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Swoon, duo


Disjointed Thinking

    tell a story
         of such glory
    that asunder
         rips with wonder

    I ask for forgiveness then drive through your straits
    To depths of confusion where summer awaits
    Beyond thunders’ rumble and mountaintops’ clash
    And muscles collapsing from steel into mash.

    as I swoon
         with the moon
    grab your chance
         to romance

    The lungs pump the poison of sputtering mud
    Through riverbeds foaming with pebbles and blood
    While eyes shot with sunsets emblaze cloud and world
    With snake-tongues of fire where heartbeats unfurled.

    make me swirl
         I’m your girl
    right or wrong
         I’m your song

    Emollient pastels excrete from your skin
    And soften the passage through landscapes of sin
    When rib pierces rib and when hip crushes hip
    And hungry lips mouthfuls of elixir sip.

    turn my soul
         tainted goal
    and my eyes

    The chisel is sculpting the intimate path
    With memories raging and flashes of wrath
    Sharp fingernails grapple the destitute flesh
    While tongues laced with dolor in misery thresh.

    be duet
    be my verse
         soft and terse

    My palm heel’s asleep on the cushioning curls
    Your field of creation sprouts glittering pearls
    A picture which God in his workshop has honed
    And clay vessel I, with my pencil, have cloned.

    forge me rhyme
         rich, sublime
    cleave my heart
         with your art




    I wish I could rest a bit in the sweeping black & white of Fred and Ginger,

    in the fast-forward of Charlie
    the contagious laughter of Laurel and Hardy
    the stone face of Buster
    the humanity of Norman
    the misleading naivety of Bourvil, not many know his name was André,

    and some other heroes of my past.
    And of my present
    until I lose my future. Soon.

    Yes, heroes, why should you lift an eyebrow,
    heroes of imagination, of simplicity,
    of carrying me through difficult moments
    and making life so more bearable
    that at times I thought it, life, was worth living.
    My life, of course, whose life would I talk about here? Archimedes’?

    This is what comes out of a nostalgia attack, sorry.
    There is probably a Latin name to it ending with a is or with a ity.

    There were tall fences that I would jump
    tickets that I would steal
    wooden chairs that would inhale me
    happiness tears washing my irises, not always with happiness mind you,
    silence at times
    close-up at times
    floors flowing under tapped heels and long dresses and languid moves
    at times.

    Life through the eyes of childhood.
    The child turns adult the adult turns more adult
    the child skips adult the adult skips more adult
    the child stays child.
    I lost you a couple sentences back, I know,
    one doesn’t always understand children,
    children don’t always know to express themselves.
    Even when adults.
    Even when more adults. If they skip.

    I wish all was so much simpler. Than is.




    You are Beauty
    I am the Beast
    I know you love the story

    but this is no story, this is reality
    and in reality I don’t turn prince charming
    if you kiss me

    but rather stay the Beast
    and you stay Beauty
    and romancing you
    my duty.

    So don’t. Kiss.
    Do. Dance.

    Dance me through the dark halls of my castle
    and through the dark alley paths of my castle
    and through the dark staircases of my castle

    choose tango
    or rock’n’roll
    or minuet or breakdance or ballet
    don’t worry, you won’t have to do a pirouette à la La Fontaine
    and I won’t have to do a tour en l’air à la Nureyev

    and I will leave behind us bread crumbs for the swans and crows following us
    and pots of honey for the bears and bees following us
    and carrots for the rabbits and crocodiles following us
    in this story crocodiles do eat carrots, please don’t interrupt.

    We’ll visit every bedroom
    and we’ll dress every bed silk or cotton or thorns or pebbles or feathers
    and we’ll try every bed
    and we’ll try every position on every bed
    those known
    those unknown
    those impossible to know

    and when your raw insides will demand a break
    and when my raw outsides will demand a break
    we’ll take a break
    until later we’ll tour the castle again
    and again
    and then you will not kiss me because of the futility of it
    and then you will kiss me because of the futility of it

    and you stay Beauty
    and I stay the Beast
    until I die
    at least.

    Then we will write a bestseller about all those positions
    that will never be written
    because we keep creating love
    and keep creating life
    and keep creating the impossible unimaginable inconceivable

    I’m still worried about those crocodiles.
    I’m still worried about that impossibility unimaginability inconceivability
    of this



Artsily, probably

    I rain
    for you.

    There is still a poem in me
    and I don’t find it
    and until then
    I will rain for you.

    The red peels from your fingernails
    lying like carbonized flakes in your wake
    and if you turn it will flutter in recognition
    and if you continue
    it will keep peeling
    and marking the cobblestones
    with your passage
    and your shadow.

    Drip like winter shedding scales
    Leaves bewed the gurgling gutters
    While my drifting reason sputters
    Seven nights and thousand tales,

    Watch the moon bestride horizons
    Paint your toes ten matching dreams
    Through the woods a saber screams
    Clogged with rags my body wizens,

    Come to morrows promise barren
    Lay your heart across your ribs
    I will overcrowd it nibs
    As I drop my coin to Charon.

    I still look
    I still rain
    senseless like a Picasso painting
    not as expensive

    as valuable.
    Probably more.




    I wish I could encrust your body gold

    the way Klimt gilded his paintings
    and the sun paints mountain peaks before deserting yesterday’s lost shadows
    and a nightingale trills autumn leaves to flakes of dust

    beware of my word in a ripening orchard
    above seasons failing and metaphors tortured
    like absconding cranes
    from despairing plains...

    I wish I could suffuse your body calligraphic ink

    learning my trade from Chinese scribes contouring their brushes on bamboo slates
    and Talmudic scholars paining over parchments with esoteric quills and inks
    and toddlers just discovering the art of deflowering parental home’s virginal walls

    I found runes forgotten in death riddled moments
    enwrought with a menace that wretchedness foments
    behind the letters clan
    cowers a dazzled man...

    I wish I could draw you in color with charcoal

    I wish I understood the scientific reason behind it being impossible to make it possible
    all I can is inhale black dust purer than pure oxygen
    blocking my alveoli inebriating me with unsketched color images of you

    I do and I don’t run with rioting pages
    that scurry and rove through my darkest of ages
    joining crabs and ants
    and subversive rants...

    I don’t wish to emulate Bukowski or Anaïs Nin or Dope Lemon

    I wish to surpass them
    which I succeed at times with single words not complete sentences
    it will come once I stop wishing

    my rhyming defines me a secular heathen
    my books under ashes with ridicule smitten
    Prometheus my guide
    no school shall I abide...

    I wish I could make an impolite introduction of my skin to yours and vice versa

    and wed fingertips to nippletips
    understanding all the while the ways of bears abrading their backs against bark
    and of rain tweeting many small rivulets into one mighty thundering riverflood

    don’t read me with eyes having read Shakespeare’s sonnets
    I ain’t there from duets way up to rich nonets
    through singleness I wade
    crude solo is my trade...

    I wish colors would be named in circumlocutory manner to avoid confusion

    white the flesh beyond your nipple’s corona
    red the cut crossing your lip after my bite
    green whatever reflects from a mirror when it starts worshiping your eye

    I duel with time’s cohort birthdays astorming
    and crave to enjoin like a miracle forming
    my life’s disjointed halves
    wild dogs snap at my calves.




