting a wide slice in the lace
    uncovering a burning nipple
    then rolling on till all you had to do was shake your shoulders again
    and your lace landed on top of the discarded clothes pile.
    Was I going to die?
    I did not care, maybe I wished to.
    I kicked my shoes away, then tore out of the rest of my clothing
    watching you do the same
    and with a savage lupine snarl we attacked each other’s mouth
    going for the hidden sun...
    finding it,
    the fire.

    We rolled on the walls,
    the tapestry’s ink boiling away at our touch
    branding its poems beneath our skin,
    infusing itself into our blood,
    scorching the inner walls of our veins and strangling our hearts.

    fire, fire, fire, fire,
    oh, the growl of crude desire
    binding knots in raging rivers
    while atop Olympus shivers
    godfolk’s ire.

    raving, raving, raving, raving,
    mighty oaks to slivers shaving
    when horizon’s wheel is turning
    in its ageless forests burning
    our craving.

    quiet, quiet, quiet, quiet,
    whipping flares of sunset striate
    in the flesh wide welts of passion
    and when rage has gulped its ration
    dies the riot.

    I found you on the bed,
    lying on your back, dirty with the mud of lovemaking,
    a frayed silken band covering your eyes
    the rest of you naked,
    so majestic the view.
    I neared my face to your thighs,
    the tip of my tongue desecrating the sanctity of your wet insides
    then gliding further up, never losing contact,
    till the smothering dark warmth of shadowed temptation
    changed to the blinding whiteness of your belly’s borderless desert.
    “You taste like cider,”
    I ventured, licking my lips in the ecstasy of after.
    “It is because of the apples,”
    you answered,
    plucking an apple from your hair and biting into it.
    “Do you want to taste my wine as well?”
    you continued, munching.
    “Didn’t I already?”
    I wondered aloud.
    “You tasted my fire, your palate in blisters, your tongue in shreds.
    I offer you my balsam now.”
    You took another bite, chewing noisily,
    sticky rivers descending the corners of your mouth
    in appetizing affront.
    “Your rosé?”
    I asked.
    “My blushful pink,”
    you answered, dragging my head to your chest
    and forcing a hard nipple into my mouth letting alcoholic mists
    invade my clarity of reason and insistence of will.
    “Your red?”
    I asked.
    “My burgundy dark,”
    you answered, dragging my mouth to your lips
    and forcing me to lick the drooling liquor descending to your chin
    sinking the anchors of inebriation’s mirage inside my body.
    “Your white?”
    I asked.
    “My pale honey,”
    you answered, letting the ribbon part with your eyes
    and waiting for me to see.
    I almost bolted away
    scared, benumbed with the sight of that bountiful apples orchard
    garnering the corners of your eyes and dripping relentlessly
    into the linen underneath.
    “Your tears...” I finally found my voice at the bottom of my throat,
    “...your tears they are... apple shaped...” I gasped.
    “My tears, they are the apples of white wine,” you smiled happily
    rolling me on my back with you atop of me,
    the overflowing caverns of your eyes now flowing freely into my mouth.
    I gulped, and gulped, and gulped...
    “Is this the garden of Eden?”
    I asked.
    “This is the anteroom of hell,”
    you answered.
    “Hell is bad,”
    I objected.
    “Hell is what you make it to be.
    You tasted it just now, was it bad?”
    you answered.
    “Are you an angel?”
    I asked.
    “I am a lover,”
    you answered.
    “Are you human?”
    “I am woman.”
    “I want to make love, again...”
    I begged, remembering earlier acquired visions of suns and comets
    and streaking galaxies.

    I don’t remember waking up,
    I guess I didn’t want to.


    Finally I learned about
    My only wish now is
    to burn.




    two kids in a cookies shop
    my body readying itself for your reaching fingers and insatiable appetite
    your body readying itself for mine
    in a world blessed with the absence of adults
    kids, sharing the sweetness
    of life.

    “I refuse to grow old”, I declared
    allowing you to count my wrinkles
    and my grey hairs
    and my winters left,
    my lips sticky with the cotton candy of your breast.
    “How young are you?” you asked
    knowing of the futility of contradiction,
    opening the curls of your honey jar and offering it to me.
    I licked it clean
    and smacked my lips appreciatively,
    “Younger than my thirst
    and my need
    and my autumn colors.”
    “A suckling?” you winked
    allowing me the benefit of doubt and answer.
    “Eternally hungry,” I agreed
    voraciously attacking every sugary lump decorating your body.
    “Careful, you may get holes in your teeth,” you laughed ticklishly.
    “Who needs teeth when one has two tongues...”
    I answered philosophically.
    “Yes, one is mine...”

    You laughed again, this time in appreciation,
    and it was your turn to bite off chunks of my sugar
    sucking it in noisily,
    then biting again, and again,
    your tongue dripping pools of that softening poison
    recycling pieces of my body through the fathoms of pleasure.
    “Careful, you may get holes in your teeth,” I teased back.
    “Who needs teeth in hell?”
    you answered philosophically.
    “Yes, our shared...”

    And the smell of burning sugar invaded our universe
    as the flames consuming our skin drank in greedily beads of sweat
    and creaking bone joints
    and that syrup forever flowing between our mouths.




    peeling off your timidity,
    the red layer, invisible,
    impenetrable... till you allowed me.
    then your shyness,
    the finest of steels, the powerful white of innocence
    giving in to... my promise of passion.
    I peeled your clothes,
    a variegated display of blues and greens and scarlets and yellows
    and with the last snapping button... you opened your lips.
    all which was left was your skin.

    I dared not peel your skin,
    knowing of the lambent desires of flesh,
    scared to die an atrocious death
    of fire.
    you took my fingernail
    and forced that long cut above your breast
    allowing me to see
    your need.
    I accepted the fatality of inevitability
    and as flames leaped the inexistent distance between our mouths
    the pain started receding
    into beauty.
    all which was left was blindness.
    gazing open eyed into the sun.

    your heart opened like the inner sanctum of a flower
    telling me of layers still to be discovered,
    an unknown you emerged
    from the lake of hidden
    I fell into your soft insides
    knowing of the finality
    of my dare.
    the layers started closing pitilessly around me.
    thankful, I started sobbing my ecstasy.




    I trace your feet indents in the sand,
    your small imprint hugged inside mine
    and sea water seeps between the two
    binding them with its promise of salt.

    You halt a few steps away, pensive,
    then drop a few broken shells behind you
    watching my skin split around ridges
    as it follows unwaveringly the promise of blood.

    We stop, you kneel licking my wounded soles
    salt and blood and sand grinding between your teeth
    then honor me with that unique reaving kiss
    telling of the inevitability of a promise of love.



World's End

    I was willing to go to the world’s end
    to meet the woman
    hiding inside you.

    I did not know
    you were willing to find the world’s end
    in order to keep away from it.

    I found you waiting across the street
    your robe’s hem laden with summer’s petals
    asking me if I preferred you here or at the world’s end.

    I refused to answer the answer you knew
    knowing it to be wherever you lay down those petals
    and we make love.




    started counting your toes,
    I stopped when I reached one hundred and seventy
    out of breath.

    why did you stop? you complained
    wiggling your big toe,

    may I move on to your nipples? I asked, shyly.
    I thought you’d never ask, you answered, blushing.

    I kissed the left one first,
    then the right one,
    then the left again...
    I did not tire at one hundred and seventy
    and actually stopped counting soon after.
    I guess I will never tire.


    look at them, swollen, you complained three days later
    and as I wanted to pull away to point at my swollen lips
    you dragged my head back down
    completely uninterested in my pain
    and begged
    please, don’t stop now...




    my open palm
    on your navel
    hesitating which way to wander
    up the hills or down the swamps
    or roll you over like a boulder
    and trek long that unexplored canyon
    starting at the bottom of your spine
    and ending at the top of your thighs...

    you take my index finger into your mouth
    followed by the rest of my fingers, tasting,
    then hang your weight on the nape of my neck
    pulling my ear down to tell into it
    why not everywhere?

