Images you send me images, snapshots, soul fragments inside a soul’s blossoming graveyard treading on the coarse gravel of memories and a swiveling neck’s worn out paths and pleats, hiding old love letters inside splitting folds. so real the love gone, so real the loneliness stretching. the floating lady and the waving lady and the reflecting lady and the half chewed flower. and the bud. unopened. sealed. no, these are not yet the words. you will know of efflorescence once the thorn ripens and your skin rips and your blood drips and your lips... oh, those lips once they sift through my nips.

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Freedom You pressed between your own pages, the steamroller of years passing above your covers... how many times? pieces of you sticking to the lead of printed words seeping through into other stories and others’ stories and lives, your legs bound your wings clipped your fingers blunted your mouth... where did your mouth wander looking for its lost sighs of once and of upon a time? Did you try to pull away from the insistent glue and the yellowed corners and the smell of shelves and the fine layer of dust unmarked by fingertips? Matters not your cough, this is just your voice getting ready for the song, matters not your creaking joints, when was the last time you stretched your bones in readiness for the dance? matters not those red spots, the inset of blossoming blush foreboding skin ironed by skin... finally... you smile? as you tear your crumpled figure from between the pages and your breasts swell into flesh and your hips round into offer and your clothes rest behind telling all of freedom finally found.

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The Door Between She looked up from the past, intrigued. Do you believe in magic? she asked. No, I answered. And yet you believe you can do it, she said laying the faded picture on the table. I know, I answered, I believe in words, I answered. The sepia partially peeling the white of the underlying cardboard visible through the cracks the bud closed asleep inside the photographer’s eternal click of adulation. I know, I answered. * Where are we? someone asked. I undid your shoes, removed them, ascertained there are no toes left inside then dropped them into the floor listening to the gulp of satisfaction as the tiles opened swallowing shoes and no-toes followed by the next floor’s sigh of delectation then the next... How many floors this building? I asked. These are clouds, you answered. I pulled down your stockings, glimpses of pale flesh lining thigh bones there, so close to life, invaded my vision before you modestly pulled the skirt back to your knees, hesitating, watching my face sink into the rustling nylon to inhale skin’s pellicle and drops of sweat and the perfumes of intimate you, later allowing stockings to follow the shoes’ way, the floor shivering in exultation of feast and engorged delicacies. Bare footed, your skirt forgotten half thigh up blatantly infringing upon my sense of propriety not that any was left in the wake of that first glimpse, bare ankled, your skirt inching even higher as you reached for the bulb... the sun, you objected... watching incandescence glide down your arms and into your sleeves, bare toed, your skirt flirting with a beguiling floor intent on swallowing the rest of the wear and underwear and fleshwear and bonewear and marrowear... you. Growls inside the desperado Watching desert’s rhyme tornado Braid long petals to your lashes And the snippet blazing ashes Grazing down your blushing cheek’s         glowing gashes. Where are we? someone asked. Thousands of books your walls bulging outwards with the weight of top shelves, poetry, all generations from the ancients of Homerus, of Ovidus, of Nossis and Myro and Antye and Ossian... through the classics of Omar, and Bill, and that Rabi from India, and Bob and Liz, and then the other Bob... and finally to the forest of moderns like E.E., like Maya, like Freddy... no no, not fingernails Freddy, the Lorca one... and Pablo called Pavel in Russia and Paolo in Italy and Paul in all the states except for Miami, and of course Charlie and the billions of others, I wonder if all are there... hey, they are, I see my name... brand new, hmmm... never opened it, did you? Oh, I should have mentioned Emily too, no? I start pulling out books open at a random page and lay down on the floor... cloud!... you insist, face up, a mix of them all ancients and classics and moderns and me the mass and the expensive and the unique and the autographed then reach into my pocket to pull out thousands of candles and light them between the books burning letters reflecting inside your eyes and on the moisture of your lips as the tip of your tongue sneaks out, ravenous... I point to a word - dance! it says... says?... and you skip onto Myro, then from Myro on to Maya, then from Maya to Ovidus and from Ovidus to Bill and from Bill to Bob and every toe you touch to Nossis drops a golden coin and every heel you touch to Omar crushes a grape and every passing shadow over Homerus releases a dove never ever touching a candle as the floor... cloud!... fills with feathers and beetles and marbles and swirling dust and decaying sunsets and you are about to fall into the abyss there where humans looking up wonder at candles falling from the sky and toes displacing galaxies into rhyming constellations and hands dragging you back into the ribbons, mine. Look, you say, pointing to a clump of burning coal, a breathing dragon of red and purple and amber enchased inside your bare heel... I stepped on your book... you say, and I look away unable to watch you pour wine over it and create mists of butterflies. Swirls the light in adulation Gleaning tints of inspiration From your eye’s impatient twinkle And your eyelid’s silver tinkle And that shy beyond despair         smiling wrinkle. Where are we? someone asked. I rolled the marbles and shooed the doves and snowed the feathers, seas cowering under bouncing white and poppies turning bleeding pilgrims inside an ocean of innocence, I lulled the beetles into swagger and slurped the grapes stuck between your toes and dropped the coins into the sunsets and swept the dust to the flo... cloud... thanks, I glued the torn pages and ironed the crumpled ones and returned the books to the shelves and blew the smoldering ashes of mine into the sun’s left eye... lie down, I urged, shearing your satins and your wools and your laces to swathe your wound. You cannot heal this wound, you said guiding my hand a butterfly’s breath away from your body pointing, then pointing, the leftover silks melting under a palm reluctantly exploring moonscapes and comet tails and geyser wells, skin spots blistering, exploding, sending long corona feelers to wrap around my fingers and wrist imploring for the clemency of killing the butterfly’s breath and gripping, groping, grabbing... make love to me, you begged, I cannot make love to an idol without killing it, I answered... kill me, you begged, I cannot kill you without dying, I answered... die, you begged, I will, once I finish worshipping you, I answered... and then will you make love to me? you begged, and then may I make love to you? I begged. I caught a passing drop of rain and started peeling it layer after layer to each a color, a fluttering softness, the variegated touch of a weltering deluge, and I covered your body pellucid bark ankle to knee and then knee to thigh and then closed my eyes thigh to hip before opening once more when the tip of your breast sizzled and the hollow of your shoulder boiled and your mouth accepted in sacrifice pieces of my lips and leftovers of my breath. And the taste of sadness lingers In that nook between my fingers Hosting apples sweetly rotten Herds of shivers misbegotten And that most sublime of tunes...         tearing cotton. * The bud still closed, its red heart enshrouded forever inside that unreachable seclusion, sepia sepals crumbling away into decay... you failed, she wished to cry, crying, about to turn away and part. I did not, I claimed, grabbing her shoulder, holding, hurting, you chose the wrong reality, I claimed once more, close your eyes and then... read me again, I begged. I helped her close those nightful eyes and open those sunful lips and then I started reading me, and as her involuntary echo turned her voluntary narration and lashes began to lift pouring flowers down her cheeks I eased out the door pulling it softly shut behind me. Click. I heard the tidal waves of lilac break against the heavy oak bellowing, the thin trickle beneath the door smelling strangely like a mixture of summer and of woman.

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Kite It dragged behind me, I ran across the lawn, across the forest, across the world like an antelope, like a panther... it just dragged behind me jumping and breaking the ruckus huge, the dust turning impenetrable wall, never rising above the heads of grass before crashing again. Let me, I will show you how it is done, you admonished, taking the string from my hand with your right and dropping your shoes your skirt your shirt and all the rest with your left. It snatched away from your hand the string cutting through your palm unrolling unrolling unrolling rising and while I was busy with my blushing you barely held on to the heads of flowers to not get pulled into the sun.

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Love In Two Dimensions We can be nothing but the shadow underneath the letters we write, squeezing between the ink and the paper there, where is hardly place for anything else but making love. Who needs anything else? Is the blue above us ink or skies? you ask. If you can touch it, it is ink, I say. If you can touch it, it is sky, I say. What is the color underneath me? I cannot turn my head, I am two dimensional. White, I say. Linen or paper? Both. We have no choice but make love, not again but all the time. Lover? Yes. How can we make love, there is... she blushes in the eternity of her two dimensions... some missing depth to this relationship? I glide my mouth to her neck, to her breast, then back to her mouth and finally to her ear. I cheated, I say, there is a hole in the paper.

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Escape so fierce your sensuality so ferocious your re-immersion into desires never lost... just misplaced such immensity to a carnality gathering seven suns and seventy seven smiles inside one single bud about to sprout, you walk underneath the cloud your hair hanging your hands hanging your robes hanging, incessantly gliding towards that abysmal green underneath exposing your queendom’s secrets and your hanging breasts’ nipples and the fist pounding between your ribs to the howling wind’s mouth and mine, dance with me, you beg and if we fall? I ask then you’ll find my body all the way down to the green and make your love to its forgotten parcels of skin and seed your thistles in flower to its earlobes and plough your exploding fire marbles to its thighs and lips and those eternally famished breasts, we fall, of certain, the dance done your toes purposefully releasing their hold onto cloud grains and before the green of reality kills the moment of us we fill our bellies with stolen bites off each other’s orchard and flesh gardens and shrieking desires escaping through cracks slowly infesting the once invincible solitude.

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Limbo just a few nervous, impatient moves and the textile prison with its oubliettes and invincible locks and torture cells lies scattered at your feet, partly mottled, partly tattered, a few silk threads still dangling from your shoulder around your waist around one of your toes, one dangling from your stiff right nipple, the white mark low on your hips showing the place where tormentor and impunity imposed their obscure laws and strangling fists. naked. finally. prisoner. still. free me, knight, free me... you whisper, kicking oubliettes and locks and cells to the corner of the room the chill turning your breath floating water and your skin minced glass. I kneel in front of you, I ask forgiveness for the blasphemy ravaging my soul and the sin I intend upon you and the crippling torture about to begin on the way to deliverance, and I approach your belly guided by all the senses I did not possess until this moment my hesitation reaching a violent end as your hands twine at my nape and your hips shoot forward and my lips brand into your source of life the knowledge. freedom. where did they swarm in from? the locusts and the termites and the mantes in clouds and waves and tides as black as the before creation eating the floor eating the house eating the world around us leaving us floating inside a gravitationless limbo surrounded only and only by those tongues of burning hell pouring out from our loins and pores and mouths and lashing the colors of immensity beneath the texture of flesh and above the texture of bone... a ball of fire... deflagration... the rain of burning ashes settles slowly inside your hair, frizzling sounds, smells, jumping sparks, a forest of snakes on fire bites black traces on my chest and holes through my skin as static fills the space between us and every end of every single hair reaches hungrily for some glowing piece of my hiding flesh. is this freedom? you ask. no, this is freedom, I say disentangling slowly your hair from my skin one after the other after the other until the last one settles back onto the white linen, your corona shining within the endlessly falling residue of beauty. and I slowly float away. no, this is freedom, you say, tying my hands, my feet, my neck to glimmering strands of scorched hair and dragging me wildly back into the limbo.