    It was raining.

    You started hopping on and off the side walk à la Gene
    umbrella in your hand
    hat on your head
    smile on your lips...
    one difference though,
    you were bare foot.
    You mean no shoes?
    No shoes, no stockings, nothing rien niente.

    It was windy.

    You chose your billowiest skirt
    and the windiest angle
    and let the wind blow the skirt skywards à la Marilyn
    your hands pseudo trying to hold it
    your body pseudo trying to change direction
    your smile real on your lips...
    one difference though,
    you were bare ass.
    You mean no panties?
    No panties, no knickers, nothing rien niente.

    It was sunny.

    You started walking down the yellow brick road à la Judy
    arms hooked one side itchy scarecrow the other side chilly tin woodman
    with cowardly lion snapping at one heel
    and Toto at the other until he got tired and fell asleep on cowardly lions’ mane
    your eyes shining green
    your lips shining red
    your smile shining white...
    one difference though,
    you were bare skin.
    ou mean naked?
    I mean naked.
    Not even symbolic frillies?
    Not even red shoes, nothing rien niente.
    And my friends allowed it?
    They even enjoyed it, they just had no tools to demonstrate it.
    Oh... And then Oooh!...

    You walked silently by my side,
    from time to time chasing a flying leaf then returning to give it to me,
    one of my pockets full already, the other filling.
    Can you add more details?
    About what follows after naked.
    I can.
    Your breasts wriggling
    your behind wiggling
    your hips jiggling
    your hair diggling...
    There is no such word.
    Now there is.
    And it cannot apply to hair.
    It can apply to this hair.
    and you blushed, probably intentionally so.
    Can you add more details?
    You were becoming a blissful pest.
    I cannot, I want this sonnet to be accessible to kids of all ages, I said
    looking at you in a meaningful manner
    and wallowing in the wallop that followed.
    Otherwise it will be rated R
    and I prefer everybody to enjoy it.
    This is not a sonnet, you contended.
    Everything about you is a sonnet I contended back.
    The sound that can be spelled cursorily ‘Oh’ and which followed my contention
    has no suitable onomatopoeia in the English language.
    I started singing:
    ‘Sonnet was my first love
    and it will be my last...’
    You’re misquoting.
    I know, I do not want to be slapped with litigation from Miles for copyright infringement.

    You walked on, your hand in my pocket.
    I walked on, enjoying your hand in my pocket.

    You have a sick imagination. You did not contend this time.
    Sick like contagious virus? I did not contend the contention because there wasn’t any.
    Sick like contagious imagination. Which didn’t make it clearer.
    Based on which symptoms, Doctor Welby Quinn House McCoy Bones Phil and others?
    Well, you had me already barefoot
    you had me already bearass
    you had me already bareskin,
    not much left to bare.
    Much left to apply bare to, though.

    Like use your imagination, stick to a sick version of it,
    and you danced to the next flying leaf.
    I used my imagination.

    Luckily my heart was in good shape at the time.
    Not sure when it lost its good shape, probably soon after.



Pure Nonsensical Disconnects

    I wish I knew to play guitar
    so that I could start not playing it.

    Right now I wish playing it,
    life’s small cruelties beaded on a string could easily reach the moon.
    I mean one of the moons of one of the planets of Alpha Pegasi
    if Alpha Pegasi has a planet and if this planet has a moon.

    And this is just my life’s small cruelties.
    Imagine billions such...

    Bats hear the world the way we see it, with a bit of extra thrown in,
    just another dimension.
    Dogs smell the world the way we see it, with bit of extra thrown in,
    just another dimension.
    Poets write the world the way we see it, with a bit of extra thrown in,
    just another dimension.

    Thus poets have higher affinity to bats and dogs than to humans
    they all share the knowledge of the other dimension
    and live in it, partly.
    Other humans live in none, wholly.

    I found a way to convert lead into gold, quite simple actually.
    I wish I found a way to do it the other way around,

    also plastic bags to fish food
    and greed to grace
    and dreams of Anne Frank and Malala Yousafzai and Martin Luther to true

    though I guess I would have lost my entrance to Eden
    if I believed in it.

    Nonsense is defined by Yesense
    which makes sure that nonsense makes no sense even in a senseless world
    where it should not matter.

    The least
    we can give nonsense a voice,
    be it even misunderstood.



About sliding, and other motions

    I wish to slide inside you like a snail slides back into its shell...
    Yuck!... this is a disgusting metaphor. Do you have anything else?

    I wish to slide inside you like mercury slides inside a thermometer tube.
    Huh? Now you switched to manufacturing mode? I’m about to leave.

    I wish to slide inside you like a Boeing airplane...
    Hey, stop right there! Did they pay you for this ad? Your last chance.

    She stood up.
    She picked her handbag.
    She picked the last biscuit.
    I had another metaphor, something to do with DIY
    but it probably was not what she expected and I’d better refrain,
    hell, I felt like a nail head like a train track like the receiving end of a mule’s kick
    like that moment before dropping that tax declaration with that comma shift...

    I wish to slide inside you the way spring slides into summer
    the way sunrise slides down a mountain’s slopes
    the way a mother’s nipple slides inside her newborn’s mouth...

    I froze.
    Like the moment before God decided what to do with the piece of clay in his hand.
    Like the moment before the Big Bang.
    Like the moment before I knew I was being born.

    She froze too.

    One eye started shining, the other eye started shining.
    The halo around her head... oh, this was a round neon light.

    Your stupidity is overwhelming. Kiss me, stupid.
    (Kim Novak, I don’t think she saw the movie.)

    She took my hand, right there,
    she took my mouth, right there
    she took my body, right elsewhere

    and spring and sunrise and nipple all turned reality.




    God found religion
    called it Mankind

    found god
    called him Man

    and he worshipped, loved, adored.

    To God eternity is but years
    years are but seconds, instants, eye blinks

    he blinked

    and then he saw the crucifixion of Jesus
    another eye blink and he saw the burning of Bruno
    then the extermination in Auschwitz
    then the mushroom above Hiroshima...

    God made a fast forward and fast backward and fast between eye blinks
    and was horrified at his religion, his god

    God renounced his religion.
    God renounced his god.

    No worship. No love. No adoration.

    I’ll get along just fine without this pain, he thought,
    I’ll wait another few of my years
    and after they finish finishing themselves
    I’ll find a new religion.

    Until then I’ll stop looking
    I’ll plug my earphones and listen to some celestial music.

    They don’t need me.
    I don’t need them.
    I’ll not even wonder what next eye blink is going to bring upon them,

    the final bane?




    is boring

    like being stuck middle of the ocean
    and nothing around but the flatness of an endless horizon
    day after day after day

    like being stuck middle of the desert
    and nothing around but the darkness of a starless sky
    night after night after night.

    It’s the passage

    unnakedness to nakedness
    nakednessless to nakednessful
    unnaked to naked

    it’s the passage
    that is the enravishment
    of life

    the poetry
    like God burned on the tablets of the Covenant for Moses on mount Sinai
    like God was willing to forgive Sodom and Gomorrah if he found one verse of it there
    like God placed in the quill of Solomon writing the Canticle of Canticles

    the sunsets chasing sunrises chasing sunsets chasing gigantic waves
    middle of the ocean
    rolling the boat rolling life enravishing soul and flesh

    the stars thudding all around you in bursts of sand and fountains of glass
    middle of the desert
    quaking the earth quaking life enravishing soul and flesh.