    I scare... everywhere?
    and risk being pierced by those archers roaming your forests
    with their long knives and saber teeth and fearsome howls?

    you take my index finger into your mouth again
    and I know there are fates worse than those archers
    and I sink into you
    to die.

    which side of heaven is this? I ask
    waking up next to a smile.
    the side worth dying for, you answer
    guiding my palm again up the hills and down the swamps
    and long that unexplored canyon.




    Roll the petals
    around your fingers,
    yes... all of them,
    no... doesn’t matter the flower
    if wild, if red, if fragrant.

    Roll them
    not to break or crease or tear...
    my toes too?
    your toes too.
    and now?
    now raise your palms up to the light
    stretch your toes and open your eyes wide...
    red fireflies? and green? and blue? and...

    A river of buzzing beasts sprung forward from between the rolled petals
    covering your eyes in glitter
    then your skin
    then the fields, the oceans, the skies...
    what is this?
    yet you never once lowered your palms and blinked close your eyes
    the wonder freezing your moment of ecstasy
    the color undefined
    the beauty...
    the beauty?...
    the beauty
    pouring from the warmth of you
    and the petals?
    an illusion
    to make you believe in

    you never once lowered your palms and blinked close your eyes
    savoring the reality
    beyond the illusion.



Fantasies... Really?

    She stopped a shirt’s thickness away
    her cheeks a cherries orchard
    her lips a poem unrhymed
    her breath a dolphin’s love whistle...
    My heavy suitcases thumped to the floor
    crushing her toes... she did not feel... she simply gazed into me
    and refused to blink.
    Not even once.

    I sunk my hands desperately into my pockets
    rummaging through the mess for a present worthy of the occasion
    where the hell could I find it,
    could I find it?
    I pulled them out and two swallows took off
    chasing each other under the airport’s tall roof
    chirping and pooping all over the shiny marble floor,
    no, I could do better than that,
    next it was two frogs that jumped down
    turning into naked princes, well, one was a princess,
    then they ran away trying to catch the next available flight to their kingdom,
    no, I was not looking for princes or princesses
    and no better luck next time I tried to pull a present out
    my hands coming out dripping thick honey
    vainly trying to rub it off against my trousers...

    What are you looking for? she finally asked,
    her lips smiling, her eyes smiling, her hairs smiling
    as they fluttered and coiled and waved like a forest of Medusa snakes
    yet I did not turn to stone, not the way my heart was beating.
    I am trying to find those days you did not know me
    and crush them underneath my foot,
    I blabbered, blushing tomato red.

    She raised her hands to her sides,
    the transparent veils hanging from her arms down to the floor
    pulsating with blue veins and white snowflakes,
    then she gathered me in, body, clothes, suitcases and all,
    and we floated out of the terminal.
    Nobody seemed to think it weird,
    passengers rushing around us, through us,
    What kind of a miracle is this? I asked her,
    filling my lungs with the smell of her skin and her sweat.
    You wanted to give me an impossible present,
    I am giving you an impossible love,
    she answered,
    opening the door into the tree and closing it behind us,
    burying me into her flesh.

    How can I describe a love
    which even a poet cannot?




    I let my small finger touch the side of your neck
    then slide down between your breasts
    before placing the flat of my hand
    on your chest bone

    Lianas circled my fingers
    sinking hollow thorns inside my blood stream
    to bind the breath of our awaking deserts into a Stygian promise.

    I tore my hand away
    knowing that sand may forever flow my veins
    if I stop feeding your hungry dunes my exsiccating boulders of sun.

    as beautiful
    can grow only
    beneath desert’s
    scorched countenance.

    I fed you sun drops
    and fire flowers blossomed
    covering the insides of your chest
    and the flesh of your breasts sang the hymns
    calling upon the sailors of my mouth to die on their shores.




    lace your toes
    with my toes
    your fingers
    with my fingers
    raise your face and lace your lips, your eyes, your eyelashes
    with mine.

    my ribs?
    your ribs, breasts, loins, thighs, and knees...
    my words?


    after... spent the rest of the night unlacing veins and bones and skin strips
    and tangled flesh and knotted muscles and jammed tendons
    our two bodies feeling like several armies of twigs
    broken to splinters and thrown together in a snarl of limbs
    and joints and contumacious grapples.

    took some dressing
    and make-up and powdering
    to hide all the blue and black and red stains.
    hard, so hard doing it all
    with lips
    still laced.




    Bite my fist
    as it presses against your mouth
    Don’t let your sound
    with strangers
    Just sink it to my bone
    and I will listen to it in my sleep
    As my joints creak
    and my fingers search in vain for your teeth.




    Come closer to me,
    much closer
    till the distance between our lips is only an outer layer of epidermis,
    one layer only, shared by both of us
    the Siamese glue sewing our mouths
    all around.

    Now breathe into me
    and let me exhale back into you
    as I breathe into you
    and you exhale back into me...
    how long can we repeat it before asphyxiating
    while still clinging tenuously to that single layer of epidermis
    making our flesh one?

    Hey, you are cheating... let go of...
    you want me to gasp and break the bond
    then I will take hold of... true,
    now you have to gasp
    so let’s change innocent gasps to ribald screams
    mouths riveted
    bodies invaded
    the glue spilling over ligating the broiled expanse of skin
    which, for moments few,
    remembers only the mordant smell
    of lovemaking.

    We are still alive... you complain
    breathing heavily in and out of me,
    the one layer of epidermis still intact.
    Of course, I answer
    Lovers live on... wine.

    Your argument melting
    inside another mouthful of liqueur
    you harvest in my mouth.



Nail Polish

    I’ll paint your big toenail pink.
    Both of them.
    Pink, like the shell’s canopy guarding the infant pearl,
    Like your dreams, when you touch me,
    Like the moment of abandon once your carnal desires
    open your body
    and you swim in that liqueur of lust
    you never knew.

    I’ll paint your small toenail red.
    Both of them.
    The red of the
    match head lighting the
    fire underneath the
    pot brimming with the
    ash of petals turning into the
    incense liberating the last hesitating passages of your mind.

    I won’t paint any of your other toenails.
    And my fingernails?
    To remind me of the innocence of
    Before knowing




    my body your mattress
    my belly your pillow.

    as you toss and turn and wrestle
    with the intoxicating smells of your bedding
    and your nightgown pulls up beyond your waist line
    while your small fists wrinkle my skin as your lips search for
    that lust scented




    the white crumpled bed sheet over our heads
    protecting our vulnerable bodies
    from thieves and murderers and high way robbers...

    high way robbers in our bed?...
    even your eternal credulity was stretched one mile too far
    by my runaway mouth
    and I was about to lose the other high way,
    the one into Eden,
    as you raised your head from that latest feat of womanly torture
    your index finger just probing the depth of my navel
    and finding it too shallow.

    previous to that you examined the thickness of my tongue
    using your mouth as an uncalibrated yet mostly accurate gauge
    or so I maintained supporting chivalrously your efforts,
    then the height of my nipples working hard at catching one
    between thumb and middle finger
    as it kept slipping away when you tried to pull
    even though it was hard enough to crack a nut on,
    now you were busy torturing my navel
    the last intermediate station before...

    and then I had to open my big mouth.

    I waited to see if your finger will go for another depth test
    but as it poised over, unmoving,
    mid way between highest and lowest
    I knew I had to do something drastic or that night’s sex was gone to hell.
    they have stolen the depth... I tried desperately.
    yeah, when? you asked incredulously.
    when the sheet was not over our heads, that’s why I dragged it there.
    you smirked
    letting your finger descend again
    and push hard against my flesh several times
    then, seemingly satisfied, pulled it away
    and your hand started its blessed final descent.

    ouf, that was close, I felt like sighing in relief
    yet too afraid to utter a sound and break your concentration
    as you cupped your fingers for a final measure.