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Like Making Love the sun slumbers my finger shares your moisture waiting angry white beasts inhabit my mouth and rampaging wild stallions roam my eyes and the dragon rises its scale from my belly’s impenetrable forest and clamors for the virgin unfound waiting the sun blossoms and as your thighs start to open the gardens inhale the blaze and the dells and the gullies my beasts and the meadows ensnare my stallions and the wells engorge my dragon’s hollering snout belching the white fire of moisture found until you curl around me like a boneless sigh back into slumber I dip the towel in a bowl of warm water and with infinitely soft strokes I clean the morass of weeds and the flesh of sticky mud and of bark finally leaving only the clear lake underneath and the slightly pulsating nenuphars beauty has seen another day

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Almost Spare Ribs mmmmm... you m’d picking another of my finger’s bones clean and throwing behind your shoulder, smacking your lips in delectation, the pile the height of my previous knee. mmmmm... this will make a nice bowling ball, you decided sticking two fingers in the lingering humidity of orbs and a third trying to fit the no-cartilage hole, your swing long and lithe. there were no more bones left in my body, my flesh flowing around your ankles encased by the flexibility of skin and the irregularities of floor and the efforts of flipping muscles. my eyes floated underneath your skirt roaming then roving then raving, this was stronger than me, had no choice... hey, a bone I missed, I heard you chirping in ecstasy and I couldn’t explain the reason in unquarantined words. you tried to pull it, to drag it, to break it... what kind of a bone is this? you asked me, failing, and finally settling into sucking it clean of marrow and liquidity mindless to my accompanying moans of disapproval at such innocent depravity. it is only choicelessly bone’y, I volunteered a piece of information watching the wonder in your eyes as it dissolved between your lips finally leaving just its wrinkled flesh and skin vessel and the sticky hunger oozing from your tongue. more!... more!... you pouted the eyes lighting as your playing fingers seemed to pull it back from the dungeons of bone nothingness and your mouth descended furiously upon the stiffening prey to suck it dry once again.

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The Beauty Beneath the sea lifting around you strands of hair obstinately clinging to departing waters until exhausted with the effort they fall back to your shoulders like broken branches slapping chest breast back... a billion tons of death crawling with life at the end of your raised little finger hanging above your head, your liquid sky. come, you beckon, and I hesitate watching the thin finger and the thick sky, make love to me, you beg and I forget the thin finger and the thick sky rushing into your blue skin with flowers of Earth and fingers stained with its soil to pull the hair off your eyes and stain your insides with sun and the din of crashing waves. we wake up on an island under the sea and I don’t wonder what holds it all above us knowing that the gods of lovers will not let beauty drown even if your little finger is now busy investigating my mouth... make beauty to me, you beg again and again letting me harvest fistfuls of salt and mouthfuls of diamond dust and the fleeting shiver of shark shadows cutting silver trails inside the blue of your skin with my fingers’ tips.

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Vista Maiden, maiden, wash your fingers, Dip your toes in willow’s brine, Tie the ribbons to those ankles Lost in fields of curling vine, Crush the mounds of golden orange Into buckets brimming sun As you dance across the meadows With your laces half undone, Sing your heart inside the river Rolling pebbles down the sea Dragging mountain’s crowing rumble And your wishes’ blue debris, Glean an armful valley flowers Braid the red inside your hair Letting yellow’s wistful lament Seed the green in summer’s lair, Maiden, maiden, hold my fingers, Pour your milk inside my brine, Let me taste your sprinting ankles As we roll through burning vine.

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Temptation And then I will pick the corner of your dress open the lowest of buttons and pull it slightly up above the knee... I will guide your shadow’s fringes into lands beyond of naught Midday runes, forbidden kingdoms, crumbling craves with summer fraught, In the chill of setting whispers I will seed lamenting leaves Dripping beads of fleeting music on the flesh inside your sleeves. I will pull it further up a thread giving another snapping the pastel of a thigh’s flesh invading my world... Do not hide beneath the mountain born of flower’s dying throe Bleeding petals wedding thistles for an evening’s fading glow, Not inside the shapeless lattice drawn upon a flowing stream Lost to morning’s desolation shaping day’s awaking scream. I will ravage its seams and deplete its pride and corrupt its innocence before feeding it to the flame consuming us... Let me rhyme unruly passion as my skin assails your thigh, As my pen implores your nipple and my word adorns your eye, And when pleasure turns to torment and you wish the poet’s heart Let me holler... let me shiver... let me sink inside your art.

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Mirages don’t shy at your perfection none could be more perfect as you than you. the stems become you the way of petals petals become you the way of pollen sticking to your eyelashes and fingertips pollen does not become you the way words do not become you words are you. someone else painted you this time your hair different your breasts different your belly elongating into thighs elongating into toes different soft soft round and soft same you different. I kiss your image behind the glass oils melt colors deliquesce I sink my hands elbow deep in liquefied mirage and when I pull out your flesh you smear the linen knotted rainbows and my body life time your open palms write a garish story inside my flesh. I step down from the altar hosting your warmth and fall asleep your toe making love to my mouth.

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ink meet me in my midnight lady, i need no light no broken star to mark the trail no envious moon lost in bitter reflections, nothing but your body’s ink slowly flowing along your inner thigh glistening with that inner luminescence boiling in your blood and mine, i smell its call miles away sinking fragile hooks through nostrils into lungs permeating me with lilac and jasmine and rose and woman elixir your flesh shyly opening radiating phosphorescent desires and exploding beads soaking into damp cotton and silk and lace and chilly linen, i reach you trickling ink suddenly bulging river i kneel inside your body tearing through the kingdom of cotton and silk and lace waiting to be offered the transparent periphrasis of love to be written on the tip of my tongue and in the depths of my throat and upon the tingling tip of my appetence my cupped hands brimming with your pulpous beauty as the rest of me hovers above and slowly glides into you.

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Cabana i love to watch you naked running into the cold lake with morning your skin betraying your fever as water sizzles and explodes when it touches you and you turn as beautiful as blue as sand glued on a postcard of flesh transparent to the hues of your body and to the shivers greeting the sun and my eyes, i love to watch you running back to my bed squirming in between the bed sheets soaking wet and ice cold shaking like a bitch the rain off your hairless pelt asking for forgiveness and not meaning a word of it as your hand slides in between my thighs guiding my emotions home there where the lake could not extinguish your hearth's fire, i love to watch you diving back into the freezing waters washing off that part of me wasted outside of you your thighs tightly squeezed immaculately preserving that part of me adorning your insides and the album of your eyes.

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Vessels Empty your mouth of saliva, empty your veins of blood and your bones of their marrow then fill them all with your cascading passion and the seeds of my desire, Wonder not at the splashing sound when you try to catch the sun on its rise and thick philter drops spill out marking the trail of your soar, I watch suicidal larks diving headlong into melting asphalt giving up the call of eternity for a single taste of you, The sun dies losing the last of its flares as it slithers its way inside your mouth your veins your bones and as you fall to Earth I see the seeds blossoming red at the tips of your fingers.

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Painting don't undress me with your eyes, let your hands perform the feat pull me from inside the cotton armor, measure that natural shadow underneath my hanging breast weighing the flesh with your cupping palm, measure the unnatural shadow sparkling with moisture beads underneath my belly drinking yourself with its mists into oblivion protect me from sun's ravenously intimate glare by sheltering me with pieces of your flesh and bitter milk and after you finished erasing your fingerprints from my smooth white and stiff red and perfumed darkness put me back on the canvas you stole me from

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Burn Marks take your middle finger, put it in your mouth for seconds few waiting for it to swell and stiffen and demand... no, it does not, it is after all just a finger a poor simulation of a future memory to come and burn you... take your middle finger, wet it in your mouth then let it slide in between your cotton and your skin there, underneath your waistline, let it slide until you touch that wet spot rising proudly, furiously above its furry surroundings looking for the sun looking for the fire to burn you... take your middle finger, let it invade your privacy your innermost landscapes and rivers and sensory smoothness then close your eyes and let me join the invasion through mind channels tuned to my throbbing flesh ripping your sodden cottons and pushing your glinting thighs out of way to join our perfectly matching deformities then burn you...

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Imaginings a few hyacinths exploded in my garden, wild, untamed, blue drops of sky growing along a bending stem hiding underneath a dry roses bush at shelter from stomping cats and chewing hedgehogs and curious noses. I imagined a field of them starting there where my horizon ends and flowing towards me together with whiffs of you and lost song syllables you shriek while hopping from furrow to furrow and bees fly in and out your shirt. I imagined violets pushing bits of earth around the place you finally fell panting with the playful wind pulling shamelessly your skirts up and the violets blushing all the way into indigo as they gaze at your exposed flesh. I imagined a sunless world with daffodils bunching in the east rising above the hyacinth horizon and above the violet bed raining yellow petals and covering the world yellow warmth and your bared thighs yellow cups spilling the red wine of crunched berries. the hyacinths close for the night probably never to open again in the morning and I anxiously sleep next to them hoping to see you bend over and sing them into butterflies.

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Red open your red for me the deep one covering your teeth the lithe one sneaking out to smack my lips and lick the drooling imbecility of growling desire from my mouth's corner the stiff one simmering beneath the nylon of your blouse and exploding violently into the world as the fibers melt and the heel of my palm fights the evading steel losing the battle and losing the war and losing the sanity of its guiding mind. open your red for me the hidden one hesitant inside the damp walls of its fleshy castle its music overdue its flower asleep its boiling warmth the absolute weapon calling for my world's rebirth as it bares my skin of civilization's shackles and gulps mouthfuls of unclothed me and when all that is left is my teeth and some of my bones it allows me to fall asleep on your belly in resurrection. open your red for me the lipstick you used to mark the path guiding to your lair the cherry ascending into my nostrils from between your squashing fingers forming into liqueur as it pushes the doors to my brain the wine squirting between your stomping legs as you crush the life of fruit inside the barrel and as it slithers its way down alongside your long whiteness of leg I slurp it all the way back up and deep into your vineyard.