    She looked at me,
    her eyes the size of light
    her tears the weight of beauty

    she stood up

    rolling my life
    quaking my life
    enravishing me.




    Another one of those “started as a 100 words story then...” so... get used to it. May be not the last of its kind. The 100 words version follows, of course.


    I had a boring job, but I did not mind as it was paying my studies. I worked at the university for professor Zandt, and my job consisted in calculating G, the gravitational constant, on a daily basis, based on a piece of equipment developed by him.

    As the name implies, G is an absolute constant, same like Pi, no deviations or tolerances there. However, while Pi is a mathematical constant and is theoretically calculated, G is a physical constant and is calculated based on empirical data, i.e. measurements. Therefore its precise value was a matter of debate and experimentation for... centuries. It still was.

    I did not question the roots to my professor’s obsession with the value, I was just running the experiments, daily, calculating the result and noting it in a paper notebook. Yes, paper; professor Zandt believed that important facts are to be stored on physical media rather than be entrusted to the whims of computer memory. Of course, secretly I kept the results also on in an XL table.

    The notebook went back about 15 years, and leafing through it I found slight deviations between the measurements, positive or negative, as boring as my job. This, of course, due to experiment related inaccuracies: measuring person, equipment tolerances, environmental fluctuations and the like (all of which parameters were registered as well). After a couple weeks on the job I was reduced to measuring, calculating and jotting down the results, not even paying attention to them.

    That’s why I was mildly surprised when one end of month, after I showed them to my professor, I saw him raising an eyebrow as his eyes turned upon me, inquisitively:

    “And what do you think of it? When did you have the equipment calibrated last time?”

    The following end of month a grimace added itself to the raised eyebrow. And the month after a wrinkle added itself to the grimace. I wasn’t really sure what was bothering him, the G numbers were their usual average value, but I started getting worried once he decided to join the measurements and calculations sessions on a daily basis. I don’t think he did not trust me, he was probably seeing something which bothered him but wasn’t’ so obvious to me, not yet.

    Finally I dared ask him the question, and his answer unsettled me.

    “Well, Jake, I hope I am wrong, I damn well hope I am wrong. Can you please copy the last 12 months G values into the computer and bring them up on a graph?”

    I did not have to copy them, I had them already in my XL file and I brought the graph up within minutes of his request. He did not even complain. Well, what I saw was the G values settle around some imaginary horizontal average, above or under it due to the afore mentioned tolerances, nothing special there.

    “Apply a 1000 magnification.” I did. “Draw a regression curve based on the points.” A regression curve, of course, approximates the theoretical value around which the empirical values oscillate.


    “Fourth degree polynomial.”

    I was surprised at the request – why look for a curve where there is just a straight, horizontal line? But he was my employer and I did not ask any question that might highlight some incompetence or inattention on my part.

    “Here we go.” I pushed the button and I gaped. Incredulity drove my fingers to choose a small portion of the graph and without asking permission I pushed for a 10000 magnification. The calculated line was slightly curved and clearly not horizontal – it carried a distinct predilection to move lower in value.

    “Calculate the curve.” The computer obeyed my shaking fingers and the exponent number against the t hit me like a hammer. The t was scaled in days but it did not matter at all what units were used. “Go into predictive mode.” His voice sounded dry, strained, hollow. I pushed the button. Then I instructed the computer to calculate the impact point where the curve would strike the horizontal time axis, and we both looked at the resulting number stupidly.

    “Where are you going, professor?” I asked, my voice not mine. He dropped his white coat on the back of a chair, picked his hat from the coat hanger and turned to face me.

    “Take care to inform whomever you think should be informed. The universe will end much earlier than...” he looked at the graph’s impact on the t axis “much earlier than 7072 days from now. Probably when G will get around seventy-eighty percent of today’s value. I want to be with my family. Good bye, Jake.”

    G could not change, it was a constant, it was part of the unwritten laws of the universe, it could not change any more than Pi could change, it could not change any more than... I kept looking at the graph, knowing the futility of trying to find snags in the equipment, or errors in the calculations or bugs in the programs used. Gravitation was disappearing, imperceptibly now but at an accelerating rate. I wondered when and how we will start feeling the effects. Was it universal?... probably yes. Will we start feeling lighter before Weight Watchers will feel there is some anomaly at play? Will water from the seas start floating into air before humans do, will air float away into space before waters from the seas, will the sun start expanding and swallow its planets before all this floating starts? When will the entire range of universal bodies disintegrate into aimlessly wandering dust without any chance for coagulating resurrection? I asked myself, without really caring for an answer.

    Gravity is the traffic cop of the universe, was one of professor Zandt’s preferred expressions.

    I did not have any hat to pick up. I just dropped my coat on the same chair he did and went to be with my family. I didn’t even bother to turn off the lights.


    the 100 words version

    The job was boring but paid my studies. I measured and recorded the gravitational constant G for professor Zandt, daily. Statistics, probably. Everything was recorded on paper, 15 years now, by a variety of students.

    I showed him the last results and for whatever reason his face darkened.

    “Oh, God...”

    Following month he joined me in the lab.

    “Show me a graph, fourth degree polynomial.” I showed him. “Oh, God...”

    He left without a word. I looked at the graph, transfixed. G was diminishing at an accelerating rate reaching 0, i.e. the end of the universe, in exactly 7072 days.



Swoon, three

    at the bottom of the ocean
    under a canopy woven by strange fish and coiling weeds
    and a bubbling lava fountain
    molding to your curves

    you won’t be crushed you won’t be boiled
    you won’t even be eaten

    they smile at you

    who’s this strange work of art masquerading as woman
    and writing poetry on the outside of bubbles rising to the surface
    where they explode upon the macadam of boulevards
    under the wings of dragonflies
    and between the pages of empty books?

    upon the softness of clouds
    rainbows supporting you on all sides
    and the sun pouring an ultraviolet curse turning benediction
    when encountering you

    you won’t fall you won’t burn
    you won’t even be asked to pay for the exclusive rental

    everything smiles at you

    who’s this strange winged creature masquerading as woman
    and writing poetry inside drops of rain falling to ground
    where they impregnate macadam boulevards
    and glide upon wings of dragonflies
    and soak into pages of empty books?

    inside the embrace of my bed
    where petals filling the mattress ooze welcome to your sensory organs
    cobwebs hanging above you turn silver
    twining with the gold wafting away from your skin

    you’ll be crushed boiled eaten
    you’ll fall burn pay with your flesh

    I smile at you

    I know this strange light masquerading as woman
    arousing my eyes with a million lumen
    of poetry blazing macadam to embers
    the dragonflies’ nation its fire remembers
    and worships the words in a gospel called... human.