    I couldn’t care less for the sound of approaching hooves
    now turning thunder as a dozen galloping horses passed above our heads
    the white sheet never giving in to probing swords
    just as my body was entering its last metamorphosis phase
    from original jelly into temporary rigidity and then back into final jelly.

    I thought you were making fun of me, you moaned into my unshaven face
    refusing to part with that part of my body you just grafted in.
    never in the face of danger, I answered
    allowing you to decipher it any way you wished
    while busily recollecting that descent into hell which ended up in Eden.

    yeap, the immeasurable magic of love...




    You dipped your lips in the glass of wine,
    did not drink
    just dipped.
    Then you raised your face to me
    letting the excess trickle down your chin
    and stain your white blouse.
    I found it hard to swallow my own sip.

    “You should better remove your blouse,”
    I partly choked partly croaked.
    “Why don’t you help me with it,
    my hands are busy right now?” you answered
    one hand pulling open my belt and sliding in
    the other grabbing the nape of my neck
    and forcing my mouth against yours.

    I licked your chin clean
    before allowing my tongue penetrate your chapel
    a muscled snake coiling and uncoiling around it
    as the ivory trap tried to bite pieces of my flesh.
    “The wine, it tastes differently in your mouth
    than in my glass,” I wondered.
    “Of course,” you admitted,
    “I spice it with my bitter years of wait.”

    You opened the doors to your secret cellar
    granting me any bottle I desired,
    watching me play God
    as I turned every sip back into sun sated grapes
    feeding these straight into your mouth.




    To write my songs inside your lips
    With famished teeth and frantic snips
    Then watch the crimson tiny spurts
    Till passion’s crave your chest deserts.

    Your wish of lust to dress in silk
    Your arms to soak in soothing milk
    And while your flesh invades my mouth
    To sink a sun down wailing south.

    Inside your eye to drop a star
    Beneath your breast to carve a scar
    Upon a bed of midnight dew
    To hear the sigh... I love you too.




    Why did you fall in love with me?


    Innocence? At my age?
    At my knowledge of fright and war?
    At my knowledge of death of love and death of child and death of freedom?

    Yes, innocence.
    At your blush of mind
    and your dare of want
    and your love of leaf
    and your color of word.

    Innocence... does it hurt?

    No, only when you lose it.

    Will I lose it?

    Flashes pass through my mind,
    seeing the war, the death, the blush...

    No, you cannot ever lose it.
    Others live
    You live




    I opened the row of pearly buttons,
    pulled your right hand out of the sleeve
    half of the cotton shirt falling off
    uncovering one cream hued shoulder,
    pulled down the narrow strap and the silk cup attached to it
    uncovering a small breast
    untouched yet by sun.

    Uncover all of me, you pleaded.
    I could not,
    transfixed by that one and single moment of eternity
    wishing I was Leonardo
    to rend this beauty



The Moment Before

    My palms,
    gliding upwards along your legs
    from toes
    my thumbs on the inside
    encountering from time to time the bristle of imperfectly shaved hairs
    scratching my skin.

    You lift your skirt
    and drop it in the back of my head
    accepting me inside the twilight
    as you advance slightly
    and my face goes to sleep on the softness of white cotton
    sodden with your humidity
    and feeding me the primitive pleasure
    of the moment





    I find myself deep in thought,
    a tip of pen in my mouth oozes bitter tasting blue stains
    I do not even pay attention,
    are you

    I look at the long list of adjectives I listed on the paper in front of me
    those I learned in previous lessons,
    all of them ending with an exclamation mark –
    soft! warm! curious! cheeky! daring! shy! passionate!... the list long,
    two full sides of an A4 sheet filled with small writing
    yet I never wrote there beautiful.
    How can I know?

    I read the list again,
    stopping at each exclamation mark, smiling, pondering, remembering,
    finally deciding.
    I know so much, I don’t need knowledge to know for sure,
    I take the pen out of my mouth
    carefully wipe the gelatinous excess of ink on the front of my shirt
    and add to the list...




    she got into the train,
    I saw her enter a compartment
    the window covered with a thick curtain of condensing vapors
    mindlessly memorizing the passage of an earlier generation of passengers
    now dispersing off the quay to their insignificant life-and-death assignments,
    or save-the-world meetings, or dynasty-shattering loves,
    so insignificant compared to her parting.

    she sat close to the window, looking straight ahead
    at the empty chair facing her.
    I laid my fingers against the fuzzy shape marking her face
    as the train started pulling out,
    her head turned around and the stain of her lips pushed into the glass
    against the ends of my fingers
    and as the train slothfully accelerated my fingers started sliding back
    her mouth sliding with them
    leaving a dripping wide trace inside the condensation
    till my fingers moved from glass to wood
    from wood to iron
    trying to halt the train
    grabbing one last desperate time a brass handhold flying by,
    metal splinters filling my flesh
    with a promise to never forget.




    I don’t wish to be born again,
    go through primary school
    first love
    what for?

    I don’t wish to go back in time to all those starting points
    I tried so many times
    so many of them
    so many ending points too
    and pain.

    This is my starting point
    there was none before
    I am being conceived
    sleeping innocent and naïve in the chrysalid shell of a love
    still unknowing of the colors of its wings
    and mine.
    Will it be blue, red, gold?
    Will it sing?
    Can a butterfly sing?
    I think this one... can.





    inside your clenched fist i conceal my dream
    at the end of your eyelash i hang my smile
    between your teeth i lay my poetry fingers
    please, do not shake your mane and explode in laughter
    to lose my dream and my smile and my poetry fingers
    in derision.

    this is my life and i have none other
    if you wish the stain of dreams to paint your fingertips morning
    and the shiver of smile to curl your eyelashes sunwards
    and poetry crumbs to explode between your teeth lost elysian music
    please, attemper the iniquitous beast devouring my insides
    with the sharp edge of rent dreams and smiles and poetry
    in abuse.

    you are
    to do
    is smile your poetry into my dream
    and morning
    and sun
    and elysian music
    yours are.



That One Word

    I saw the red between the lines,
    the red of lipstick, of lips,
    the romantic wantonness cutting slices of sky
    and throwing them my way,
    a thick finger dipped in the paint of your awakening heart
    tagging messages upon the impenetrable walls of my brain’s fortress
    and screaming for attention.

    I saw, I looked the other way.

    The walls crumbled,
    and the messages washed away uncared for
    and the only flowers left
    the blue of the wild hyssop
    pushing in between the mud ridden cracks.

    You pulled my carcass from underneath the rubble
    and fed me your warmth,
    and your breast,
    and the red insides of your mouth...
    live!... you said...
    and I gasped, I breathed, I blinked,
    I got to my knees.

    Your hand waited,
    sliding around my chest
    and with teeth biting into lips
    your knees started unbending dragging mine next to yours,
    I wobbled...
    here, lean on me, lover... you said
    and nothing at that moment could have sounded more emboldening
    than that one word,



Moment, Intimate

    don’t dress... don’t,
    no, not even your underwear.

    if you insist
    just keep your straps to your shoulders
    and the elastic band to your waist
    and the lashes to your eyes
    and nothing else.

    I will guide you to the chill of linen
    and lay you down the middle of it
    decorating the blinding white into the floriated ivory of your skin
    then after peeling the straps off your shoulders
    and the elastic band off your waist
    I will tie your limbs to the shiny brass of the bed’s posts
    and make love to your precatory self
    permeated by those most melodious
    of sighs.



Little Red Riding Hood

    Why are your big round eyes sparking
    like a sea filled with exploding fireworks, lover?
    In order to blind you into seeing beyond my imperfections
    and accept my warmth as your eternal requital,

    she answered.