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Lumps wear your stiletto heels and i will wear the skin to my soles and you be dressed and i be naked and let us dance on the dark asphalt beneath the immensity of a star studded sea as black as velvet and our gliding shadow. no, it is not the pain, it is the passion which lights the flames to my heels and wrinkles my eyes melting the asphalt and the earth underneath it, when your shoes have sunk the whole of their infinity and the burning tar touches your ankles threatening to touch your calves climb around my waist and bite your life and your body into my lips and my loins. your clothes gone into the nether of mine i keep sinking into tar and into you the dance turned slosh and the velvet turned slashing fingernails when your tongue finally falls asleep inside my mouth your thighs cutting me into asymmetrical lumps of howling desire.

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Dry Rose I laid the dry rose next to you on the bed, once red... the rose, the bed always white white white white your body invisible in its immaculate embrace. Don’t make love to me just sing this rose to life and once its petal your velvet velvet velvet velvet and its stem your litheness I paint you sun. You laid the rose on your naked belly singing the tunes of tulips you knew so well from those nights of love love love love and the endless caressing nibs of ends of tips of fingers. The rose bloomed into tulip its stem bending lithely until its dry thorn pierced its petal petal petal petal and the blood soaked in the immaculate bedding. Oh, I gave it life into death, you wailed into the inexistent sun watching me dip finger in the blood blood blood blood and stretch my arm all the way to the sky. I painted sun red and rose red and tulip red and daffodil red and daisy red and you sunk in an endless bed of red flowers flowers flowers flowers not making love to me. Oh, you gave it love into eternity unchanging singing it what you knew best the beauty of your art art art art then I let my finger drag me all the way into the sun to burn.

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swdg stunned you said, letting the hunger in my fingers despoil your body of its armor seams intact as cloth purred open and the snow of flesh blushed poppy under the onslaught of my eyes, writhing you said, irreverent of the wrecking of my shirt and of the rending of my skin coiling uncoiling underneath my weight the wooden bed frame splintering your breasts kneading my chest into ribbons, drenched you said, liquid manhood invading liquid womanhood the tide roaring between quivering thighs dragging in sweat and blood and drooling saliva the bedding swelling with the outpour and the floor glistening knee high, gasping you said, mouth looking for yawning mouth and finding lungs and teeth hanging at end of tongue and no trace of air and breath all of it having burnt with the start and the never end of invasion.

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Ashes ashes carry the memory of glow the way poems carry the memory of art and smiles carry the memory of love making in a burning bed. i wonder not once at the shape of your fingerprints for no other reason than it means i hold your fingers in my hand close to my eyes and i smell your skin. did you ever try to whistle with another’s lips? try it with mine and you will find that i am as near to you as dance music is to your ankles and flowers to the white fields of your breasts. ashes do not carry the memory ashes are the memory poems are art and smiles are love making in a burning bed.

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Box close all shutters left and right and fore and aft and above and beneath a box, empty of world and full of us, our box. i’ll be your pillow and you’ll be my mattress and the only doors our open mouths and the only stars those exploding within your breath pelting my eyes as my monstrous upheaval penetrates your tender shrub and you grope for inexistent bed rims. no pictures hanging on the walls except for the splashes of our sweat and of our bodily spillage glissading artfully down whichever side of the box happens to be upright at the moment as we bang and hammer and thump rolling with the box indenting its walls with our curving backs and thrashing limbs and twined skulls joined at grappling maxillae. the only shower our burning tongues cleaning the mud off each other and drying the skin with the leftovers of clothes and the flames of fascinated eyes. so what if we stink? it is the perfume of life of desire, of love locked inside that box together with the wax gliding off eyes and the wick of curling hairs and the igniting spark as our teeth fillip turning the insides of the box to the blazing guts of a cosmical candle. keep the box in your pocket you can visit me there whenever the inferno between your thighs deflagrates the way of mine.

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Clothes i wonder at your clothes without you inside them such sadness in their deflated pride, knowing not if tomorrow you will warm their insides if ever again the wind will tear them in envy off your body. lifeless artifacts without the rustle of grinding against your skin and the groaning of seams at war with muscles straining for liberty and the pop of the topmost button when my hand wanders between the label side of cloth and the skin side of body. how do you prefer my clothes? you ask and I refuse to say creased tattered decorticated drenched in the salt dragging the water inside the thread before being tossed carelessly to that room corner of no return. you mean you want to make love to me? you ask. i mean unclothing you is exposing inimitable art, i say, crying in adulation.

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Francesca da Rimini I have seen them, in all their wondrous white and marble a kiss unaccomplished, locked, frozen in eternal immobility a passion about to burn the marble black then embers then ashes if it wasn’t for the husband’s hand and sword and the artist’s curse and chisel lapidifying the fire and extinguishing it forever. forever? I watch us in the mirror your right leg’s flesh striding my left thigh’s flesh your left arm’s elbow striding my neck my right hand’s fingers striding your hip so close to the enflamed volcano my left hand holding the book of dreams your right breast against my chest our lips almost touching the almost vanishing as we bite into each other’s breath and we break the hand and the sword and the curse and the chisel and only the book of dreams clutches mightily in my fist as you rip page after page after page from its heart and lay them to cushion our fall through the gates of hell all the way onto the leas of heaven. the kiss... accomplished, you wonder covering our nakedness with torn poetry pages, the marble... to embers, I acquiesce blowing our ashes into the sun.

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Asleeping I pull gently, slowly the cover off your sleeping form caring not for its wail, howl, growl as it anchors itself with invisible fingers to your contours your obelisks and your temples and your monuments and flesh still smoldering in the wake of earlier devastating events, I drop it to the floor, quashing the rebellion with my feet, watching you stretch lithely backwards shoulders following spine until breasts disappear and nipples become simple stains on the whiteness of skin your hair ends knotting around toes shaping you human bow, I look for perfection finding none in the sleeping masterpiece, how can one find perfection in such unhuman lack of imperfection I ask myself pulling the drapes cloaking the moon trying to find inside its yellow sheaf the grains of your beauty and finding none as you are all it, I test your smoothness, my finger traveling all the way from forehead down along the nose the middle of lips the middle of neck guessing at the middle of the inexistent breasts and nipples down to your navel cutting the belly in two and then, undecided, continuing its trek right down that stream ridden valley of wonders, I am about to mount the other way around counting ridges and waves when I hear the ignition of flame and the hiss of mounting desire and the hair uncurls from toes and the body unbows wrapping itself around me with the hunger of a bear trap allowing me the only freedom of penetrating your slippery domain and letting parts of me fall asleep inside your life.

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first touch i wonder which part will touch first after the regard will it be hands, hesitating? will it be shoe tips before hands before hand on hip or on back or on neck? knees before thighs or thighs before knees or knees between thighs between knees between thighs dressed? i don't think my hand will rest long on hip before smoothening your clothes maybe rear maybe front maybe in maybe above maybe under groping its way blindly following the call of the heat of the radiation of the throb no, i did not mention lips not willing to die so early in the process or eyes not willing to die forever i wonder whose hands will undress first which parts whose skin will show first in lurid glory and majestic resplendence and prurient growl from squealing pinhead size to squalling ocean wide from prude to lewd basking in the nascent freedom of flesh and before we fall into the trap of lucubrating over the mysteries of boiling sweat and breath that ingenuous first touch falls victim to the sally of slapping bellies and humming sinews and that primal howl rending right of passage from deflagrating lungs all the way through maundering vocal cords and ending its life inside the three times knotted seven times blessed tongue muscles

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shadows the gold of the wheat pales against the beauty of the shadows designed into you and where did you leave all of human attire oh, goddess of bread and unbridled desire?... the sun hides inside spikes spying your skin from inside swathes from inside sheaves from inside stooks fighting in vain to penetrate your shadows you waded through leas of efflorescing laurels to lie in the hoofprints of galloping sorrels... then you roll towards me the shadow beneath of your belly inviting me into the fire of exploding seeds and susurrant fragrances your mouth spilling nectars enchantingly fruity you grant me your shadows and drench me in beauty...

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Scarlet scarlet is not your color nor is scarlet the color of your blush scarlet is the color of your word when you send it into the sunset and wait for it through the night wondering if sunrise will find you still there and if your word turned butterfly scarlet is the color you wish upon a falling star knowing it to be of stone and yet of beauty too and the trail of fire scavenging for a lover’s heart having found yours dresses it in scarlet lace scarlet is the color behind your closed eyelids watching the candle and the shadows passing between the two some of the mine some of them my hands’ and most of them those butterflies you seeded into the sunset and rised again into the candle’s fire scarlet is not your color love is

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Rain I rain, drops of me seeking refuge between your folds, inside your mysteries trekking around your bulging softness and inside its affluence engorging your inner streams never sated. Let me dry, let mud stains on your skin and marshes glinting in the candle's sun bear witness to fires once ravaging your fields and horses galloping inside your meadows and lungs aching for the dust of my departed kisses. Minuscule leftovers soak trough your flesh to heart and as they drag their human trash through divinity's veins and arteries you allow me to build altars of gravel and sculpt monuments of salt breaking to your body's splendiferous surface through eyes and melodious sobs.

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Don Quixote to Dulcinea I slayed no dragon today. Once more. I slayed no dragons, ever. I prefer apples, a bit old a bit sour sometimes baked and dipped in honey, why do knights always have to slay dragons? If I met one I would rather teach it fetch! I did shine my shield though, picked out the rust points from my sword I may need a new one this one is too heavy, I can hardly drag it into its sheath, never mind out of it. If I met any dragons today I may not have written you this romantic poem. You are beautiful your big breasts your thick waist your Dutch clogs on the wooden floor my summer wind chimes your thick fingers carrying three mugs of beer each crushing my heart. I hear your hoarse laughter three stables away and I see angels praying. I washed again today. I know you hate me washing every month but Rocinante pissed on me, my mistake, poor horse did not know I was lying in wait for the dragon under his belly. Don't worry, I also hate smelling of soap, before the moon is full before I visit upon your grace in the wine cellar I will sleep three nights with Sancho, this will make me smell human again. Sancho's donkey never pisses on him, and he never washes more than once a year I know, please don't break my heart for Sancho. Tonight I will kneel in prayer until the roosters will call and the ducks will gaggle and the cats will come looking for mice around my knees, this world is beautiful with you in it, please don't bath until I can sink my nose in your robe's hem and you lay your clog on my head. Oh, most noble of women and kindest of vestal virgins, I wouldn't swap Rocinante for Bavieca and wouldn't swap you for Bucephalus, please have pity on my mortal soul as I gather your tender, naked breasts up from your thighs and sink my sorrowful countenance into the purity of that flesh smelling of onions and lilac and nights in the chicken's den.