Swoon, four

    you know

    there is this raven inside of me
    powerful raven

    eagle, you want to say

    no, raven, powerful raven inside of me

    there is this cat inside of me
    powerful cat

    tiger, you want to say

    no, cat, powerful cat inside of me

    and now you’re gonna say puppy and I’m gonna say wolf and your gonna say no powerful puppy
    no, I was gonna say salmon and you were gonna say shark and I was gonna say salmon
    strange choice salmon, what about cod, or carp... hey are there also insects inside of you?
    yes, I say ant then you say wasp then I say again powerful ant
    not familiar with them, sorry

    there is this words peddler inside of me
    powerful word peddler

    poet, you want to say

    no, words peddler, powerful words peddler
    looking for the canticle to swoon you off your feet
    an all I find is a dictionary still waiting to be messed up into the passion of lyrics

    for a moment you looked deflated, dejected, dismayed and I almost pitied you
    proposing to you to sit on a fallen trunk
    on the grass
    we almost sat on an anthill

    I love you, you said

    and as the innocence of my green drowned under salt’s sudden invasion
    your hand tore at my skirt until it sundered
    yanked at my garter until it snapped
    grappled at my stocking until it split
    hooked into the that flimsy indulgence into decadence and debauchery and elegant intimacy
    and pulled until its tensile strength submitted to the physical laws of rip and tear
    and while it was still floating gently to the ground
    you swam my moat
    dismembered my gates
    crashed through my walls the way of a lump of burning coal through a mound of freshly fallen snow
    and let your millions of soldiers run wild through the muddy fields
    until they all died, to the last, in the fumes of those caustic mires
    dressing my insides.

    I felt you dying, with them.

    I took your head
    laid it on my breast
    and started singing to you.

    I love you, I revived feeling half way between holy and damned
    and undecided yet which way my clay should crawl

    your bare nipple proudly piercing a way to the sky upon the barren expanse of your breast
    just a finger away from my face
    with my eyes competing which of them should focus on the masterpiece
    until both won the contest
    at the cost of their controlling muscles and my blurring vision

    raven, cat, puppy, salmon, ant?
    eagle, tiger, wolf, shark, wasp

    word peddler?
    I hesitated

    poet, I conceded
    sacrificing my soldiers anew
    inside the caustic mires
    of your beauty.



a shortie...

    to whet your appetite and wet your... appetite?

    I swear I could hear her laugh there, beyond the aurora borealis
    where a statistical mishap placed her dwelling.
    Mishap carrying back to the Big Bang?
    Yes, and carried over to these days by Bradbury’s...
    or Lorenz’s... or Lorenz’s... or Poincaré’s... or Poincaré’s... or Wiener’s...
    or whoever’s you wish butterfly effect.
    Clearly, this imaginary dialogue wasn’t going the way I intended.
    And if I am not an evolutionist nut but a creationist nut?
    (...yeap, definitely not the way...)
    Different parameters, same argument.
    Aha, Bradbury’s and Lorenz’s...
    ...and etcetera.
    I see.
    She certainly did not see the beads of sweat that started rolling off my forehead.

    I could hear the wheels and cogs clicking and clucking and clacking in her brain,
    locking on a different path.
    Is a shortie same as a quickie?
    Similar but better.
    Contrary to a quickie, in a shortie you can control, bend, create, adapt
    any rules to suit your fancy and increase your momentary pleasure.
    Momentarily monumentally?
    Any rules so yes, momentarily monumentally monumentously,
    rules in the physical, psychological, unnatural, mental, geological...
    Yes, you’ll see later, technological...
    Yes, you know what I mean.
    Yes, I know what you mean... giggle... this shortie is getting kind of longie, you know.
    I know, this is the only kind of promise that I make and cannot keep,
    the one related to words.
    And you keep all the other?
    I keep all the other.
    Like that you’ll love me forever and ever and ever and ever and ever?...
    Ten to the power of ten to the power of ten forevers.
    It’s more than atoms in the universe.
    As I said, insufficient.

    My shortie was moving from longie to long.

    Undress, I said.
    I’m undressed, she said.
    Lie down, I said.
    I’m lying down, she said.
    Let your fingers...

    The vacuum between my skin and hers absolute
    not even cosmic dust, not even dark matter
    muscles grappled around her nipple dragging the rest of my body in between her thighs
    past the curvature of curls
    underneath the miracle of the pinnacle
    petrified flesh insistently drilling its way in between tectonic plates that refused
    roared in sudden rumble
    forcing a moon hanging outside the pane to pull back a full mile in apprehension
    of cataclysm pending...


    Poor Californians, they probably thought it was the Big One, I laughed.
    I see what you meant geological, she laughed.
    Poor us, she echoed with delay, not laughing.
    You miscreant, me minx, and now she laughed. Poor us, poets.
    She knew, yes, poor us poets.
    An aurora borealis razor wire forever between us
    and the only way for us to die into each other’s depths was by means of shorties.
    Or longies.
    Or whateveries.




    I was dressed all white

    white tuxedo
    white bow-tie
    even white shoes

    She was dressed all white

    white bridal dress
    white orchids
    even white spectacles frame...
    white lips?
    painted white
    white fingernails?
    painted white
    white hair?
    this one copyrighted to me

    The fields were dressed all white
    the wall were dressed all white
    the nuptial bed was dressed all white
    and the white of her skin blinding none of my senses, none left to blind

    And no red stain following, you know
    I knew. I knew?

    I married her at fervor’s scend
    When innocence with madness blend
    Her body’s offer fragile lure
    Her smiles naive her words demure
    And when the moon impaled the bed
    And glinted in the dripping red
    I painted round
    The stain’s contour
    My season’s end.

    She married me at midnight’s toll
    While she a doe and I a dhole
    She tamed the rage astriding me
    Then offered lust upon her lea
    And virgin memories of mind
    In hip’s to hip euphonic bind
    The warm mirage
    In her decree
    Consumed me whole.

    I ripped a piece of bedsheet’s claim
    To fantasy devoid of shame
    And locked it in my sacred book
    To nurse my life’s decaying brook
    I was that special very first
    To answer her increasing thirst
    And now I’ll crawl
    Back to my nook
    To crave the flame.

    The underwear white?
    yours? mine?
    was white now dust

    from rust
    to dust
    through flogging lust
    and dying gust

    She gathered my remains
    mixed them with hers
    and promised me her virgin self
    in another poem.



Bridal, study, two

    moon rays
    impale us upon the bed
    a human limited edition insectarium
    embalmed in the acrid smells of its own intoxicating mixture of liquid death
    a frozen image of love
    and eternity

    impale you upon the bed
    the abstract design of immeasurable forces applied by impaled to impaler
    martial law decree metamorphosing into martial love decree
    metamorphosing into myth
    and eternity

    my lips impaled upon your teeth
    your nipples impaled upon the distal phalanges of my deceased fingers
    themselves attached with sinew leftovers to my petrified hand in its final convulsions
    our regards impaled upon our regards
    while storm decays into love
    and thunder decays into eternity’s silence.



Bridal, intermezzo, three

    I gaze upon your nakedness

    copulates with darkness birthing sunset

    copulates with body birthing ecstasy

    copulate with you birthing beauty

    copulates with distance
    birthing nothingness.