    And why does your voice so melodiously sound
    with dozens of sirens taking turns
    at breathing through Pan’s long lost flute, lover?
    In order to beguile your curly head
    into crashing against the white rock-hard cliffs of my chest
    and never breathe the air of freedom again,

    she answered.
    But I am not curly, I objected.
    Neither are my breasts rock-hard, she answered.
    Oh, I pondered for a moment,
    trying to find traces of mockery in her words and finding none.

    And why are your teeth saber sharp
    those ivory rows dangerously poised against my flesh
    nibbling pieces off my ears
    and leaving thin scarlet traces all over my ribcage, lover?
    In order to enrapture your ravaged senses
    till they allow me cut a deep trench between your ribs
    and after I pull out that thick chain tying your heart to a memory
    bite right through it,

    she answered.
    And how will you dispose of it? my dullard self asked.
    I will melt it to dust with the potion dripping from my lips, she answered.
    Will I melt too? I insisted, frightened.
    Yes, you will, she admitted.

    She blinded me,
    she beguiled me,
    she enraptured me,
    and after I melted to the thick of honey
    she rolled herself inside my amorphous flesh
    and allowed me to make love to her most hidden secrets.

    So the story does not end as sadly as they say, she remarked, more to herself.
    No, it does not end, I answered cryptically.
    And how can we make it end? she asked further, you are the writer.
    Only you can make it end.
    By ending the final sentence with an exclamation mark.

    I thought she would take days to do it.
    She didn’t take even seconds.
    I love you!



Signing Session

    I let you write your name on the back of my hand,
    your ink violet,
    your writing small and neat,
    then you repeated the same on my palm.

    I pulled up my sleeve
    offering you my bicep as well, flexing it,
    trying to impress you
    while you wrote your name
    and drew a flower,
    just underneath it.

    There was nothing impressive about my ankle,
    luckily I changed socks this morning
    as I had to pull one off
    and you dipped the pen in your mouth...
    why did you have to dip the pen in the mouth?
    ...and wrote your name several times
    chaining your letters to a snakelike bracelet
    mounting from my ankle till under my knee.
    You don’t go higher? I asked.
    For that you’ll have to pull down your trousers.
    I see nothing wrong with that, I answered.
    I do.

    Next I offered you my index finger,
    the inside of my shirt’s breast pocket,
    you blushed when I pulled out my shirt
    and offered you the pale spot underneath my navel.
    But you did not refuse,
    wrote a long dedication dragging downwards almost endlessly
    yet not endlessly enough,
    then kissed it.
    You kissed it,
    I couldn’t even see it, frustrated in my curiosity.
    What did you write there? I finally asked.
    A love poem.
    So why did you stop?
    There was no more place.
    There is plenty of space, I protested.
    Naughty, naughty, you laughed,
    putting every piece of clothing back in place
    pulling my belt firmly tight
    and capping your pen.
    I was disappointed.
    Is the session over? I asked.

    You went to the mirror,
    picked the lipstick from your purse
    and smeared a thick layer on your lips.
    The session just begins, you said,
    kissing the back of my hand
    and covering with oily red every spot of ink.
    Then you kissed my palm.
    I had to take off my shoe again and my sock again
    as you started coloring that snake wiggling its way up from my ankle.
    A red snake? I wondered aloud.
    Soon I stopped wondering at all
    when I found out there was more place on my body
    that could be covered with signatures
    than you previously indicated.
    In my indignation I wanted to call you a cheat and a liar
    but then I found I couldn’t speak at all.

    I guess my indignation will have to wait
    until it sounds more coherent than a sequence of moans.




    I started chiseling pieces of stars
    to pave a road
    to you.

    Poor stars, you lamented,
    from the kingdom of gods
    to the toil of boots.

    Lucky stars, I answered,
    from the kingdom of night
    to the touch of your bare toes,

    and I lay down next to them.



Stars, Two

    What are stars? you asked.
    Glorious clothes hangers to gods’ underwear, I answered.
    This sounds blasphemous, you complained.
    To the gods?
    To the stars.

    OK, I conceded, let’s try again.
    Stars are the fireflies of the universe,
    the grace in a swan’s majestic beauty,
    the passion squeezing earth’s entrails into a huge ball of fire.
    I like this better.
    I know.

    You snuggled into me,
    you were still unsatisfied.
    What is the difference?
    Between your first definition and the second.

    I pushed you gently away
    covering you up to the neck...
    Why did you do that?
    So that I can concentrate.
    Now you can?
    Can what?
    It was obvious I could not,
    I knew the answer yet I wanted to say it in the most untrite way.
    I said it.

    The first
        are in the skies,
    The second
        in your eyes.

    You giggled.
    This is the most trite thing a guy could say to a girl.
    I know.
    And the most beautiful.
    I know.
    We knew.

    The giggle turned to a smile
    as the white sheet deserted your skin in one fluid movement.
    Love works in mysterious ways.




    Cut two slices of freshly baked rye bread
    layer them generously with yellow butter
    then place on top a thick slice of goat cheese
    with a few slices of tomato, cucumber, some olive oil, salt,
    make it all into one sandwich
    and take a huge, ravenous bite
    remembering the two weeks you were stuck on that lost island
    with the only edible thing around
    one single coconut tree
    and no coconuts.

    my first bite into your lips.



Sarracenia Purpurea

    I touched you
    with no more than a regard,
    maybe you heard my breath too?

    What did I do more?

    When suddenly the stem turned bone dressing flesh
    the grey turned red and blue and rainbow
    and the quiet said I love you.

    You opened your coat
    and your shirt
    and your skin
    the petals huge my hunger immense
    and I stepped into your heart
    enveloped inside the folding skin
    and folding shirt
    and folding coat
    to melt against your curving spine.

    you were a world unknown.
    Why did you open to me? I asked.
    Are you going to devour me? I asked.
    You showed me your colored marbles collection,
    your dry scars and fresh cuts
    and the ladder you started building
    reaching for the sun
    and never getting there.
    Can you build a ladder to the sun? you asked.
    No, but I can get the sun down to you, I answered,
    and you let me go.

    I refused to leave,
    my hands busy tying cord ends
    and smooth branches
    and kite tails into the ladder.
    You said the sun will come down to me, you said.
    It will still need a ladder to do that, I answered,
    weaving the ingredients in.
    You are a strange man, you said.
    You are a strange flower, I answered.
    Because I don’t devour you? you asked.
    Because you love me, I answered
    adding another rung to the ladder.

    You stayed bone dressing flesh
    and red and blue and rainbow
    and you said I love you.




    let you
    write the introduction
    to my life’s story.

    Will you be there
    to write
    the epilogue?

    Your life
    started long ago
    I am now writing
    the middle of the middle chapter.

    Do you believe in reincarnation?
    Do you believe in resurrection?
    Do you believe in rebirth?
    Do you believe in love?

    I lived,
    I never died,
    therefore this was not life.
    A life
    only if it ends.

    Will you be there
    to write
    the epilogue?

    And if I answered ‘No’?
    To the question ‘Do you believe in love?’.
    You could not
    because then I would not have existed
    and this poem would not have been written
    and I would not have asked the question
    to which you would have answered ‘No’.
    Sounds complex to me.
    Yet accurate.

    Will you be there
    to write
    the epilogue?

    And then
    this will be writing
    the introduction
    to your life?


    She went to the last page,
    scribbled on the top of it ‘Epilogue’
    then returned to the page she was just writing
    scribbling on.
    Now you know.
    You tricked me.
    I love you.




    When the moment of blinding glare is over,
    And I call in my horses back from the stampede
    frothing, fretting, foaming,
    some lost forever
    and guide them back to their enclosure
    promising to groom and feed them the coming sunset,
    And the sun falls back into its hole in the sky,
    and the river crawls back to its bed
    as my wasted shape crawls down from your sweaty and smelly body,

    And I regard with the eyes of dispassion
    the distended skin of giving birth,
    and the nipples sunk into flattened breasts,
    the bluish veins and the wrinkles and the obstinate hair spots
    staining your body as age hangs on like a leech
    feeding on your flesh
    and feeding it back its waste,
    the peeling varnish of a broken nail
    the knotted hair
    my nostrils assailed by acrid smells of before
    the amenities of civilized soap and water and perfumes
    mask your reality,
    And suddenly I gag and gasp and catch myself having forgotten to breathe
    for one full minute
    and suck the air noisily in thinking to myself
    oh, my God, so beautiful,

    Is when I know
    that I love you.