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There Were there will be no stars there where I lay you down only thorns looking for nurture inside your arteries feeding the tiny bouquets blooming out their blunt side, there will be no sun there where I undress you only icicles melting with your skin’s approach feeding the larks you will release when opening eyes, there will be no veil there where I hide your blush only my closed eyelids keeping my sanity one step away from death feeding my fantasy glimmering echoes of your beauty, there will be only flesh there where I lay you down to undress you to hide your blush no stars no sun no veil except for those getting born the moment we turn on splendor.

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Morphosis forests peeling off mountain’s backbone making place for pouring lava and liquidity of unbridled desires clouds exposing skydom’s blue shame allowing uninhibited sun sparks visit earth to beautiful death bark cracking round trunk’s gnarled limbs to addle in a circle of resurrection once seeds feed upon yesterday’s life flesh rising in rapacious urge to conquer flesh penetrating the hidden temple’s adytum to liberate sleeping wildflower’s gist love undulating upon ocean’s treacherous deep afraid to face morning’s playful breeze and dissipate into slowly sinking glitter

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Opening The Buttons I will open one button between your breasts, maybe two, watching the contrast between lace and skin enemy and promise meaningless and everything, maybe slide a finger into the trap hoping for fangs to bite in and keep it there forever. I will open one button against your belly... well, a bit lower than that, maybe two, I think three will be perfect for my hand to slide in and cup the cotton enveloping the living silk enveloping the breathing flesh slowly pouring the moisture of awakening desires into my testing fingertips turning my mind smoldering rot and skinning my insides blistering ordeal. I will open one button, the bottommost, pulling the hem of your dress apart and watching part of the buttons slide open some snap the last one resisting furiously giving in only to fingers and thumb pushing it gently through the last buttonhole, the bulwark smashed through by the power of caress and the gates opening upon quavering flesh. I don’t care about the other contraptions separating me from those skin portions of you I ache to join in ecstatic tribute to lunacy and illuminated gods, sacrificial lambs their elastic life snapping away when muscles heave and bodies collapse and the endless fiber of a rolling sun ties our hips into an ultimate gift.

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Splash keep your dress, jump let gravitation play its magic and drag you down to the pebbles and the bottom crawling crabs and the golden fish hiding from sunlight and predatory humans... not from you. did you know that gravitation pulls stronger at your toes than at your hair therefore those fluttering snakes attached to your scalp trail behind you, above of you, thousands of tiny hands stretching for the sun designing a mortal piece of art in motion in love while golden fishes jealously chase crabs away and start playing hide and seek in the unending undulation of the flying sinking castles... I may be wrong about gravitation, though. I am not wrong about art. I will jump in, follow you, use the secret weapon of my words and my long pact with gravitation to sink faster, crabs holding on to my toes pulling me down jealously chasing golden fishes away and nailing me to the bottom hanging on to roots and to traveling sirens' wailing music. you reach me and I watch in ecstatic wonder your skirt's hem wavering somewhere above your head competing with hair and with currents and with breaking rays yet my eyes riveted to the endless stretch of legs starting with the roundness of heels and ending with the triangularity of cotton long rendered transparent, the boiling vision beneath its fiber a mix of colorful sparks and undulating curls and pink spots playing hide and seek with the golden fishes and the tiny crabs and my sanity. help me! I implore the crabs, the fishes, the roots, the music, my voice a meaningless bubbling cacophony gurgling its way to the surface. and the crabs cut and the fishes pull and the roots wave and the music play and while they all dance their way into the rising moon we dance our naked way into the setting sun your cotton leftovers feeding future generations of weeds and your sparks and curls and spots feeding my body their corroding fire.

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Drifting Wood my legs caught in drifting wood the snarl the size of a lifetime ununtanglable I hold on to your ankle as you swirl into sun stains cutting through branches and eyelids trying to keep my head out of the water for a moment I lose my hold and I flutter between death and death until you pull me into your lips once more biting life into my tongue I fight the pull of the river my skin stretching my bones breaking yet I must keep waiting for your unsaid words until said you say and then swim around me making love to my skin and feeding to my soul more unsaid words unending you allow me to cup your breasts telling me not even the sun

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Torture you hide in the light your treasures your inexistent sharp corners and that inexistent bone deep chill and those inexistent desert dry wells of flesh the passing shadows only the butterflies breaking their chrysalises inside my eyes to swarm out and guide me in torturing your inexistences. who is torturing whom? I ask myself a moment before terror strikes your regard and you cringe in fright at the terrifying sight of fingertips. all you are allowed to do is moan, I threaten, making sure you have seen all ten of them before closing eyes hordes of butterflies settling to drink from your mouth’s corner patiently waiting their turn to ambrosia and divinity. guide me! I whisper into the fluttering color finally sated into poetry and dance and my fingers start marking trails in the dust floating down from wings to your skin. touchdown and your shiver is earthquake and the bed crushes in splinters cracks showing though walls and pebbles falling down from the ceiling... oh... I hear your long intake of breath and dust... was it butterfly or fingertip? you ask trying to stretch the skin till it almost breaks along tiny veins. you are not allowed to talk, I admonish only to moan, I add letting other fingertips join that first one moving from the side of your ribs down to your waist leaving the debris hiding between fingerprints in between the mountainous landscape growing up from your flesh and filling the bare valleys with fertile dreams about to sprout into minuscule flowers and feed those millions of hovering butterflies guiding me into you. no, not yet the nipple, I tell the red butterfly waving, desperate for my attention, and finally settling down disappointed lost in the erotic thoughts and the red of your rigid expectation. they desert the waist, the fingertips, butterflies pulling and pushing and breezing my ends of flesh spiraling down the perilous journey hesitatingly cutting across the soft hills, dizzy, hobbling on the edge of the dark, inviting crevasse and venturing for a breath taking moment of fantasy into its depths the butterflies roaring indignation and admiration unknowing of my searching there of your moments previously unknown, ever shied away into forbidden recesses of future memories now exploding to life... you moan, the terror of deadly pleasures invading your conscience before you fall into the stupor of fulfillment again. no, not yet the nipple, and the red butterfly drowns its disappointment inside my mouth peeling layers of humidity to feed its own red flower there, at the summit of your red flower. I reach your knee too far away from target, scream the butterflies thousands hanging on to the hairs of my hand and forcing all those fingertips back upwards the inner skin of your thigh mottling into broken glass grains as fingernails take over from fingertips for a long stretch touching the roots of each grain then peeling off its crest then blaming the damn butterflies for the flowery trail always growing in their wake, always growing, the nectar flowing abundantly from somewhere higher up to feed the fluttering mob of petals and wings and manes of tiny, invisible stallions. no, not yet the nipple, is my turn to wail as I reach the glimmering fields of your shadow. you moan, did you ever stop moaning? I ask knowing not of which is this world and which isn’t. I penetrate into the crypt of life the fingertip dragging the rest of the flesh in the butterflies pushing my elbow en masse the heat uncontrollable, sweltering, harrowing, dank, torrid... is this butterflies’ paradise? I ask pulling out frightened at sounds of uncontrollable snickering... is it the butterflies or you? I ask further knowing it is not you as your moans break pieces of sun to hurl them Earth’s way while my fingertips take control of their life again and gently caress the curly fibers of silk settling each back in the perfectly defined order God once decided upon. now, now the nipple, I finally give in my fingertips skipping belly and navel and ribs hiding inside boiling flesh, letting the fluttering red drunkenness guide them to that final resting place crowning queens beneath thrones and seducing kings out of kingdoms... hovering, nearing, inhaling the flame touchdown and my fingertips clamp like sepals to the stem of your hard nipple, the red butterfly dancing inside the cage and the ever changing petals of uncountable flying wings defining the moment amaranthine. you moan and earthcrust breaks and seas cascade into the gaping crack and unicorns boil their way to liberty from dreams’ prison and we never fall... floating away immortalized by that last moment of momentous torture.

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Germinal the choice was not ours we touched after imagining, fantasizing, picturing not knowing that reality is so more supernal than myth did we explode or deliquesce or both when that door opened and splotches of us covered the walls now slowly slithering down to the floor attempting in vain to recreate our separate bodies? did we make love already? we don’t ask each other not willing to know whose is the skin and whose the fire and where the missing parts of us are... maybe picked up by crows to feed wild raspberries your skin so pale, i wonder, your hair so long, i wonder, your touch so soft, i wonder, your nest so warm, you do not wonder curling inside my curled body hoping for the sun to never find east

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RRR Let’s dance, she wrote on a piece of paper shoving it under my nose. Why do you write instead of talking? I wrote underneath her offer shoving it underneath her nose. Because I don’t want to release your lips, she wrote on the back of the same paper not releasing my lips and adding a tongue into the equation. You talk too much, I complained taking the pen away and making sure her hand holds on to some reality. She stopped writing, content with reality and the feel of it. No doubt, I was content too. Let’s undress, she mmm’d and uum’d and I couldn’t understand a word of it. What did you say? I tried, but beyond a few hrr’s nothing got out, looked like linguistics became some kind of an issue and we were having our first fight. I want to make love, she said and I got the marmalade part of it but nothing else, I guess she was getting hungry. I’ll get me some from the neighbor, I assured her and she smacked me in the reality, they always seem to understand when they are not supposed to. It was hard undressing with her, again, hanging on obstinately to my reality and with both my hands clamped, again, to her left nipple (couldn’t get the bra’s right cup off) and her feet on mine because of the cockroaches, actually these were baby squirrels but she insisted. Ahfo ghuri hopohopo, she sang and I carried her to the bed giving in to her poetry. Dgutyiuoi huiffrg sdfggeq, I enchained my rhyme and as she smiled in appreciation I pulled her out of her clothes and myself out of mine before we both clamped back to our one-track-mind targets. CooCoo CeeCee, she cooed almost humanly accepting my reality inside her beautiful world. HuuHuu HaaHaa (there was also a HrrHrr but so unpoetic... I will skip it) I bellowed almost humanly too as my reality exploded into the beauty of a myriad stars dripping down from the ceiling. * You are crazy, you know? she said, kissing me furiously, is this the poetry of love the one to be so rich in rhyme and rhythm and rhetoric? Did you ever listen to a nightingale’s love song? I said, kissing her furiously, did you ever doubt its meaning though you understood none of its rhyme and rhythm and rhetoric? We kissed, furiously, our skin taken over by rhyme and rhythm and rhetoric.