Bridal, coda, four



    I sprinkle salt over your body
    here, there,

    I sprinkle black pepper over your body
    there, here,

    I sprinkle dill over your body
    here and there, there and there, everywhere,

    in the holds
    in the molds
    in the ever hungry folds

    are you going to boil me?
    we will boil, oh, we will boil, oh, we will boil
    are you going to chew me?
    we will chew, oh, we will chew, oh, we will bite and chew and masticate
    are you going to swallow me?
    we will swallow, oh, we will swallow, oh, we will swallow

    and then we’ll lick each other’s fingers with other each’s lips
    and then we’ll pick each other’s teeth with other each’s tongues
    and then we’ll doggy-bag the leftovers of flesh and skin and bones and other anatomy
    for much later consumption
    and consummation?

    when starving
    for that never again materializing




    Do you know how many secretions we merged?
    All would be impossible. Many.
    Which is not a number.
    Which is not a number.

    She looked around at the devastation surrounding us
    some tree trunks still smoldering.
    Are we responsible for all this?
    Unfortunately. Or fortunately.
    Didn’t expect it to be so incendiary.
    I took the ‘expect’ part as an insult but I let it pass because of the ‘incendiary’ part.
    Fire is contagious, you know, starts on a bed and ends eating the neighborhood...
    ...continent, world, galaxy. Maybe even universe?
    Maybe. I have to check.
    Maybe even us?
    Certainly us.

    We had nothing to dress, everything burned
    and that included fig leaves.
    I think Adam and Eve felt the same.
    Before or after they lost their innocence?
    They didn’t have any innocence to lose,
    innocence was a later invention.
    So what did they have?
    Love. Lust. Lechery.
    Lechery doesn’t sound respectable.
    Lechery is the epitome of respectability when it is for the woman one loves.
    Or man.
    Or man.
    Like you love me?
    Like Adam loved Eve.
    Like you love me?
    Like Eve loved Adam.
    Like you love me?
    If to judge by my degree of lecherousness
    there never was and there never will be a greater love.
    Strange unit of measure.
    One of twenty three.
    And the other twenty two?
    Even bigger.

    The smoldering trunks stood no chance this second wave,
    they turned glowing red
    before bursting into flames again
    same as the neighborhood, town, country, continent, world, galaxy...
    Yes, the universe. I checked.



Encounters of the one kind

    Speed is essential in any real life love story.
    The slower the better.

    She smiled good humoredly with a bit of maliciously thrown in.

    Do you have any other word of advice? I asked, not really confident.

    Many of them, depends how long you stay.
    Depends also on how much I love you.

    How much you love me?
    Do you want it in 10-to-the-power-of-X terminology or in Shakespearean-blood-and-intrigue terminology?
    What about in some novel-not-yet-used-by-anyone terminology?
    Not even by you?
    Not even by me.

    She looked at me the way the sole of a shoe may have looked upon the ant to be crushed by it
    before deciding to side step it.
    I looked at her the way the ant may have looked up at the sole of a shoe about to crush it
    before knowing that the shoe decided to side step it.
    I loved her, I knew, she knew.
    She loved me, she knew, I knew.
    I told her, a few millions of words bearing witness to the fact,
    she told me not in so many words but in as many unexpressed thoughts.
    I was human, though, I needed expression.

    I love you.
    The way the Odyssey loved to be written by Homer and read by me.
    I love you.
    The way Antarctica hates each piece of ice melting to no return.
    I love you.
    More than the way God cried over each discarded piece of clay before settling for Adam.

    I did not stay longer than planned, it was not possible for any of us.
    I suffered longer than planned, both of us,
    horror stories of death by fire reverberating in our minds each time we touched
    each time we loved
    each time we burned.

    I left.
    No scars were ever going to fill up those smoldering craters dug into my flesh
    by the sole touches of her fleeting fingertips.
    I wondered if I would be allowed to board the plane
    lest the entire contraption bursts into flames.




    Silence, even when agreed upon it,
    is silence.

    Birds halt mid flight
    rain does not reach down to roofs
    Earth’s creaking axis stops, seizes...

    I wait for the supersonic boom of your presence
    to re-emerge

    and birds will fly on
    rain will continue its way down to roofs
    Earth will creak on its axis, anew.

    My eardrum may split – drops of our spittle will heal the cracks
    my skin may split – leftovers of your traveling tongue will heal the cracks
    my heart may split – your rising smile will heal the cracks and create new ones

    in the fabric of eternity.

    Eternity will split?
    Certainly. Reflecting your smile.
    Will something pour out through the split?
    Happiness. Pure undiluted unalloyed happiness.
    You know I don’t really say these things, silence still rampant, birds still halted, etc.
    I knew.
    I know. May I nevertheless dream?
    You may. For me as well.

    Birds, halted mid flight.
    Rain, still not reaching down to roofs.
    Earth’s axis, seized.

    I wait. It will come. You will come. It will come.
    The end of silence.



Blabbering away

    With God busy preparing the first accords of Beethoven’s 5th symphony
    a mischievous cherub was preparing the first words of my 555th poem

    long, long before any of us two was born,

    more or less at world’s begin
    still at the planning stage
    and long before the claying stage.

    Yeah, God’s long term planning,
    his cherub’s too.

    Yeah, I am a creationist
    when it suits me,
    like now.
    Aren’t we all?

    Free will?
    Also when it suits me,
    otherwise how could I blame someone else for my abysmal poetry,
    be the blaimee even a revolutionary cherub?

    Mind you, I refrain from blaming God for it,
    after all very few poets survived an attack of blood, frogs, lice et co.
    And these days he added also atomic bombs to his considerable plagues arsenal
    and I feel responsible also for my neighbors,
    and their dogs,
    and their LPs collections.




    You left behind a trail one mile wide (manner of speaking, not really)

    that even a vision impaired me (politically correct for blind)
    hearing impaired me (politically correct for deaf)
    speech impaired me (politically correct for dumb)
    IQ impaired me (politically correct for moron)

    could find and follow
    with his head shaved
    hopping on one leg
    and chewing Cuban tobacco (politically incorrect and even subversively dangerous).

    OK, sufficient parentheses, I believe.

    I found a button.
    Well, a button does not provide much direction unless if followed by another button,
    further on
    and then another button even further, before a gull swallowed it
    and I couldn’t follow it any further
    luckily under a clump of thistles I found a clump of buttons
    which told me I should start looking for another directional clue
    which proved to be a stocking old style, garter next to it,
    two shoes a mile further which I found by vision impaired luck due to a kangaroo
    (yes, kangaroo, yes, another parenthesis)
    hopping the right way since there was no other way
    followed by a torn sleeve
    at which point I started to hiccup
    followed by a second sleeve
    at which point I stopped to hiccup
    followed by a shirt with all buttons missing
    at which point I was struck by total speech impairment
    thus sat down to sew them back in case you might be cold by now if I find you
    then stood up and picked a bra... a bra? a bra? a bra? a bra cad a bra? as it was singing in my brain
    followed by a skirt... a skirt? a skirt? a skirt?
    followed by a pair of pink panties
    laced with ruffles
    sweet like truffles

    panties? panties? panties? panties? panties? (etc. for a hundred times or more)
    and I may have heard you giggle if I wasn’t struck by then with optional hearing impairment
    and if I haven’t had fainted with the delight
    of not having found you (thus staying alive).