Beauty, Two

    When you yawn in front of me
    and do not cover your mouth,
    When you blow your nose noisily
    and give me the hanky to dispose of,
    When you gulp a mouthful of beer
    and cannot control the following burp
    and you look at me askance
    not to apologize but to tell me that the beer is good
    and that you just remembered you forgot to tell me you love me,

    When you take my hand
    and kiss my life line
    then offer me yours and refuse to pull it away from my mouth,
    When you stand up and the chair longs for you
    and the fork bends in sorrow
    and the male guests look at me rather than you
    cursing me in their mind with envy,

    When you are beautiful.
    All the time.




    I started climbing up the falling raindrops,
    fast, trying to reach higher before lower
    my feet a blur of movement and muscle
    and sweat washing down with the drops I missed,
    gaining over the treetops
    over the high flying swallows,
    sometimes stepping into the void
    then hanging on to a falling string of transparent pearls
    and catching my step again,
    I reached the cloud and pierced it with my finger
    reached the blue and pierced it with my finger
    reached the window and before piercing it
    your hand reached down
    and pulled me to your side
    closing the window to the world.

    How did you know where to find me?
    I couldn’t answer right away,
    had to catch my breath, to gulp some wine,
    took some time...
    I followed the raindrops.
    Nobody can follow the raindrops...
    I just proved you wrong.
    Nobody can follow the raindrops... but a poet.
    Am I a poet?
    You followed the raindrops.

    You accepted my head at your bosom
    and my hands around your waist
    and carried me inside the moon.
    Is this your house?
    One of the many.
    What are the other?

    You touched my mouth,
    and you touched my forehead,
    and you touched my finger and you touched my knee and you touched my eye,
    and you touched my palm
    and you touched my chest
    and you touched...
    and you touched...




    the gutter had a hole in it,
    the water flowing into a small puddle just underneath
    long after the rain had thundered away
    and three quarters of sun started peeking our way.

    an almost invisible curtain of spray dressed the splashing point
    the murmur of the thin stream almost inaudible
    the puddle hesitating between drying out and growing larger
    before I saw it.

    hesitating, wavering like a drunken sailor of light
    a needle thin rainbow shyly peeked up from the puddle
    reflecting its twin above
    and reaching hungrily for the sun calling... father...

    I lay down on my belly next to it
    caring not for my expensive suit and silk tie
    my head supported by palms relying on elbows to support them
    while soaking the thin mud and freezing cold water.

    a few butterflies... butterflies in winter?... appeared out of nowhere –
    swallowtails and elfins and coppers
    chasing each other and the colors and the sun drops
    as the sun’s youngest son painted fluorescent spots upon their tails.

    I felt, rather then heard, the thin wail of despair
    as a whiff of wind desecrated the serenity of the sky
    pushing the grey of cloud to cover for a moment the warmth of sun
    and the sun’s rage tore it down to rags... too late.

    sun’s son was dead forever, the colors drowned in the mud of the puddle
    the butterflies gone there where butterflies go once rainbows die
    and I fell asleep, crying for so much innocence of color lost.
    I woke up next morning, stiff, wet, frozen, refusing to move.

    I felt sun tears wetting my cheeks
    as he picked up the humidity from my clothes, looking there for his youngest,
    then telling me not to worry and not to cry
    as he will bury him with the summer and with the apples and with the butterflies.



Shoe Cream

    I dipped my finger in the black waxy paste
    and smeared it on the leather
    rubbing it in gently.
    Then touched the tip of your nose
    and kept on smearing the shoe.

    You dipped your finger in it as well
    and touched the front of my shirt...
    “Hey, why did you do that?
    Now I will have to take it off,”
    and I started unbuttoning it.

    You looked at me askance
    and touched the front of your own shirt.
    “Hey, look what I’ve done,
    Now I will have to take it off,”
    and you started unbuttoning it.

    I felt vengeful, raging, I smeared your skirt
    You cleaned your finger on my pants
    I made a circle around the tip of your bra
    and as you touched my shorts
    I hooked my blackened finger in the white lace hugging your waist.

    There was not much left to do after that.
    We made love.




    I have seen the red of ore
    escaping the furnace prison through overflowing red gullies
    and sputtering like an invading army of mad cats,
    The red of lipstick on the red of lips
    triple laid and four times bitten
    drops of blood staining its texture
    Poppies, then poppies petals, then poppies petals crush
    with a red heart of cherry
    under a sprinkle of red sunset drops,

    I have seen red,
    pale, so ridiculously pale...

    Your cheeks, you blush,
    where did you steal this deep of red
    beyond the molten ore and the stain of blood
    and the poppy crush with its cherry heart?

    You blush, even deeper...

    From not knowing of man
    before my knowing of you.

    My eyes, hurting...

    Yet lovers you had
    and lust you have known...

    The fire rising inside your eyes, slowly...

    From not knowing of man
    before my knowing of you.

    The air, crackling with insistence...

    And life you have lived
    and child you have born.

    The corona, blinding...

    From not knowing of man
    before my knowing of you.

    I blushed.
    You blush.

    From not knowing of woman
    before my knowing of you.




    Before I seal this midnight’s glass
    And blobs of time in grains amass
    I watch you turn, the blanket falls
    Deserting temple’s pallid walls,
    Oh, sleeping lass.

    The golden pile begins to rise
    Another moment proudly dies,
    You dream of ribbons in your braids
    A rolling blush your cheek pervades,
    Your pain belies.

    I know that crawling fire beast
    About to burn the trusting east,
    And in my terrible chagrin
    I do not dare to touch your skin
    And rape your feast.

    A few more specks of floating dust
    The shadows die in rising rust,
    You stretch inside your fading dream
    A tear invades the morning’s gleam
    Since wake you must.

    The rasping sound of dying sand,
    The cheek inside my crying hand,
    The lips about to rip apart
    The whispers that inside my heart
    Your promise brand.



On Your Back

    When you look up
    what do you see?

    I see the wheat spikes hanging low,
    The shadow of a passing crow,
    A thinning cloud above your ear,
    Beneath your nose a lipstick smear,
    A brazen, cheeky buccaneer.

    When you close your eyes
    what do you see?

    A field asleep beyond my time,
    A mouth awash with biting lime,
    A pair of shoes forgotten back
    Inside that lone and windy shack,
    A lad about to get a whack.

    When you love me
    what do you see?

    The hidden eyes of lady moon,
    The northern star ablaze at noon,
    My wishes woven into tulle,
    Between my arms a hungry ghoul,
    An ending rhyme... I love you, fool.




    put your palm forward
    towards me
    till it touches mine
    heel to heel, finger to finger,
    let fingerprints cross and cut and penetrate through each other
    leaving indents of you in me.

    listen to muscles heaving
    joints cracking
    before fingers slide between fingers
    and palms clasp twining like mauling maxillae
    when helium cracks into hydrogen
    and a world is recreated in the hell born between our bones.

    let go of my flesh
    as our bodies finally dissever
    and smoldering remains of skin and tissue float to the linen
    burning large rugged holes through the mattress,
    through the wood, through the world.
    then, let my palm kiss your mouth
    and fall asleep beneath your ribs.




    Let me lie
    beneath you.
    above me.

    Your toe
    passing across my eyes, my mouth,
    followed by your ankle,
    your knee, thigh...
    I will... hmm... skip some details invading my sight and smell and taste
    till your breasts reach whatever’s left of my senses
    and your nipple stops somewhere between my eyes and lips
    and the last dregs of sanity escape my lungs with one long exhaled breath.