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Soft is your body soft, is your body soft as air as water as dandelion's bitter milk once its crown was ripped off by storm, if i jump off a plane will i fall right through it and never reach the depths of your emotion, and reaving lust, and tender abandon? my body is soft, as soft as flesh emblazed by ardour kneaded by temper caressed by glow, you will never fall through it as it is in my essence to hold you to gather you to breathe your breath and let it brush upon my insides your delirium.

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Side by Side side by side, fingers laced of course your breasts bigger than mine but on our backs our chests reach almost same height except for your nipples... well, we have to differ in something... sure, I could have been higher "there" but not now, now I just breathe life in again after you sucked me clean of it my lungs empty my heart a derailing train just loosing its first wheel my body sticky with your milk, your honey, your sweat, your passion, our insane desire. no moths, all burned in the moment ago flames, the clock at the headboard busted whose foot was it kicking it to pieces?... yours or mine? how did a foot reach there where heads should naturally be and groans should mingle with creaking boards and pillows rebel for being shoved under arching hips and even lower and even lower?... we turn to face each other hands still clasping, we both own some body parts stretching to fall down, luckily solidly attached to skin, flesh, our free hands investigating there is no damage, or so they pretend trying to evoke some reaction if direct, if vocal even though there is not much air left in the room most of it having fulminated earlier on. whose turn is it now to torture the pillow? I ask, having received momentary permission to part from your mouth yet knowing the answer to be irrelevant as our bodies keep changing dominance and vertigo takes over from up and down and after a few more moments vertigo is just a word and flesh is something human and creatures of fire take over our senses once more burning the bedding burning the walls the ball of fire gulping us as we turn steel again before melting into flowing flesh once again. face to back, all still there, I reassure you, making sure. back to face, all still there, you reassure me, making sure. back to back, not for long, we reassure us, making sure.

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Mirage... Kind Of I lay on my back, sleepy, my right leg bent at the knee upwards under the blanket, the left leg stretched... Oh, my God, I heard you gasp, watching the blanket in horror ready to bound to the window... what is that? you asked. Took me some time to understand, my sleepiness deep... Oh, poor girl, your imagination wild, I reproached the gutter obfuscating your mind, that is not “that”, I said, lowering my knee, the blanket showing now a much smaller protrusion daring its way upwards. You did not trust me, crawling slowly under my blanket and looking everywhere with your hands... a girl can never be sure... you tested everywhere then you tasted everywhere then, finally satisfied, you gave me a big smile a big kiss and a big... whatever else big there was to give. I fell asleep, after you crawled back to your blanket testing and tasting everything once more, one never knows. Oh, my God, I gasped, watching your blanket in horror ready to bound to the window... what is that? I asked. You slept on your belly, your buttocks giant, huge, shooting for the ceiling... I guess it took you some time to understand, your sleepiness deep... Oh, poor man, your imagination wild, you reproached the gutter obfuscating my mind, that is not “that”, you said, stretching your knees and body the blanket showing now a much smaller protrusion round and beautiful and nicely proportioned. I did not trust you, crawling slowly under your blanket and looking everywhere with my hands... a man can never be sure... I tested everywhere then I tasted everywhere then, finally satisfied, I gave you a big smile a big kiss and a big... whatever else big there was to give. I wanted to crawl back to my blanket but you held on to “that” guiding my hand to “that”... it was kind of difficult to fall asleep this way... hey... which guttered mind wants to fall asleep this way, anyway?

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Flights Of Fancy hang on to that cloud, let your sandals fall and your hair wild and taste the rain as it slithers immodestly inside your sleeve, free your ribbons from the cage of waist and ankle and watch them defy gravity to join the sedge of cranes chasing the sun to sanctuary, unbutton your dresses, yes... you can keep your modesty, no... you must keep one hand hanging on to that cloud or you may fall into the dresses once more. someone will find the sandals and press them between the pages of a memories book, to later discover them again and scrap pieces of skin during cold winter nights assailing, someone will find the ribbons dangling down from a crane’s nest to tie images of you and watch you turn fluttering butterfly keeping summer eternal, I will find you once I finish the ladder to the sun, you can hang on to me as I remove your modesty drop the ladder and we paint love upon the light.

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Unravel touching fingers one at a time, touching noses one available, only, touching lips how many thousands? it feels like millions as fingers clamp into one shared fist and noses flatten against face bones and chests did not touch yet, unravel my breast you ask demand implore, sculpt the deformity of my flesh into the winsomeness of your cupping palm you offer, drink me with your millions of lips once my mouth is already on fire and the rest of my body aches for calvary you pray, garments floating in the powerful gusts of our lungs trying to sail for the sun and crying their desolation against the rigid indifference of brick and glass and wood while all of you are unraveled and sculpted and drank by the whole of me and mine.

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Before Making Love To You look behind you, the one tapping you lightly on the shoulder burning a hole through your dress and breaking your skin to brand your flesh passion is not the sun. keep your eyes open, you will see the balls of fire invading that heart you call mouth and those questing springs you call eyes and sizzling under that torrential rain you call hair to torment your flesh are not falling stars. balance the line of your lips, before you decide on sneer or smile feel inside those invisible palms hanging alongside your body the golden dust imprisoning time in its grains and refusing to leave before you meet your art is not angel tears. i tried to touch shoulder i tried to invade mouth eyes hair i tried to hang on to palms i tried to make love to you before making love to you.

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About Relativity I saw a hammer, several lengths of nylon string, rolls of sticky tape, boxes of nails, jars of glue, a pile a clocks and watches and chronometers and hourglasses... What are you doing my love? modern art? I asked. Shush... she pulled me aside, they may hear, she pointed to the pile of timepieces. Hear what? I insisted. That I want to stop time, she whispered secretively picking up the hammer. It touched her forehead, checked her pulse, even listened to her heartbeat... she wasn’t feverish... And nevertheless, you are insane, my love. Wanna bet you pants? there was something wild in that regard as she (thankfully) dropped the hammer and lighted the torch between our mouths welding then into one single flesh continuum. I lost my bet. And my pants. She definitely could do it. She could stop time.

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Asymmetries as your white mingles with mine and skins refuse to unfuse and content flesh growls in discontent we finally give up trying to extinguish the embrace’s fire falling asleep inside a gravitational hug your body weight crushing and i lose my way in inebriation. i watch the skies through the abundance of flowing hair rebellious flesh acting independently palms sunken inside breasts woman fragrances encroaching and as you revolve mouths and chests and loins find renewed reasons to reverberate to the ferocity of a call ending in an exploding universe.

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Geminorum those tempting mounds of elegance gracing your body with the bliss of various symmetries and beauty soft, smooth, impressing upon me their insistent demand to invade each and every of their twin kingdoms of flesh and slay its intimacy with bare hands... I hesitate, Tiphys before the wandering blue rocks scared, conniving, daring, waiting for Hera to guide his hand with an indubitable sign... you smile... my hand leaps in between your hanging breasts drags its horses down the depths of your opening thighs and finally slithers its way back, upwards, through the deep valley ending with the ridge of your spine and your interminable moan... I look at my stump failing its passage through all of your kingdoms and battered into pulp again and again and again with nothing less than fire. want to try once more? you ask mischievously swathing my fingers with the insides of your mouth. until I succeed? I ask, hoping for the wrong answer. until you fail, you answer wrongly, and we both know. my hand leaps once more and your moans are my insanity's guiding music.

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Re-enact your skin as shriveled as the bedding after those ransacking attacks of ferine frenzy your shivers pounding the walls into disintegration and the sea into fomentation your sighs... were these sighs or cooing doves hiding in the art of that cathedral called your body? I pulled away from you watching the skin reach unwillingly back into the monotony of smoothness your shivers fading down to a navel tasting the air one inch higher with the regularity of a metronome your sighs blasting voicelessly the burning sands away from your lungs and aiming for the receding caverns of my mouth, you opened eyes you crooked finger you smiled invitation... I couldn't resist the call of your flesh, I crawled back, your skin a creaking foil your shivers a soprano's cords your sighs a plea to bathe in the liquid moon anew.

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Butterfly Legends there was a crack in the frame, hordes of yellow light escaping through the thin imperfection between door and sill, i pushed the door i stepped in and locked the door carefully behind me afraid all the light may evade your side of world and maybe sweep you along, even unwilling... i saw you right away, had no choice but to see you as your clothes could barely contain the radiance and wherever you dashed the halo followed... there was no other sun there, i didn’t know you shied away from the truth, modestly. you were busy chasing butterflies, your butterfly-net sweeping in wide arcs gathering hundreds of fluttering rainbows inside its oval mouth and... like by magic, letting them all pass through the net at the other hand happily returning to fly ahead of you to be netted again, stupid critters i wished i was one of them. you lay down on the flowers... this is all there was, flowers, and the butterflies settled on your toes five to a toe and twenty to an ankle some of them flying away with your outer garments the luckier ones flying away with your inner garments the luckiest settling down on your nakedness to chill your desire and lust and torridity, the daring ones pulling away at all my garments and me. don’t touch me... you begged and i touched you and i turned butterfly forever running away from you to get caught again and again and again in the magic of your net and of your endlessly streaming light. how will you make love to me, now? you asked and i would wait for those few moments when your eyes would close and your heart would quit beating and i would turn skin enveloping you and penetrating you and caressing you turning butterfly once more before your wake up. and if you don’t turn butterfly before? you asked, knowing, and i waited and did not turn butterfly and when you opened your eyes and released your heart i turned human and opened the door and left your world. * i waited at the door, sleeping on the threshold waiting for a miracle. there was a rush of air and a rush of butterflies and a soft figure nestled against me. where is your light? i asked and you pointed to your heart and then to mine, humming a soft butterfly song.

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Encounter come my way through walls through forests not through me though i would welcome your passage open your palm above my chest let it pour the glittering fistful of earth you grabbed from beneath your stepping foot the humming mouthful of bark you nibbled hugging the oak to your chest the fluttering handful of leaves you collected inside the raised hem of your skirt let me touch life through your body the warmth of you leaving humid traces between my ribs as dirt flows to my sides making my bed my body... your bed lay your garments beneath my head and curl to your sleep on my flesh breathing through my mouth knowing that once you wake up i would have loved you night clothes us the warmth of no color all embracing letting me see that of your beauty never seen to sun or to one who touched your body yet never your dream

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So Called Fate I pity you for not having known me, before. I envy you for knowing me, during. Suns alight at the ends of my trembling fingers running in parallel orbits around your flesh planet and falling into it, at times, Songs running away from my battered larynx to assail those delicate listening devices lining your eardrum sobbing their way in, at times, Colors splintered into their basic components by my gauche words creating divine masterpieces on the convoluted canvas of your brain crawling past its door, at times. I pity you for having known me, after. I pity you for not having found me, before. I envy you for having found me, during. Though your suns are but tiny splotches on the rich texture of my universe, Though your songs are but single notes in the endless symphony of my existence, Though your colors are but a single brush stroke on that masterpiece called my life. I pity you for having found me, after. I sat on the bed my spine suddenly curving forward my naked torso supporting my dropping head my legs crossed my hand crushing the piece of paper I just wrote, almost bursting in tears. You came behind me your legs saddling my hips your naked breasts burning their way through to my lungs your fingers playing with the hair on my chest trying to find a minuscule nipple your face leaning on the nape of my neck breathing away inexistent dust. Yet without your suns my universe would crumble back to its primal fist size of matter, Yet without your songs the symphony would sound hollow around that one false note of existence, Yet without your colors the masterpiece of life would crack and peel around desiccating oil lines. I turned around wishing to make love to you as we sat there facing each other and knowing all of the theory of coincidence so called fate.