    I opened eyes.
    First I saw green, forest, eyes.
    Then I saw red, fire, lips.
    Then I saw more red, more fire, more nipples
    dangling above me like church bells about to crush me.
    Then I saw life, variegated, indescribable, adoring life
    and all IQ impaired me (yet still alive, told you higher up) could think of
    was let my lungs take over the dialogue with the thesaurusless hish language of
    ooohhh and aaahhh and mmmhhh and other variations on the subject
    all ending with triple h.

    I found you, Gretel, I said switching back to humanish
    when you finished killing me.
    I even handed you over the shirt, one button still missing.
    You even refused to wear it
    letting me dress you with arms and skin and flesh and legs and mouth
    animal me offering woman you the analogy of fur mine
    with your head softly landing on my chest
    and your breath starting to tell me the tale of Hansel as well.
    I found you, Hansel, you concluded
    and I doubt if we ever woke up.




    Read my poetry
    very, very carefully

    else you’ll miss the meaning
    and you’ll miss
    the gleaning
    of a pleasure


    You may still miss it
    even if you read carefully
    but at least you’d have tried
    and you’d know you had tried.

    Don’t expect to find any clue to any puzzle leading to any kind
    of treasure.
    Unless, if you call my mixture of mind and soul
    which you should not.
    Because it is not.




    the sea
    behind you
    smooth, flat, glossy in a rippleless tourmaline-blue rigidity

    the sun behind the sea
    one starved-hair thinness above the horizon
    undecided if to continue up
    or down
    or rolling sideways on the sleek and curved surface
    curbed in its desire by its fixation
    with you

    in front of the sea in front of the sun
    and your head blocks the burning sphere
    with a fiery hoop turning into a spikey halo at the ends of your hair
    turning you anything between a saint or a ghost or a splash of phosphorescent ink

    mesmerized at the end of the sight line
    watching your cobweb thin cotton dress virtually smolder away in the glare
    while sharply defined wispy curls draw themselves on the disintegrating whiteness
    with the sharp end of a porcupine quill
    dipped in an inkwell
    of liquid shadow.





    such an ugly word,
    one of the ugliest words in any language any translation any synonym
    and yet I persist
    in it.

    Mutilating concepts of modern poetry
    classical poetry
    ugly poetry, beautiful poetry, political commercial brainwashingal poetry

    I don’t even know why
    this is the way it comes out
    the way a rolling stone down the slope of a mountain doesn’t know
    of laws of gravity
    of Newton
    of mass and inertia and acceleration

    it just rolls,
    until it stops
    or disintegrates.

    I do not explain, mind you.
    I do not excuse, mind you.
    It is just another one of those



Oh lover oh lover

    Oh lover oh lover

    Come take my hand

    And let us uncover

    A stranger land

    Where lazy summers

    Draw flower beds

    And woodpecker drummers

    Weave golden threads.

    Oh lover oh lover

    Come taste my lips

    And while I hover

    Around your hips

    We’ll mix the day’s brine

    With honey’s dew

    And turn to moonshine

    My limpid brew.

    Oh lover oh lover

    Obey your heart

    And let’s take cover

    Inside my art

    And when this world

    Does end one day

    We’ll lie down curled

    In ever’s May.

    ...grasping the tune and the rhythm and yet not the spirit of The Brothers Four’s Cleano.




    My intentions towards you are disrespectful, at best.
    At worst too

    leaving me with such a self-defined narrow range of action and microscopic tolerances
    that if Earth wasn’t this pompous balloon
    inflated to such disproportionate proportions by whatever prehistoric pump
    I would have had long ago defied all leftovers of respectfulness, mine,
    and ravished all leftovers of respectfulness, yours

    that horizontal sword cut joining your cheeks
    and dripping with all known and unknown fires of Hell

    that vertical sword cut slashing your body in two
    and bubbling with all of Earth’s hidden squalls and all of Heaven’s hidden elixirs

    those small sword cuts separating eight of them your fingers
    eight of them your toes
    and carrying so many times so many flowers in so many Summers between them

    added tiny random sword cuts with the rage of incisors
    intertwined with tiny sword cuts carrying the quest of fingernails
    all over your body

    to finally leave you a slab of flesh rustling like a forest prey to the whims of a whipping tempest
    before ravaging fire
    takes over.

    Your intentions towards me are mighty respectful, at worst.
    At best too

    leaving me with such a self-defined narrow range of action and microscopic tolerances
    that if Earth wasn’t this pompous balloon
    inflated to such disproportionate proportions by whatever prehistoric pump
    I would have had long ago declined all leftovers of respectfulness, mine,
    and subdued all leftovers of respectfulness, yours

    that horizontal sword cut joining your cheeks
    and promising all known and unknown fires of Hell

    that vertical sword cut almost slashing your body in two with its strange fist
    raving with all of Earth’s hidden squalls and all of Heaven’s hidden elixirs

    those small sword cuts separating eight of them your fingers
    eight of them your toes
    and carrying so many times so many strands of my hair in so many Winters between them

    added tiny random sword cuts with the rage of incisors
    intertwined with tiny sword cuts carrying the quest of fingernails
    all over your body

    to finally leave you a slab of flesh rustling like a forest prey to the whims of a whipping tempest
    before ravaging fire
    takes over.




    The wagon rolls, I look ahead, the oxen heave under the yoke
    We near the road’s deserted inn where we’ll await that midnight stroke
    When past’s reluctant lords of life will strike their shields one final time
    And all my oxen, yoke and me will bide for scythe’s triumphal chime.

    I ask you, woman, will you share the moments left until all gates
    Will close forever in my wake and bolts will moor to iron plates
    That sunder heaven from its lust and hell from fields of butterflies,
    Will you, oh woman, wed my heart, my soul, my flesh and my demise?

    I promise you no promise vain
    I times be Abel, times be Cain
    But promise do I, to the end
    Your smile with sun and light to blend.

    I lead my oxen to the leys where many other grazed before
    Where shattered dreams and fallen stars have merged with myths from days of yore
    The yoke has fallen to my axe and lies a thousand splinters wide
    I let my heart bleed on the mound and it ignites like devil’s pride.

    I watch you running down the hill aflame with embers in your hair
    This be my ever last of bids, my ever last of passion’s lair
    You crush me with the vise of love and leave no pity to be found,
    The oxen ruminate the myth, and round they shuffle, round and round.



and when

    and when I go
    and I forgo

    all that I know...

    here, thoughts
    I wrote hundreds, thousands,
    hundreds of thousands
    and I connected them in various ways and various styles and various languages
    and letters I sowed have sometimes bloomed into words
    sometimes withered into blank pages
    sometimes kicked me in the teeth like the mules they turned into
    and left me bleeding
    asking for no help from fellow, mule or human,

    slab of folly

    vile yet holy...

    here, memories,
    one cannot count memories
    one can remember memories
    even those forgotten even those one wishes to forget and cannot
    I never stopped wondering at the depths of that brain-cells sack
    hugging them all
    and protecting them all
    and when the right time comes letting them all out from the sack
    and drowning the owner, me,
    in a mix of sweet & sour & bitter & beautiful,
    yes, also & ugly,

    all seasons pass
    all life turns crass

    and tufts of grass...

    here, tombstones,
    accumulated and accumulating and yearning for the moment when accumulation stops
    family, close and far,
    friends, close and far,
    pets, close and far,
    lovers, close and close and never far,
    the shine of marble and the shine of candles and the shine of reflections in tears
    decorating spots on Earth I may never visit again
    desecrating spots on Earth I wish I never had to visit
    I will never forget, may I say ever?

    moon and sun
    and the one

    when I’m done...

    here, countdown, not much left,
    here, countup, much counted,
    here, countless ways to say good bye and none as beautiful as the one never said,

    and when I fly
    into the sky

    and when I die...