    You are not cruel, just teasing,
    waiting till the blue in my face beats the Grotta Azura waters
    then pitifully let your body slide further
    until the nipple falls into my mouth
    and I inhale it in
    with the rest of my life.

    By the time my skin is ravaged beyond recognition
    your mouth has reached mine,
    as has your chest, your knee, your toe,
    and the imperfect symmetry
    of our bodies
    is challenged
    only by the perfect adhesion
    of our forms.




    She pointed to the plastic bottle of water...
    “Do you think that would be sufficient?”
    “Sufficient for what?”
    “For getting you drunk?”
    I always appreciated her sense of humor
    so I started laughing.
    Then I saw she was not. Not joking, not laughing.
    My laughter died in an embarrassed clank of teeth
    biting pieces of inner cheek.
    Something in the choreography of this laughter was wrong.

    She undressed unceremoniously
    not even trying to seduce me,
    removing overwear, underwear, betweenwear,
    partly unbuttoning, partly ripping, completely indifferent
    and finally lay down on the bed
    the bottle held high in the air gurgling noisily all over her body,
    drenching the mattress, the bedding, the skin, the skin, the skin...
    “Dry me,” she whispered, taking the last sip into her mouth
    and letting it trickle down along her cheek
    for me to lick away.
    The crumpled plastic crashed to the floor. The room was hot.
    I shivered with unexplained fever
    reclining over her glinting form
    looking for something,
    and once I found her eyes
    I knew
    this is where the rest of my life starts...

    It was so easy drinking the little puddles sitting above closed lashes,
    tasting like her eyes’ color, warm like desert’s sand at midday,
    all those lies and superstitions about salt and tears ridiculed...
    I whispered dry one eyelash hair after the other,
    then the eyebrows one eyebrow hair after the other,
    I patiently separated her scalp’s hair in one hair thick strands
    and ran them each between my lips listening to the various whistles,
    and shrieks, and vowels, and consonants...
    “Not drunk yet,” I bragged, disconcerted by the non evaporating liquid
    yet believing in her eternal insanity and my eternal love
    and moving on with my travail.

    Took me the best part of the rest of the month to finish the rest of her head
    with only small pee interruptions (even though a poet, I am human after all)
    and a laborious session around her lips, her lips, her lips...
    damn, second time I am stuttering in this poem...
    then I worked on her neck and its environs for a few days,
    I was glad when I got to those cockeyed rosy mounds aligning her chest
    with cocky pride and coquettish lust and cocksure rearing
    that trapped the inferno underneath and I still could do my assigned job
    because by that time a certain dizziness started clouding my concentration,
    once almost falling into the toilet bowl...
    Was I... after all?...

    My mind was not set on the navel,
    just one slurp and one blow...
    it was the next step which worried me,

    Since when does still water smell and taste like woman?
    I opened her thighs and plunged in.

    How long did I swim in that clear pool,
    chilly at the surface, boiling hot at the bottom,
    my only source of air the torrential pleasure pouring out of her insides
    and cocooning me like a larvae before painting my own colors
    and turning myself into a water butterfly?
    I kept rummaging the soft muddy bottom,
    sometimes penetrating the hidden source of life
    sometimes blown to pieces by a surge of rumbling fleshquakes,
    her hands working my head like a primeval pleasures tool
    guiding my searching lips amongst the treasures and the tortures
    and the infinitely exhilarating fragrances
    dissolving in the water, the water, the water... damn!

    I pulled out.
    Soaking wet,
    drunk with her water and her flavors and her musical moans
    admitting to my feeble humanity and to my mighty desire and to intoxication
    and finally dying inside her
    so beautifully...



There Are No Stars In Your Eyes

    They all turned nebulae and novae and neutron clumps of matter
    the moment you decided to love
    and that one spark
    migrated from your heart to your eyes
    detonating the stars
    and turning them into nebulae and novae and neutron clumps of matter.

    You blinded me
    before Nyx pitifully pulled her black veil upon my eyes
    collecting in it the burning leftovers
    of nebulae and novae and neutron clumps of matter
    knotting the four corners of the cloth
    and stuffing it in my pocket.
    “This is for later, when you forget...” she whispered, disappearing,
    leaving me with you,
    her young sister,

    Because you
    fell in love with...



Not Cappella Sistina

    Let us paint the sun on the ceiling
    stars around it...
    I know you cannot see stars with a sun blinding you,
    you can
    in love.

    We can add a rainbow, even more than one
    after all this is our sky,
    maybe some birds... hey, I suck at painting,
    I know they look like crows
    they are supposed to be swallows, well, big swallows...

    Then we can stop time.
    The sky never changes
    we live forever
    and the one whose back is on the bed at that time
    tells the one on top
    about the beauty of eyes and the beauty of sun and skies
    and the beauty of... ahmm... swallows.

    Why do you cry? OK, I will paint out the swallows...
    oh, you cry because you want more of them?
    because you love me?
    oh, no, I am not innocent, maybe naïve.

    Oh, I see, because I love you...



Sorry, The Sacred Scriptures Must Be Mistaken

    The order of creation was all screwed up,
    probably to do with writing right to left
    or the scribe’s wife having her headache that specific day
    or the publisher being a male chauvinist... hmm... cannot say it,
    not kosher in this context.

    Fact is woman was created first.

    Then, with God suddenly finding divine inspiration
    in the first laughter he ever heard
    the rest followed so easily...
    and day
    and light
    and sun
    and stars
    and... life.

    Man?... you ask?
    God’s only mistake.
    See, even God is not indifferent to woman’s charms.




    I came
    sculpting in your body
    with my tools of flesh

    ants invading your skin
    the convulsing muscles

    drops of sleepless night
    for absolution in sighs

    breasts following the sun
    steeling in abysmal torment

    I came
    saving your dwindling
    with my tools of flesh




    Letting go of the day,
    watching her gather that lofty bridal gown around her thighs
    then rolling for her nuptial night
    beyond the horizon.

    I kicked the trailing train into the ocean,
    welcoming the darkness of the room,
    the invisible warmth radiating from your body.
    I envy her groom,
    marrying her every morning,
    loving her every night.

    You drew reflections of flowers on my chest
    each of your fingers another color,
    then started breathing reflections of flowers inside my eyes.
    Do you really? you finally answered
    after your tongue’s tip finished etching them into my lips.
    Do I what? I asked back,
    not knowing what you were talking about.
    That’s much better, you murmured
    rolling around my body,
    stealing my flowers.

    I let you do.
    After all, you invented love.



The Winter Of Life

    I watch the crawling mist of winter’s bane
    A purring guile bespeckled glinting dust
    And harboring beneath its velvet train
    The swarming minutes lusting for my crust.

    Be gone! you flailing rag of reaper’s brand
    My flesh is hard, my lip still soft and rich,
    Before invading rot turns senses bland
    I’ll feed my lover’s mouth sweet ripened peach.

    Two summers in one winter’s breath I’ll cram
    My castle banners – strips of blazing skin
    And while your mindless hoards my ramparts ram
    We’ll roll in milk and nectar tinted sin.

    The sun forgets to hide beneath the sky
    Its heart ablaze with dreams of... you and I.




    I watched you brushing your hair, your movements slow, provocative, intense. You did not do it on purpose. It was that subconscious part called womanly vanity which controlled your movements and I, the spectator, was an irrelevant factor in the equation.

    I leaned back onto the bed’s headboard, unable to decide if the sleepy face in the mirror is more beautiful than the bare back facing me. Comparing incomparables. Until you turned around and smiled. I forgot anything I was thinking before. I fell in love. Again.


    The comb had a mind of its own, sinking in that river of flowing copper descending all the way to your shoulders, then emerging victoriously again and again after tasting pleasures I will never know. Never?... I thought, remembering my fingers getting lost inside that abounding cascade, desperately looking for a way out once they got hooked inside disarrayed knots and scalp skin and shampoo fragrances. Oh, those thick strands giving up their vanity once they cradled my knuckles and shot clumps of fire right up my flexing muscles.