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Quest(ions) is your body as wild as your unwritten words, or as shy as answers ungiven and thoughts hidden in flowers chasing suns forever out of grasp? does you body blush from your chin up or from your chin down ending way beyond those bare toes touching earth and letting the blush flow further on past its boiling pith bursting on the other side to reach a sun impatient for it and you? will i find underneath your cloth which i will dispose of underneath your undercloth which i will slide you out of underneath your skin which i will ply into a thousand and one shapes of pleasure and three thousand and three craves appeased will i find there your ultimate poem? when you engulf me within your folds and softness and delightfully oppressive swelter may i feed myself the ripeness of your breast and the elixir of your pouring sweat denying me eternal repose... eternally?

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After A Moment Ago A moment ago there was air, A moment ago there were dust particles and asbestos fibers and fuel molecules and fast-food smells, A moment ago there was hell... Open them! and I opened my lips Close them! and I closed my eyes Dream! and for a moment I lay disoriented in a blank void, Something out there wedged itself between my lips, firmly, if firmly can account for the taste of sliced pineapples and the aroma of burning wood and the texture of shivering flesh, the mounds pressing against my chest completing the riddle in its most unsolvable form, I wondered if this was the meaning of... dream, When a sudden gust of sighs swept me away to fields of wild angels neighing between fragrant pebbles blooming under a sky of viscous dripping rainbows... butterflies, are there butterflies? I asked, knowing the image to be incomplete without butterflies and an aerie of eagles flew overhead their feathers red and yellow and blue their antennae white, I finally understood that last command... No, you finally understood the reality of kiss. So what is dream? I wondered, not aloud as my mouth was busy licking burning wood flavored pineapples from shivering flesh. I felt two hands guiding my two hands to the two mysterious mounds pressing against my chest. Is this dream? I asked. This is woman, seemed to be alleging the wedge against my mouth, and I remember having still had time to wonder why two words for a same telling before burning wood seared my lips and pineapple slices hooked on to my tongue and shivering flesh dragged my shivering flesh all the way into Elysium.

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parting your hair parting your hair right through the middle pushing it over shoulders to cover breasts just liberated from the oppression of palms' lifelines to the chill of the room's indifference screaming nipples driving the fury of tiny cyclones claiming abandon rather than liberty be their desperate share the vortex rolling hair ends round and round and round their biting fire. parting your hair right through the middle baring your back to the few investigating cells populating the tips of my fingers and sinking inflaming hooks into your flesh rippling waves of desire driving thousands of grains in an effort to desert your skin and reach out in prayer to the gods of lust leaving havoc in your body immeasurable the hinges of your spine almost breaking under the stress of bonesquake. parting your hair right through the middle strands tying my left wrist to your right your left wrist to my right fingers interlaced five five five five loins interlaced one one sweat mingling with residual fragrances of soap and unleashed carnality flowing smoothly between sunken minotaurs and hosting goddesses until the fire storm sinks into our minds' abysses and our bodies lie limp ready for the next onslaught to come.

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Sandglass tried, gave up. counting the grains of sand falling it won't make them fall any faster and just define me as certifiable... see, I am not crazy otherwise I wouldn't say I am not crazy... maybe I should break the top glass bulb instead? just a little big hole to count hours instead of milliseconds? hey, I probably just invented the time machine... are you sure I might be... crazy anyway?... hmmm... * steps, I don't hear steps, you slide... maybe you float the train of your garment disguising your feet, or you may just be hovering hanging on to particles of air while the floor and the room and I smoothly roll towards you, waiting for your arms to rise and sparks to jump between the ends of your fingers and hummingbirds to fly away from your lips making place for mine. I hear music, the wind blowing through your hair and the heart sounding each of your ribs and the blinking of eyes tinkling like copper wind chimes played by chasing butterflies and angry bees struggling for the supremacy of morning, the falling of crystal shoes and the flutter of silver ribbons and the rustle of silk leaving your body and dropping way through the floor and to the other side of Earth. we do not embrace, we merge there was no skin before and there is no skin after just the essence of existence swirling in pale tones, a river of smoke pouring through windows and doors and cracks in the walls gathering tidal proportions as it crosses fields and tears down forests and crushes mountains to stones and to gravel and to dust to finally gather back into open mouths disentangling their moment of ecstasy. * I tried to cheat instead, turning it the other way around when there was just a little sand in the bottom bulb, then I tried to buy a smaller one, then one using pebbles instead of sand and finally one using honey... I couldn't resist and licked all the honey leaving this experiment undetermined, finally I just bought an empty one wondering who was crazy enough to invent it, I will turn it now to see what time zero means... I hope it is very short, ha... and you call me crazy.

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Knock, Knock Knock, Knock, who's there? A maiden fair, Her eyes fling spice through sunset's air Her mouth way south feeds autumn's flair And lips to hips I graze my trips Before I bolt and further err. Knock, Knock, who knocks? Sweet lady locks, To share her hair with chirping flocks And mesh her flesh around my docks Till skin has seen the light of sin And gentle sleep her cradle rocks. Knock, Knock, who sings? A queen to kings, A wreath beneath her fleeting wings Above her love a rainbow swings Her chest and breast a sunrise nest My heart to pierce with burning stings.

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Aliterature Stare down color into whimpering surrender Sing larks away from a hankering sun Scribe the theory of lust into my infantine confidence Show gates unknown to poetry indescribable I be the palimpset and you be the finger staining me your color and song and lust and poetry I be the palestra and you be the master instilling me your color and song and lust and poetry I be the palfrey and you be the pasturage feeding me your color and song and lust and poetry I be the paladin and you be the noble cause dressing me your color and song and lust and poetry Abdicate shyness between pages closed Abase reticence to frail grains of flour Abandon persuasive tomes of reason on the trail to exciting discernment Abjure allegiance to yesterday for peregrine tomorrow Make love to my body And subjugate my mind Turning our heaven into home And our flesh into shattering stardom

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visit were you here? she wrote her letter, uncertain, ‘cause my soul is bruised my mind confused my heart suffused with herds of words and glowing birds... yet my skin unblemished and my lips unbitten an my toes uncrushed though there is braids to my hair and sounds to my ears not been there before and stains to my breast and sores to my nipple unremembered ever. how could i tell her that i was the feather falling from the ceiling to caress her skin and the moth diving into the candle before splattering on her skin and the snow flake waiting for summer to glide down her skin? gently, she said, tenderly, she said, softly, she said, and only her breast my pillow as i fell asleep her nipple to my mouth and she won’t remember my tapestry. ‘cause gentleness my claim and tenderness my flame and softness my aim when you weep in your sleep and quivers your lip... tell me to know, she begged, uncertain. turn your hand against the sunrise, i wrote my letter, and she did watching words suddenly lift off skin and rush into the boiling ends of sea to taste fiery rampage and all she could was read beauty before it died an incinerated death. i know, she knew.

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Baldachin the traces are still there. does heaven leave traces once its wagons drag away, deep ruts turned puddles thin smoke rising from hissing bonfires broken violins plucked to death by eager, innocent, untrained fingers?... or a baldachin between a bed once neat and crisp and a sky ignoring the location of purgatory yet completely ignorant to the first residence of heaven. we hid our sun to prevent the envy of the yellow monster up there we hid or bodies to prevent the rage of all those unable to understand we unraveled each other to prevent heaven from never being invented and dying as a dream called utopia. I wonder who was the one glimpsing our mind taking a snapshot of the now ravaged bed and having stolen the note hanging on the bedpost: and then, there was love...

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Moments Of Flesh you halted your step in front of me not touching the closest we were at some points was just a grass blade's thickness away, the farthest at other points a whole bunch of them, not more than seventy three... maybe even seventy two, I wondered how we looked like in profile were our mouths closer than our noses or your button to my t-shirt, our knees? maybe the tips of our shoes? hey, not fair, that strand of hair suddenly lashing out and hitting my cheek then pulling shyly away, you touched me and I have to write another poem reducing the number of glass blades to dust, probably even to negative numbers as we violated each other's material space and pieces of us started squashing, mingling, encompassing, braiding... no, not yet penetrating, this would come, later. I started sinking to my knees, not sure if I had any knees to sink to as maybe it was just my tibia melting and my calves creasing around it like piled tires of flesh and muscle, my nose dragging down inside your shirt ripping button after button... no, I couldn't rip the bra, neither the belt, neither did I want to when I finally found myself facing your thighs bending forwards falling in the textile (thank you God) such a poor protector and the furnace blast calling and the perfumes of your song invading, my face squeezing against the calling flesh and biting the fibers out of way... when did my hands find your heels? when did your calves find my hands? when did my hands and your thighs sign a pact of mutual destruction as the blaze started smoldering between palms and back of thighs your skirt's hem pulling up hanging on like a leech to my forearms allowing palms to betray thighs and move higher your skirt above my head hands grabbing handfuls of delicious flesh crawling inside the burning adytum and pulling thrusting hips towards a throbbing head my mouth discovering the source of all life and chasing ferocious birds hiding in fields of cotton and wild berries and seed scattering poppies until you bent like a stem broken at hip pulling me out of a tattered shirt to count my spine's vertebrae all the way to its roots and further... penetration followed. this poem seems about to end, I found your head above my knee looking upwards at whatever your toe playing with my ear my hand running errands between your knee and whatever, the sound of rolling balls of fire falling into the ocean sizzling their way to our ears. let's make love, you suggested (unoriginally) your head following your regard as my head followed my hand and short time later the smell of charred flesh blessed once more our senses.