The joy of nonsense & son

    Lately I talk too much about death,
    I know.
    Not that death is my companion.
    Not that I don’t wish it was my companion
    so I could poison it
    or push it under a bus
    or buy it a one way ticket to where it came from
    wherever it was or is, supposing I knew.

    Do you think death remembers its parents?
    Its neighbors
    its flag?
    Do you think it has a taste in clothes, in music, in smoothies?
    Do you think death is a man? Or a woman? Or gay?
    Do you think death has political opinions?
    It sure as hell does not discriminate, it always takes the good ones first, no?
    Do you think death can catch influenza in winter?

    I believe death is red. Tomato red.
    If you object you’d better justify your choice,
    what do you believe death to be – avocado green?
    Spaghetti long? Alligator hungry?
    I stand by my red and I do not have to justify it,
    after all I started this discussion,
    my prerogative.

    OK, by now, if you reached this milestone in my poem
    your reaction depends on who you are.
    If my friend, you tear out every last vestige of hair from your scalp
    and raise eyes to the skies mumbling... ‘oh, no, not again...’
    If my lover, you pull up every single or double pair of panties you find at home
    and send me a relevant picture with a relevant text
    threatening no sex for the coming twenty three years
    unless I repent and recant and repudiate and recycle this piece of paper
    (I wrote it on a piece of paper)
    within the next twenty three hours and send you the receipt.
    If my critic (I believe the one that ends with c not the one that ends with que)
    you immediately inform president Trump with ‘I told you so’
    and he will not answer but tweet back something about Biden’s prostate
    (may apply to mine too).
    If a random reader, I do not wish to lose you and I beseech you to forgive me
    invoking and blaming God’s plan and Butterfly’s effect
    (lately I cater to both camps, don’t know why, intelligent senility?)
    If you’re me, then I really don’t know what the hell I am talking about
    but one thing is certain – this piece of text HAD to be written, period.

    Oh, and let others explain, suffer, comment... I simply enjoyed my no effort.




    I sit on a bench, at the left end of it,
    you sit at the right end.
    Another bench.
    Another park, another city, another continent.
    I look right.
    You look left.
    I move a quarter of bench rightways and you move a quarter of bench leftways.
    Then I move a quarter more same direction
    you too
    we are both at the middle, there is no place for two at the middle.
    No, it matter not another bench, park, city, continent.
    And half a world in between. Irrelevant.

    You clamber and sit on my knees
    hands clasped around my neck breath burning a hole through my cheek,
    I hope no teeth are showing, it would be gruesome.
    I wish I could do the same
    but we cannot both sit on the knees of the other
    it would be an Escherian paradox in two dimensions
    an impossibility in three dimensions
    and I’m too heavy, anyway.
    Your clothes cannot contain the heat.
    Undress, I beg, or you’ll go up in flames.
    You first, you answer.
    I don’t want you to run away screaming, people are still asleep, I try.
    Hell is down not up, you continue your line of thought, not having listened.
    You undress.

    The chilly morning air builds landscapes of goosebumps all over your body
    some areas more visible than other
    some areas more elusive than other
    some areas breathtaking.
    Like my nipples?
    Like your earlobes.
    Close your eyes, I’ll undress too.
    You don’t close your eyes. I am half a world away, I won’t run away. Where to?
    Why to?

    I refuse to answer. I undress.
    The bench underneath begins to smolder
    my turn to go up in flames.
    I know why.

    We saddle each other,
    somehow Escher is not a necessity anymore. Probably distance is multi-dimensional.
    Make love to me. Make love to me.
    F would have been a more appropriate word but children might be reading it.
    And the setting does not lead to F but rather to ML, so I give in. We give in.
    What with autumn’s leaves fluttering down to your shoulders
    and turning butterflies upon propinquity
    and the eye of the breeze trying to steal your breasts from the confinement of my palms
    and all those puppies and their puppy eyes looking up at us from all around us...
    ...where did they come from? you giggle, embarrassed.
    Our sharing? I try, not really certain.
    We wait until the last one is asleep. The last one snores.

    Constriction! Coarctation! Contraction!
    The world is down to pinpoint size we are down to pinpoint size on pinpoint
    the rage uncontainable
    the rage rages

    We slide from the bench in between the hugging embrace of the puppies
    butterflies thickening on your shoulders
    the eye of the breeze still failing to steal your breast from the confinement of my palms

    Will the world grow back to its bulky self?
    And we will be sitting on different benches, different parks,
    different cities, continents.
    So how did it just happen?
    Magic, I answer.
    Heart magic, is my extended corny answer,
    and I really do not want to understand it. Just to live it.
    Live it with me?

    We get up.
    I from my left side of the bench, turning left.
    You from your left side of the bench turning right.
    We start walking. Thankfully the world is round,
    till we meet again, I promise.
    Till we meet again, you echo.
    Or, maybe, it was the other way around?




    Lips linger lustfully locked.

    Hands happily holding hips.

    Metaphors mobilizing more meaning.

    Is your world always alliterated?
    Not necessarily. Nice notion.

    What about something with A? Fast, don’t think.
    Are all approaches acceptable?

    Huh, I see... did you prepare for this dialogue?
    (yawn) Yes, yesterday yvening.
    You’re cheating.
    Yada yada, yammer yammer.
    Just trying to keep it interesting. Could have said
    Yuppie, yes, yesterday. Yahoo!

    Now, this gets too boring, you know?
    Know know know know.
    Ha, ha, ha, ha.
    Now, this is the spirit, you know?

    Pause. This is not part of the dialogue.
    This is a pause in the dialogue.

    Actually, at this stage we were not talking anymore,
    just practicing.
    Concatenation, compaction, convolution.




    Show me the beauty asleep in your shirt
    the beauty asleep in the folds of your skirt
    the beauty asleep in the depths of your mouth
    when you open it wide and your cranes travel south,

    The beauty of ridges that fingerprints hide
    you burn down my castle to ravish my pride
    the blinking ordeal of those forests of green
    you climb my oppidum with armies of sin
    and argue my body’s defenseless sophism
    to slobbering muteness and wild anarchism,

    Show me the beauty of traveling quake
    with crocodiles chasing my flesh in its wake
    of traveling skin over pastures of lust
    with shattering bones grinding slowly to dust
    then bury my head in that muscled domain
    that hosts navel’s rich pitter-patter of rain
    your fingers relentlessly pushing my head
    my mouth’s trailing slobber fermenting in dread,

    One knee preys on sunset, the other sun’s rise
    I prey on the vista invading my eyes
    A gravity fist horizontally pulls
    To depths of a chaos in search for the rules
    About to collate seeds evading my will
    With life from your canvas and ink from my quill,

    The hasp treads the loop and the padlock clicks shut
    The metaphor dies and a kiss clears all smut
    And under the dome of a ray-riddled hutch
    You show me that you which my hand craves to touch.