    You hummed softly, regarding my reflection from underneath coyly lowered eyelashes, playing the vampire’s innocent main course with an intensity visible only to the trained eye of one who loved you. Loved?... I heard you read my thoughts as mouth and eyes suddenly flashed into that conquering smile of yours, steaming the mirror, steaming my regards, steaming my heart when you turned around and all I could think of was the irresistible beauty of a sunrise as first seen by a blind man miraculously discovering sight. I fell in love. Is desperately the right word to use? I don’t know, I will never know, I will never care knowing.


    The brush
    biting into your hair,
    your hand slave to its ebony wish
    my eyes slave to your shivers,
    my dream
    your universe.

    A piece of moon glided between your breasts
    hit the mirror
    hit my eye
    burning my eyelashes
    one iris sinking into the eye... I blinked...

    I found you smiling at me
    the brush fallen to the floor
    your hand offering me a bouquet of hair strands
    knotted with red ribbons
    and blue beads
    and green ebony shards.
    Green ebony? I heard myself ask.
    Your dream, my universe, I heard you say
    as your bare shoulders
    started filling my landscape.




    Send me your mirror.
    I will lay the glass against my cheek
    soaking your fingerprints
    before scrapping the silver
    to rummage though its splintered memory
    for reflections
    of you.

    Send me your comb.
    The old one,
    toothless, forgotten at the bottom of some cluttered drawer,
    the few brittle hairs
    clinging to it
    telling me stories about the way you were
    so many years

    Send me an envelope, addressed.
    No, no need for a letter inside,
    one stamp will do
    for me to cut the corner away
    and soak the paper inside my mouth
    till the stamp comes off
    liberating all the tastes and aromas once abusing your tongue
    as their place of worship,
    now prisoners
    upon mine.




    Tell me the color of your eyes
    with no clothes on,
    I asked.
    Find it, she replied
    taking my fingers and guiding them to the first button.
    I opened it.

    How many colors are there in the world
    named and unnamed
    visible and invisible
    real and imaginary?...
    I watched, hypnotized, those chameleons I erroneously called eyes
    moving through every hue and shade and intensity
    with each button, each layer, each touch.

    And long after the last.

    Lover?... I heard a voice.
    I blinked stupidly.
    Did we make love? I asked.
    More than once, she answered
    smug, content,
    hiding at last the chameleons behind lowered eyelashes.
    I almost expected her tongue to lash out and snatch me bodily in
    I almost wished it...
    Her tongue lashed out... oh my God... just licking her lips
    then holding on to my upper teeth row and pulling my head down
    till our teeth clashed
    our tongues liberating chameleon knowledge
    unrolling and clutching and gulping...



Under White

    The last vestiges of civilization,
    elastic hunger circling your chest and hanging on to your hips
    after all preliminaries are done
    and symbolism is the only frontier left
    to cross.

    I feel like tearing them to shreds...
    I unhook your brassiere
    watching pride take form and shape and color
    the thumb sliding into the waistband
    and pulling down, down, down
    past your knee, past your ankle, past your big toe
    and all which is left
    is the under white.

    The cloth stains litter the floor,
    deserted by life
    shrunken to the inexistence of rags
    the flesh under white
    whiter than a magnesium flame
    than a sun flare
    groping my hands and demanding retribution inflicted
    upon the perpetrator
    of love.

    I volunteer for punishment,
    the white streaks leaping from your body
    chaining flesh to flesh to white
    and my insane bellows could easily be mistaken
    for yowls
    of delight.




    Young beyond your age,
    the skin splitting at the corners of your eyes
    guiding your tears sideways...
    first time you cry so many years since last,
    when you were old
    and wise to know.

    The sudden lilt in your step
    the pirouette in your toes
    an innocent blue through green through grey through blue
    playing havoc on your eyes and my sanity
    knowing that today lasts forever
    and tomorrow isn’t even a horrible fairytale.
    No music, no colors, no taste,
    just one uninterrupted touch
    between finger and skin and skin and finger...
    was the beauty your smile or was the smile your beauty
    as you knew of tomorrow’s never coming?

    Tomorrow came.
    Found you sitting cross legged in front of a chocolates box
    your innocence gone,
    not so your youth
    if not for those splits of skin guiding your tears sideways.
    A praline died inside a mouth murderously protesting the insanity of life,
    brown blood spilling off your lip
    as your fixed gaze said nothing saying it all with tear residue
    and crystals materializing at the edges of those sideways splits.
    Humans call them wrinkles
    We call them smile leftovers.

    The chocolate blood turned mud.
    I licked it away
    and your frozen gaze melted
    allowing me an undisturbed view into happiness,
    yet so deep that it took me hours to find my way out
    discovering that the reality of it lies in a crumb of chocolate,
    an ink stain,
    a tip of tongue offering the promise of love undying.
    The rest is life. Illusion.




    Pint size
    still bubbling.
    I gave up my efforts to quench its thirst.
    Had to accept the hard evidence
    its hard link to earth’s core,
    my panothic human efforts embarrassing.

    “Don’t give up,”
    she encouraged.
    “Will I ever succeed?”
    and she was all over me once more
    scalding my tender flesh into raw meat.

    “Are fairies human?”
    I shouldn’t have asked,
    or maybe I should have asked earlier.
    Inside one night I graduated in biology, mineralogy, astronomology...
    “Hey, you’ve mixed up your sciences.”
    I lifted my head from between... wherever,
    looking at her.
    “I’m creating a new one, for you.”
    She accepted the compliment with a sigh
    (it was not compliment, it was fact)
    and pushed my head back between... wherever.

    She was ready to put me through hell again,
    bubbles, ash, lava absorbing me anew.
    Not much flesh left on my bones,
    dying was such pleasure.
    “Are fairies allowed to fall in love with humans?”
    “If they insist. Do you insist?”
    “Do I have to?”

    I let her teach me the rest of the sciences.
    Then she found a last spot of unblemished skin on my body
    and made sure to burn it as well.
    I was in pain. In love.
    “Fairy, do you love me?”

    Vanity is at times one’s worst enemy.
    She set to prove it to me all over again,
    the pint size volcano my gaol, my dungeon, my heaven.




    between your shirt and your skin
    but my skin,
    stretched upon lecherous fingers
    into breasts’ beguiling quicksand.

    I refused to share my flesh spoils
    with clowns
    hanging down from the night’s sky
    called stars and moons and tail-less

    Bed sheets
    enveloped us with white intimacy
    the amorphous shapes once called
    merge into one single fluid sculpture.

    It took forever to disentangle burned
    disregarding the insistence of raining
    knocking pitifully at the door of our




    You opened the door
    to you.
    The secrets in your mind no more secret
    your body kissing my mind with knowledge
    and stories of love
    and of fairies
    and of dreams unknown to me you once dreamt of... us.

    I turned page after page,
    dipping finger in mouth and turning one skin sheet after the other,
    running the fingertip along lines unwritten to be read
    unread to be written
    the mystery of you I never knew until
    you opened the door
    to you.

    I could not swim
    so I drowned.
    Maybe I could swim yet I preferred to sink,
    words floating above me cluttering the surface of your heart
    with scouring tongues of fire
    purging it of pain and questions and dark corners
    making the nest ready for... us.

    Finally I had to breathe
    the beauty too rich to be absorbed
    my lungs burning with the caress of riddles untangled
    sculpting meanings freshly discovered into my consciousness
    I looked for life from your lips at the bottom of love
    I could not swim
    so I drowned.




    The quiet,
    the love, the warmth,
    Letters, maybe letters can say it better than words...

