Hobbies - Poetry - Anonn
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    you send me images,
    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.

    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.




    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.



The Door Between

    She looked up from the past,
    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,
    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,

    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,

    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,
    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
    the thin trickle beneath the door smelling strangely
    like a mixture of summer
    and of woman.




    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.



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?

    We have no choice
    but make love,
    not again but all the time.
    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.




    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




    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.


    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.

    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...

    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
    into the limbo.



Like Making Love

    the sun

    my finger
    shares your moisture


    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


    the sun

    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
    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

    beauty has seen
    another day



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.



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
    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.




    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.




    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

    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.




    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
    round and soft
    same you

    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.




    meet me in my midnight
    i need no light
    no broken star to mark the trail
    no envious moon lost in bitter reflections,
    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




    i love to watch you
    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

    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.




    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.




    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



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...




    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
    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.




    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.




    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.



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.




    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,

    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,

    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,

    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.




    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.

    do not carry the memory
    are the memory
    poems are art and smiles are love making in a burning bed.




    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
    the way of mine.




    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
    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.



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

    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.




    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.



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

    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




    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...




    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

    is not your color
    love is




    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.



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,
    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.



There Were

    there will be no stars
    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
    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
    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
    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.




    peeling off mountain’s backbone
    making place for pouring lava
    and liquidity of unbridled desires

    exposing skydom’s blue shame
    allowing uninhibited sun sparks
    visit earth to beautiful death

    cracking round trunk’s gnarled limbs
    to addle in a circle of resurrection
    once seeds feed upon yesterday’s life

    rising in rapacious urge to conquer flesh
    penetrating the hidden temple’s adytum
    to liberate sleeping wildflower’s gist

    undulating upon ocean’s treacherous deep
    afraid to face morning’s playful breeze
    and dissipate into slowly sinking glitter



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.




    keep your dress,
    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.



Drifting Wood

    my legs caught
    in drifting wood
    the snarl the size of a lifetime

    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




    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.


    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

    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
    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

    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


    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

    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
    by that last moment
    of momentous




    the choice was not

    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




    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.




    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.



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.



Mirage... Kind Of

    I lay on my back,
    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?



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

    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.




    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

    my breast
    you ask demand implore,
    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,

    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
    all of you are unraveled
    and sculpted
    and drank
    by the whole of me and mine.



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
    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.



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.




    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


    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.




    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.




    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



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
    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.




    come my way
    through walls
    through forests

    not through me
    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
    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



So Called Fate

    I pity you
    for not having known me,

    I envy you
    for knowing me,

    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,

    I pity you
    for not having found me,

    I envy you
    for having found me,

    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,

    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.




    is your body as wild
    as your unwritten words,
    or as shy
    as answers
    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
    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?



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
    and for a moment I lay disoriented in a blank void,

    Something out there
    wedged itself between my lips,
    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...

    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.



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.




    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?...


    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
    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.



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.




    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




    were you here?
    she wrote her letter,

    ‘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

    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,

    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
    before it died an incinerated death.

    i know,
    she knew.




    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...



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,

    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...

    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
    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.



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




    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.

    touched me.




    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.



Perfumes And Colors

    Close the door,
    close, close it fast
    before roses fly away
    and butterflies never open petals
    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...




    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
    and i saw you
    rising from those shapeless mounds around your ankles
    and the blister on my caressing palm
    could not have been




    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...

    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...

    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.



Untimely Sunrise

    did not expect
    the sun
    to rise so soon
    after setting for the night.

    you opened your eyes,

    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.




    please, let go...
    please, let go...
    please, let go...

    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



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
    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.





    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...


    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.



Were We Young, Ever?

    never were
    always are.

    as we count the gasps between
    and the shivers between
    and the silences between

    as we see stars inside
    and flowers inside
    and fires inside
    silks craving for tatters,

    as we translate moans to
    and screams to
    and smiles to
    the impertinence of encore...

    no, never.

    yes, always.




    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

    You are woman,
    not human




    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.




    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.



Of Leftovers

    How much is there in me
    Passion, I mean.

    I wonder,
    could I have used one percent of it
    had I but woken up
    Probably not.
    Probably not even if I died later,
    much later,
    uncountable years later
    something like... well... uncountable.

    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.




    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
    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
    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

    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.




    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.



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
    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,
    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?



Beast Of Beauty


    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.




    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

    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?




    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.

    from the curls of your hairs
    through the tips of your fingers
    to the ends of my body
    until all intermediaries are eliminated
    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.



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.



The Lust In Your Red


    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.


    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.




    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
    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.



Child Of Wonder

    ...and before you blinked once more
    I fell in,
    into your eye
    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.

    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.



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.



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
    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

    I touched
    that spot at the bottom of your neck
    the back of it...
    it was a journey
    worth repetition...



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
    trying in vain
    to save the color...
    “not underneath, upon...”
    you corrected my failed attempt
    guiding me

    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.




    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
    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
    by your woman and lust and desire



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
    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
    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

    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.



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,

    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.




    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

    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
    smooth curves of you
    split to let fireflies settle in the cracks.



Naked Woman

    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.

    is a naked woman
    about to give birth
    to lovemaking.



Raindrop Death Metamorphoses


    like a raindrop
    shaped woman beckoning
    convoluting through woman reclining
    into woman lying into moaning

    into breast
    wildly cupping the hand dying for it.


    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.


    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.




    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.





    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.



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.