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Questing For You I will wait for you looking eastwards between two clouded peaks knowing you will rise I will recognize your step laying my ear to the ground next to the lilac and hearing your seed sprout I will sense your presence waiting for the change of wind to reach my senses from a blossoming oranges orchard I will succumb to your caress allowing early evening a tired swallowtail to land at the corner of my mouth I will taste you lying on my back in the vineyard as fermenting grapes start dropping into my mouth I will make love to you visiting the altar of your words as you undress me to dress me with your body’s poetry

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Dialogue You sent me images wings and suns and sunsets angels and paranymphs and paramours, You etched words twisting my mind into an epileptic fit and wringing my body in a string about to snap, You replaced the ascending moon with a candle redolent of lily and the sound of lapping waves with the promise of moans redolent of woman, You gave me your skin and the flesh inside of it and the soul floating somewhere in the néants of moksha. You touched me.

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Panacea fill the lily to its rim with the nectar of mangosteen and sapodilla and durian and laboring Apis mellifera clans, and when the cup flows over sliding round the velvety spirals down to your holding hand guide it to my lips, let it be the panacea to my unending thirst and my obstinate blindness... no, I will not heal until you let me lick the hanging drops off your finger ends.

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Perfumes And Colors Close the door, close, close it fast before roses fly away and butterflies never open petals crying for parting perfumes and colors... Close the distance, close, close it fast before my heart follows the roses looking for you where you are not blinded by crying butterflies and a void of perfumes and colors... Open your mouth open, open it fast before roses crash against walls and butterflies whither inside drying buds and my garrulous heart clams into a silence equaled only by dissipating perfumes and fading colors... Open your arms, open, open them fast before I follow roses and butterflies bare your chest and gather us all to your warmth roses and butterflies and my heart to inhale life off your love’s perfumes and your dream’s colors...

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Fantasy? when finally the last vestiges fell off your shoulders i didn’t see you, and i know i so wanted to... open your eyes, you offered to solve my riddle and i refused knowing the act to certainly result in fantasicide. stretch your hand, you whispered yet i knew the brush against my ear to be the breeze from that window i forgot to close. i promise you fantasy, you tried again knowing of my quandary and luring trustless me into trusting the fantasy self. i gave in finally and i saw you rising from those shapeless mounds around your ankles and the blister on my caressing palm could not have been fantasy.

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invasion it's the first time i see it, an army of light crawling across the land like a slow tide of mud filling furrows drowning stones, then crocodiles, then boulders, reaching my neck above my head sweeping along camels and baobab trees and flying eagles... invasion... why do you smile, lover? she asks, threatening me with fingers tightly clasped around tufts of my chest's hair. i give in raising my hands in welcome to the rolling chariots dragging tame dragons and wild angels and barrels of liquid flowers in the wake of the ever conquering, ever rising light spiked wheels rolling over my body and seeding rows of alien butterflies underneath my skin, underneath my fingernails, beneath my tongue... lover?... i hear the threatening tone small fingers replaced by a small fist clasping a bit more of my hair's real estate pulling a bit stronger... for an instant i give up reality for a bit of fantasy, after all it starts hurting... i was watching, i concede. watching whom?... the pull ever stronger. watching you, i answer lapsing back into the reality of the invasion and thankful for her clasp suddenly turned tender desire.

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Untimely Sunrise did not expect the sun to rise so soon after setting for the night. you opened your eyes, after... I did not scream right away. my love, you asked, why are your eyes tightly shut? my love, I answered my nose assailed by smells of burning eyebrows and eyelashes and stubble, next time one of us should wear welding goggles. I think you misunderstood, or maybe there was a tiny streak of cruelty in your blood, as soon after another patch of curls went up in smoke. I screamed... moaned... would rather be a better description of my deed.

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Going please, let go... seize please, let go... squeeze please, let go... squash what was harder, the physical clutches or the mental clutches pulling away from my wounds and sliding back into your recesses? the wheels pulling me away the window sliding up the retro-mirror showing you receding even faster than reality the shapeless hole in the puzzle of life laid barren of shapes, and smells, and moans, and snores, and the comforting presence of... presence heaven's reality show coming to an end in a blizzard of unfinished thoughts and unfinished embraces and unfinished poems

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Indefinitions Of Swan where did your neck start and where did it end? and did it end at all? I kept following its lines beginning with that feature humans call big toe on your left leg and ending with the same feature, well, its almost twin sibling on your right leg then skipping once more to your left and rolling around once more and then once more and never finding an end to that feature humans call neck... is all of you neck, swan? I felt your skin contorting and your feathers flailing and that endless neck twisting to follow my tips of fingers and tongue and tentacles I wished to possess and you knew I did, and before your voice died in the agony of sigh your song rose in the agony of rustle welcoming my penetrating skin and relief. the bliss of white stained by the art of pink flowers closing upon drops of nepenthe.

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Touch! Touch! no, you do not have to wait for a giant's hand to lift your side of the bed until you roll over to my side or the other way around, neither for a cyclone to deposit your nakedness on top of mine or the other way around once more, not even for Earth to suddenly brake and throw you into me or through me or me into you squashing us both into flesh pulp and unconsumed desires, all you have to do is roll on your back stretch your hand and between my two breaths and your ten... Touch! wonder not at my sudden thousands of breaths and neighs and gasps and chokes for your same ten, there's no math to this only the purity of passion.

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Were We Young, Ever? no, never were always are. as we count the gasps between spasms and the shivers between quakes and the silences between deaths, as we see stars inside eyelashes and flowers inside nipples and fires inside silks craving for tatters, as we translate moans to coos and screams to songs and smiles to the impertinence of encore... no, never. yes, always.

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Species I will dip my hand to the elbow into you, I will hang on to your lips my feet dangling above void, I will roll you to hold between fingers while poeting. I am human, not enchantress lover. You are woman, not human lover.

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Knowledge you gasped as i reached out and crushed the sun inside my fist. you killed light, you mourned knowing that millions of far away suns are no match for the one dying with Earth. speak your beauty, woman, i commanded even though i was neither god nor human i was only the one who knows. you spoke your beauty and the smoldering culm deflagrated in splendor stumping my smothering hand at the wrist. the sun obeys you, i said bringing knowledge to you.

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wrong i uncovered your skin nearing my face and blowing gently advancing upwards, i blew my way across a nipple admiring its arrogant stance for a long moment before blowing on the second one... what are you doing lover? you asked, uncomplaining. blowing away the dust, i answered, truthfully. there is no dust, you objected, curving your chest upwards trying to see. i hated to contradict you but sometimes you were simply wrong. there is, i insisted. star dust.

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Of Leftovers How much is there in me left? Passion, I mean. I wonder, could I have used one percent of it had I but woken up earlier? Probably not. Probably not even if I died later, much later, uncountable years later something like... well... uncountable. Unfair having been given so much for so little and all I can do is moan, not even complain while working my way through fire wires hanging across my path cutting thin slices of skin and flesh and bone as I die little by little knowing the agony in passing ecstasy and endless rekindle. I wish I could have squeezed your breast into orange and your mouth into pot of honey and your thighs into bear trap. I wish I had less passion. I wish I had more mouths, more hands, more tongues. I wish I had more time. Just enough to get rid of passion.

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Moon? Is it the same moon? The one I watch and you watch maybe at the same time certainly not at the same geography probably the same color size taste... did you ever taste moon? I can see you licking your lips, you did, didn't you? When I stuck my finger one pole in and you the other pole in and we wormed our finger's way down to the inert heart fingers nearing touching ignition and the moon detonated like gun powder under the hammer the ends of our fingers collapsing and dragging the rest of our bodies deep deep into the fire and the mire and the disintegrating entrails of a disintegrating moon. I saw you licking your fingers after. Are you sure you are talking about the moon? you ask, your bandaged tips of fingers disagreeing with you. I am sure, I answer your bandaged tips of fingers agreeing with me. We hurried to splash pieces of moon back up there not willing to hurt so many coming generations of lovers, I wish I saw their faces once, years from now, they will find the runes of your words on patches my skin at its freshly uncovered heart. And frozen drops of tenderness embalming it all, you laugh unknowledgeable of your innocent knowledge of truths.

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Words Words... our reality. Those mistaken by the gods of creation for poetry and set aside for pens and books rather than being fed into their infernal genesis machine. Fools, the gods, and havoc their clay. Fools, the humans, claiming goodness against badness and beautiness against ugliness, the comparative brutality and limitation of a mind not having touched the absolute sensation of the fantasy of you.

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Even Queens Pee, No? You see?... I pee. I shave my legs and fry my eggs, I snore, seduce with no excuse, My heels are low my teardrops flow, With rising dawn I grump, I yawn, I curse at times then count my dimes and groom my rhymes... Wasn’t aware fairies were mentally blind. Guess they were genetically flawed, after all, almost perfection had to be paid for somehow. I couldn’t fight my gravitation, I could, though, fight her illusion. The dahlia opened, layer after layer after layer, she emerged her transparent wings opening layer after layer after layer thin veins conducting electrical flickers pulsating with life as she flapped them into invisibility and mounted into the light leaving a mist of honey on her trail to the sun. I heard her snore, lightly. Mental blindness was probably contagious and I got some of it. Well as long as she offered me the tips of her breasts and that magic dust called love making I did not mind. Humans have to make sacrifices, you know... even queens pee, no?

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Beast Of Beauty Tornado strikes. Its heavy fist finally rises, the five knuckled dent a symbol of annihilation and end as appeased fury retreats into a celestial lair to dream of power and infamy. A crumb of earth moves, heaves, tumbles. An antenna crushes, a gash all through a left wing one thin foot dangling as a beast of beauty angrily emergences from a momentary tomb sniffing the wind snubbing the giant and with one majestic flap leaping its polychromatic grandeur into the eye of the sun raining glimmering dust as gash turns tear and the sun admits the intruder into the before death of eternal glory. I touch your lip. Butterfly.

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Far is the white of your flesh burning? do the thistles beneath your skin pierce angrily out looking for their victim - my fingers, to re-sculpt their prints and puncture their vessels and slide beneath their nails gulping thirstily life? are the tiny flowers rushing their blossom upon your pale expanse nerve ends aspiring into the sun or thistles exploding into the miracle of poppies?

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Migration You are naked, from your shoulders up from your knees down, I wonder then uncover you between shoulders and knees to not wonder anymore. I let you hang on to your lipstick, to your nail polish too, spots of imperfection in the perfect canvas of lust and migrating desire. Migrating? Migrating from the curls of your hairs through the tips of your fingers to the ends of my body until all intermediaries are eliminated unceremoniously and curls and tips and ends and surfaces and streams of sweat and flocks of suspires crash and merge and mingle and ignite and the ball of fire which was our bodies licks the belly of butterflies and scorches the root of flowers. And do they unmigrate? They do, when our knitted fingers turn belly of butterflies and our woven skins turn root of flowers. Is this a painting? Yes, of terrifying passion.