    I asked, playing my part of the innocent.
    you answered, hiding your part of innocence under eyelashes and blush,
    actually peeking, I saw you.
    I tried to emphasize the idea with guttural noises and raised eyebrows.
    mm mmm?
    you kept making as if you didn’t understand
    taking a bite in that apple.
    You never could hide behind an apple and you knew it,
    the effort wasted
    the result invariably the same - victory.
    Victory for whom?

    I decided to add a few words to my lexicon,
    after all we were both hominoids
    and diversity is one of those overrated yet really useless attributes.
    mmm! m m? mmmmm...
    I first demanded, then ended on a degradingly supplicating note
    making various signs and motions with eyes and feet
    and jerking my head in the general direction of the bed,
    No, we were not Neanderthals if one wonders
    and that was not a mossy rock I was pointing to
    but rather a modern, soft, white, fragrant bed,
    a ten inch thick three layers rich import mattress upon its frame
    with silk bedding sprinkled eau de cologne and lilac petals
    (imagine the time it took me to pluck one full bucket of them)
    and I even had it tied around twice with red ribbon and crystal beads.

    You decided to open your eyes, suspecting me of cheating... how could you?
    I wasn’t, well, not really.
    I was about to fall to my knees to prove it
    when you caught me under the armpits
    pitting your belly against mine and asking
    trying to convince yourself before finally giving in...
    (yippee... in parentheses since I did not really say it, you know...)
    m m mmmmm?...
    was your question.
    m! m! m!
    I nodded my head vigorously
    looking for pity, understanding, a pat on the head, I wish I had a tail...
    still hesitating, you...
    m mm mmm!!!
    not hesitating, I...

    What followed is indescribable,
    paper cannot relay accurately a duet
    such as the one ending this episode.
    I wish I knew to write musical notes.
    The closest I can play it in your mind
    is by quoting our reverberating words,
    once we said in unison...




    Go on, you said,
    when I reached your skin.
    There is no on, I answered,
    in fear.
    Try, you said,
    guiding me to the breastbone
    and leaving me there,
    around your feet those irrelevant layers of civilization
    now discarded, forgotten.

    I pinched your skin between thumb and forefinger
    and rolled it out of the way...
    is this where you were hiding them all those years?

    the songs inside piano’s white,
    the dreams beyond tomorrow’s night,
    your horse asleep in fever’s glade
    beneath the reaper’s glinting blade.

    I impressed on the heel of my palm the ribbons of your music,
    the feathers of your dreams’ wings,
    then stained the immaculate blade with my thumb’s blood
    as I pushed it rudely aside
    mounting the rearing steed
    and galloping into your opening bone.
    The skin closed behind me.

    Miles and miles and miles of unpicked cotton fields
    their red poppy heads
    telling stories of imagination imperishable in its resplendence.

    in braided manes of neighing herds
    the frilly tunes of nestling birds
    enchase new rainbows in the wood
    across from reaper’s gloomy hood.

    I stole with flicks of tongue gemstones from your trotting horses’ hooves,
    flowers sprouting in your mane deep nests,
    then pulled the ridiculous hood down hanging on to it with my teeth
    mocking the apparition
    and gliding on my belly up the rainbow
    till I reached your heart, wounding, penetrating, staying.
    The bone closed behind me. Home.

    It was the time of season of year for lovers’ fallows to be seeded anew
    ribbons and feathers and gemstones and flowers
    and walls grew around me immuring me inside your heart’s wild beauty.

    the reaper’s gone to lands beyond,
    I snapped my one and only wand
    then laid to sleep my bone and time
    inside your home of flesh and rhyme.



A Lesson In Love

    Sulking in a corner,
    eyes red, nose running out of control,
    my mouth suckling noisily on a dirty thumb.
    A grown up. A kid. A blob of flesh
    trying desperately to fill that apex of urban architectural geometry
    composed of floor’s ice cold tiles
    and adjacent walls’ chilly dampness.

    A door. A momentary current of air.
    I hear the staccato rush of heels approaching,
    a voice... “...what happened?...” as a blanket drops over my shoulders
    and she sits down next to me collecting my parts from floor, walls,
    “I missed you,” I manage to say.
    “But I was gone for less than a minute...” she says.
    “I missed you,” I answer stubbornly
    crawling into her robes, into her body,
    letting her lull me to sleep
    as her thumb replaces mine and the world is beautiful once more.

    She told me later that I smiled all my way into the morning.

    “How do you know?”
    She shows me her raw thumb, laughing happily.
    “Oh, I am sorry,” I yelp apologizing, kissing it.
    “Don’t worry about my thumb, you should see my nipple...” she laughs again,
    snuffing my newly emerging apology with a well placed kiss.
    “That will teach you a lesson,” she adds mysteriously
    guiding my head back to her breast and wincing in pain
    as I pick up on my unfinished job.

    I guess it is a lesson in love that she means.




    Unzipping the east
    the master predator sends long undulating fingernails
    to cut narrow slices of cloud
    thinking the other God owes him a favor
    for painting those impressive crowns sky born earthwards
    with sheaves of penetrating rays
    thrown your way
    the way white rice crowns wedding and bride...
    white, yellow, purple, red... and the grey of jagged cloud breaches.

    Hide your pale, lover,
    don’t let the trespasser’s eye touch it, be it Sol or God,
    pull down the shades and pull closed the curtains
    and nail shut the boards upon the windows
    and birds will sing the morning into the sky
    and rays will rain blindly upon the shades and the curtains and the boards
    dying by the dozens and the billions
    falling into a heap of ribbons at the foot of the wall
    at the end of the world
    at the beginning of beauty.

    And beauty will uncover of her uncolored dresses
    and of her white filigree woven silk woven satin woven lace
    laying cloth to floor
    and skin to bed
    and the phosphor flowing inside gleaming veins lights the ceiling
    reflecting in tear ridden eyes and smile ridden teeth
    when my hand touches your breast
    and your fingers pick up pieces of my flesh to drop on the tip of your tongue
    knowing this is the door no one ever entered
    except for your lover,
    not Sol, not God,



Warring The Light

    Don’t let the smile of morning’s God
    Dissecting cloud’s imposing squad
    Invade your placid ley of rest
    Beyond horizons rolling west
            with wishes odd.

    Beware of tendrils laden mirth
    As spider flames of needle girth
    Purloin your cheek’s awaking red
    And paint the mountain’s grizzled head
            with glamour’s birth.

    Deny the birds of lurid skill
    The right to perch upon your sill
    And preach that east’s emerging glow
    Is some ornithic candles show
            of light and trill.

    Behold as skydom’s armies’ might
    Like some uncalled for scheming blight
    Besiege my mouth and fingers’ tips
    Approaching your unfolding lips
            and skin’s delight.

    Now... pull the shades upon the world
    And as your beauty lies unfurled
    Let lover’s hands immesh your flesh
    With touches lewd and kisses fresh
            and ribbons curled.




    the young she-human monster
    blue of big eyes and red of ravenous mouth
    and small of soft breasts and long of luscious legs and narrow of nectarean waist
    in resplendent bridal white
    the golden barbed wire around her finger avidly stealing her virginity
    with a one night’s philter and a year’s nepenthe
    and a lifetime’s debilitating opium seeping into her vein...
    inert, on a thin glass sheet
    so fragile in her humanity and eternity’s sleep.

    the old I-reptile dragon
    green of giant scales and fiery of fearsome muzzle and wrathful of wide wings
    my pockets heavy with collapsing stars and glinting comet tails
    the wasp sting in my heart pouring its venom
    dulling my senses and rolling my body and emptying my pockets
    falling stars crushing worlds and runaway comets burning galaxies
    until my body crashed into the thin glass sheet
    gashing my chest
    and her red of ravenous neared my fiery of fearsome
    and she opened her eyes in wonder.

    We immerged into each other,
    scales to skin and muzzle to mouth and claw to clasp of hand
    the fire of famished hearts cleansing our bodies of life’s poisons
    my roar turning into her song
    her laughter turning into my fingertips
    and us falling into the heart of the sorrowful giant star
    igniting it into