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Not a Poem, Not a Song It is a song I want to write you, not a poem The difference not in the sound but in the intent, Defining love either in terms of yes and no Or in terms of walking on the sidewalk and crowding up in a traffic jam of humans going from nowhere to nowhere else and vice versa, And even in terms of letting the dog under your blanket your other leg thrown across her side of the bed, across her leg, her body. It is a poem I want to write you, not a song The difference not in the intent but in the sound, The rhymes confiscating my other half of soul While I step upon grass dressing sons of gravel tapping with my shoes a Morse code unknown to all but one whom I don't know And I pluck grains of salt from her upper lip just as she offers her lower lip to the butchering blade of a tooth I recognize only too late to be mine Licking the leftovers of olive oil from her tongue and the leftovers of a chewing smile from a breast suddenly uncovered. Sure, no one can define love I concede, joining the illustrious and the marvelous who had tried Yet knowing that I know the impossibility of definition from knowing the possibility of existence as I did.

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The Lust In Your Red blink slowly, your red nose matched only by your red tongue by the red flower you hold against your heart... or... is it your heart? by the red of your nipples and the red of other slices of body unmentionable except in lust poetry like this and mine for you. is it because you are drunk? and wine paints your nose and sun paints your petals and my touches blister your nipples while your other red is invaded by slices of my body unmentionable except in lust poetry like this and mine for you. unblink slowly, and imagine a poem written just in the time frame of this blink as you invade me with slices of memory and want and yearn an all I can do is dream of invading you and steal slices of your wine and your sun and your blisters and all of the lust in your red.

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Seeder in your pain and despair and I still find you so beautiful, wondering why can the wind lie at your feet and stars sink in your eyes and sunsets hesitate a full minute longer in hope of seeing you and yet – humans go right through you as if you weren’t. where does beauty end and reality begin and the two as incompatible as water and fire or is it as mongoose and snake, and why do storms tear out the pearls and leave behind the sand and the broken pebbles? and where do the pearls go? I see your hands hug your body looking for that inner warmth which warmed the world forgetting yourself in its passing on, and I wish there was a bright tomorrow I could tell you of and flowers at the snap of my fingers and a smile at the end of thunder, and I wish your wish. all I can is open my palms and open my words and open my heart so you can see the green you sow in the world. you are not the reaper race, you are the seeder race.

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Child Of Wonder ...and before you blinked once more I fell in, into your eye wondering will your round be as mine, and your blue? Welcome, invader, you, she, I said, absorbing me before the eyelid descended imprisoning me in wonders much beyond round and blue. What is this, what is this?... I kept pointing and running around like a demented child discovering the clock, discovering the ant, the ball. What is this? I pointed to a lake and as I dipped into it, it disintegrated into billions of swallow winged spiders, What is this? I pointed to a cloud and as I breathed upon it, it broke down into billions of diamond studded turtles, What is this? I pointed to a heart and as I touched it, it dismembered itself into billions of ribbon tailed kisses... How many lakes, and clouds, and hearts, and?... I asked. Time to leave before I lock you into my eternity, you, she, I answered, and I fell out, into your tear before your next eye blink closed the gate. Thief! you accused me between tears, happily watching me palm a wing, a diamond, a ribbon carrying a kiss. There is no round, no blue there, I marveled aloud knowing to have found the child of wonder.

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asymmetries, two i only saw your right breast, the rest of your body swallowed by pine needles, and dirt, and rotten leaves... the smell of birthing next year's life enveloping you, creation sucking in the lesson of perfection from your sunken treasures of skin those which fed me their honey. i guarded jealously the sticky residue upon my lips, swatting away those damn, intruding birds and hordes of pretentious butterflies and finally sinking in alongside you stealing skin's shiver and nipple's insolently hard yearning cleaning the rubble from around your hips and invading the welcoming meadow with my river.

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The Spot that spot at the bottom of your neck the back of it... no, not of the spot, of the neck... you couldn’t see it though you could touch it with fingertips, I could both, all, see, touch, kiss, kiss, kiss... the fingers and their tips wandering uninhibited down along your spine searching for the interstices between clumps of bone called vertebrae researching the clumps of bones called vertebrae between interstices and massaging freezing moments into the ornamental skin called shivers... no, not the skin, the moments... of course there was peril at the end of the journey and more peril at the end of the perilous end of the journey when body parts moved out of the way and body parts took over and the peril came into an end peppered with salt and sighs and stars dying in the eyes of the perpetrators after coming first to an ephemeral life worthy of all eternity... I touched that spot at the bottom of your neck the back of it... it was a journey worth repetition...

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Ice & Fire Ice butterflies melting in rivers of color having lived through the inferno of your mouth only to die between your breasts. I cupped my hands underneath trying in vain to save the color... “not underneath, upon...” you corrected my failed attempt guiding me upon. I felt the heartbeat mauling both palms... “both?...” I asked watching open mouthed fire butterflies escape your nipples between my fingers looking for the haven of my mouth. I needed the floe to chill the hell and I swaddled your mouth with mine taking your butterflies your colors your nipples your ice your fire.

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barter when the firefly turned firebird when the firebird turned fire when fire turned woman lust desire when you turned on your left side and the firefly fell from your hair and scrambled anxiously back to your breast, to your nipple I did not touch your nipple letting the firefly live its dreams of firebirds and of fire leaving the woman and the lust and the desire to me though I couldn’t do it without the nipple hey, firefly, I have a deal for you, and I whispered in its ear it let me have the nipple and I pulled the woman back into your life and the lust and the desire and I lighted the fire at the end of each hair and at the end of each finger and at the tip of the tongue all right, I will keep my promise and the firefly flew into the burning flesh and its dream turned reality for one ecstatic moment of painful flame and I did not cry as I flew into the same flame consumed by your woman and lust and desire

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Grey And White You talk to me in grey and white And crumbling brown through morning light Till colors drown behind my eye Inside your raw, bewitching dye. round shapes are they below your hip way back there or underneath your neck between your arms above your ribs? beneath your navel lower no, lower... there? seeing double maybe these are double images twins of flesh left right right left one for each palm a palm for each one fitting their fire of life to my palms’ lines of life burning through or filling to overflow or letting off their philter on invading fingertips for me to suckle on in an amok run into the light... our light fulmination death... for just one liberating moment. I visit your centerfold running an index finger all the way down from Eve’s apple between Eve’s breasts reaching Eve’s navel, dipping slightly in, further down, the bushes, the crevasse, the swamp of Eve’s life dipping all the way in on my way out to turn around the curve of Eve’s end of body and visiting the other valley, the other cave all the way up along Eve’s spine to finish inside your hair, your scalp, your devastated mind. between you and Eve and Eve and you and one and only same. round shapes, ready for another trip the other way around? I taste your colors in my mind The curve and grey, the soft and kind, My skin demands, my passion knows The reason why a flower grows.

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The Loneliness Of Body Half dressed or is it half naked or both? The cotton swaddling as much of your flesh as allowed the rest prey to linen and air and memories. You wish it was the other way around the cotton the linen the linen the cotton, you wish it was no way around no cotton just linen and the cotton lying in torn shreds on the linen, around the linen, beyond the falling ends of the linen and only skin swaddling your flesh and flesh swaddling your skin... alien flesh, not your fire alien fire drowning you consuming you, ferocious. You pull off your cotton the loneliness of body invading your nakedness the softness of curves crushing under the unforgiving hands of memories and love.

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clash the smooth curves of you the craggy ends of rocks and sand and violent storms. who taught whom the humility of cracking the self imposed shield and absorb the decorum, the erudition, the insolence of other’s life? the clash of thunder and sun birthing rainbow and blossoming poppy and brook sparkle, the feud of broken glass and perfect mirror birthing kaleidoscope and ever changing beauty and eternal wonder. when you lie inside the dew deer drink from the hollow of your neck and wolf cubs pull at your nipples and bees mistake your lips for hive your fingertips for east your breath for pollen. craggy ends of rocks and sands and violent storms melt smooth curves of you split to let fireflies settle in the cracks.

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Naked Woman Beauty is a naked woman. Same as rage and wonder and pain. And ecstasy. The memory in fingers mirroring the memory in skin when they part and the orchard growing between them smelling of lust accomplished and broken bottles of wine and vats overflowing with molten wax and miles of spent wick. Life is a naked woman about to give birth to lovemaking.

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Raindrop Death Metamorphoses Contours, like a raindrop shaped woman beckoning convoluting through woman reclining into woman lying into moaning woman, into breast wildly cupping the hand dying for it. Transparency, raindrops contorting into ringlets strangling nipples into blood gorged pockets before lover's mouth breaks the bondage to create another one, into icicles craving the death upon skin's furnace. Tenderness, the thinness of silk discarded as they roll upon the floor once torn from hips sorrowful in their loss of flesh and merciful in their memory of fragrance and knowledge of sacrifice, alight with the desire to extinguish the fire once allowed to die into water.

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aura the shadow beneath your breasts... you pull the left one up by the nipple inviting the light in cunningly letting it drop hoping to catch the shine, the touch, the hand... gravitation is a poor ally, a weakling, the shadow returns the hand does not. you pinch your nipple again, the other one, you fail again, maybe you should try both at once?... the shower gains entrance chasing the shadow with its intimate caress and sending an endless stream of messengers to pick the relay from the fallen warriors, those dead on your plains those dead beneath them those who never reached the battle ground to smell its flowers. the linen sheaths you lovingly, clings to the wet spots and for a moment makes love to you your nipples harden to stone your belly softens to down... then you both fall asleep unaware of the aura slowly shaping itself around your body.

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Touches, touches, fingers searching for glory in the sun and finding it in the depths of flesh, words falling upon shoulders and drowning into the bliss of melting flowers, memories swirling in the tail of a wayward wind to sow sparks in the dry ruts of a virginal field, touches, like only a woman can absorb and deliver.

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what was? what was whiter? the snow or that talented skin descending between your loins and picking up the perfume, leaving the flower before it started mounting back alongside the valley to the ridge, ending at the nape of your neck and circumvolving to your face to lose its purity of desideratum and become the scarlet of mouth, what was softer? the down, or that desperate flesh evolving from pink nightmares into the boiling hell of crimson concupiscence and molding itself to the shape of alien flesh demand and yield, hands lost in the flurry of moths and eyes forgotten with the gods while bodies traded ripped skins looking for the insentience of after.

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