    One million readers they have.
    And one million dollars,
    or more
    or less
    or more or less.
    Are they worthy of one million readers?
    And dollars?
    Maybe they are
    maybe they are not
    maybe they have one hell of a marketing machine where money does not really matter
    especially in the beginning.
    Afterwards is the avalanche effect and no one gives a shit about quality
    or value
    or worth.

    One hundred thousand readers some others have.
    And one hundred thousand dollars,
    or more
    or less
    or more or less.
    The rest ditto, saving some ink.

    What about one thousand readers,
    I sure as hell wouldn’t mind that
    even without associated dollars.
    One hundred readers?
    Well, if worse comes to worse...

    But one reader?
    One, o-n-e reader
    synonyming with only, lonely, alonely, etc?

    OK, I know, I may not have been completely honest with you
    my secondly, additional, unintentional, circumstantial reader,

    one, o-n-e, synonyming with only, lonely, alonely, etc
    is ALL, A-L-L, everything, the entirety of, the totality
    of readers I want, need, desire.
    More is nice to have
    one is must to have.
    As long as this one is she.
    She, the one who, when reading these lines automatically supplants she with you
    and then leans back laughing at everyone who does not understand my saying.
    She understands, the only one in the world who understands.
    Maybe she even... loves me?



One, two

    And then I lost my one too.
    I lost her, you
    depends on who reads these lines.

    I don’t blame her. You.
    Damn Cronos the bastard
    with all infinity to play with
    he decided to focus on this singular slice of nanotime
    the nanodifference between us
    blowing it up to, well, bigger nanodifference
    smaller than it should have mattered
    but big enough to have it matter.
    To her.
    To you.
    And I lost her too. You.

    Less than a blink in time, much less actually than nanotime
    probably more like nanonanonanotime and more zeroes behind the decimal point of importance
    and a gigantic slice of nanohappiness
    sliced off. Torn. Ripped. Reft. Rent. Rived. Ruptured.
    So many synonyms to so much teranegativity.

    Of course I keep writing.
    Maybe she will for a moment forget the divide
    and her eye will wonder my way
    followed by her heart
    followed by her smile. Maybe even her hand.
    A nanomaybe. Worth the effort.
    Until the effort will not be there anymore
    lying alongside me.
    For an eternity bigger than even Cronos can conceive,
    serves him well, the bastard.

    And until that moment I will wait.

    For her.

    For you.



Dude and I

    Dude, please let me carry on
    Songs of praise from dusk till dawn
    Then from dawn to dusk anew
    Songs of ‘woman, I love you’.

    Dude didn’t really like the idea. After all the effort He put in creation, He expected songs of praise and love about Himself, not about the piece of rib he tortured and torsioned in the thing called woman. This piece of clay whom He gave some (limited) brains was overstepping its boundaries. I should have stopped with dog, He thought.

    Sure, He could devise some solutions like a better flood or a better virus, but He didn’t feel like starting all the toiling anew – another six days of labor? and another Saturday? c’mon, enough was enough, He wanted some relaxation. And His angels were threatening to unionize, ha, imagine communism in the skies.

    Dude, I know your mighty hand
    You could smite me where I stand
    But as much as I love you
    I love more her dripping dew.

    For a moment Dude was taken aback, for a moment He thought He was going to use His mighty hand to smite him where he stood, but then re-considered. Hey, he did say that he loves Me, which is already an admission of kinds. He also did not specify the kind of dew he was referring to, so he probably did refer to lips dew, not some other ignoble kind... well, I did create this other ignoble kind Myself so I better stop complaining to Myself.

    I think this is something I can work with and in a few millennia things will get better. Thank Me for not letting them live more than 120 years, certainly not this duding character. The word ‘more’ bothered Him subconsciously, though He would never admit to owning a subconsciousness - what a damn long word, they should have stuck to Hebrew.

    Oh, he’s talking to Me again, yes, not all is lost.

    Dude, a father you’re to me
    Love me like I do love thee
    This word ‘love’ is kind of lame
    Love you both, but not the same.

    Hmm, we’re getting there. Admission of love, better than admission of guilt. He ran a few tests, the usual, you know – blood pressure, heart rate, saliva acidity – they all pointed to the fact that he was actually telling the truth. On an uncontrollable impulse (another thing He maintained He did not admit owning) He went back and read all the past writes of this talking clay (He could read almost as fast as Superman, but the clays had a way of abusing their He given imagination), and was forced to sit on a cloud and think a bit more. Then He re-read a second time, a third time...

    Then He started laughing, disregarding the fact that this triggered hurricane Omega (they were out of clay names already). Oh, My I, or maybe it is more correct grammatically speaking, to say Oh, My Me?... he really has Me hidden in his heart, some corner I didn’t even know I created (hey, am I to remember every schematic?) and when he talks about woman there is always talk about Me, and when he talks about woman love he always talk about Me love, and when he talks about making love to woman he always talks about thanking Me for sculpting this piece of creation (even Michelangelo didn’t do better, ahmm) which permeates his every pore of mind and spirit and body of course.

    He didn’t laugh again, the clays were running out also of Greek alphabet letters by now. Instead he smiled, accepted the petition of His angels on condition that they change a few clauses, and listened to the last stanza. Me, I love clay so much!

    Dude, I’ll be forever bard
    Thoughts of you divine, unmarred,
    Thoughts of her, on other hand
    I will hew with carnal brand.



Linguistic wonderings and wanderings

    I’ve never admitted yet, or before
    but I suffer from this brain malady with a name so long and unpronounceable
    that no one in his right mind dared yet excogitate,

    a brain malady that drops me unexpectedly down these abysmal abysses
    with walls so smooth and oily and impenetrable
    that a cat could not hang on to them, or an octopus,
    or even a Mallet’s Mortar shooting at it shells adorned with moissanite tipped hooks
    and grapples
    and barbs
    and porcupine quills
    and other paraphernalia.
    Why moissanite rather than diamond?... a simple matter of price, mind you.

    See, the malady started its attack already,
    I hope it will not extend its unwelcome stay beyond this unwelcome poem, well, we’ll see.

    So let’s start with swan-song,
    who was the antiquity idiot who invented such uninventable combination?
    Carmen cygni, yes, carmen cygni my foot, the right one
    which is where a swan once bit me
    in a frenzy of jealousy and protectivity. Luckily it did not have hyena fangs.
    I believe the inventor was short hearinged, you know, like short sighted
    so he saw a nightingale or a harp or a turkey and he thought it was a swan.
    Maybe he was also short smelled, short touched... what else is there?... short tasted.
    Not short imaginationed, mind you, and reaching notoriety up to Bill’s times

    Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan.
    And die in music.
    Willow, willow, willow—
    Moor, she was chaste, she loved thee, cruel Moor.
    So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true.
    So speaking as I think, alas, I die.

    and beyond... Geoffrey Chaucer, Nicolai Abildgaard, Alfred Tennyson, Led Zeppelin...

    Clytemnestra, another arrow to my linguistic wanderings bow,
    do you think hubby Agamemnon called her Clytie or Clytoria or Clo-Clo
    before during after their intimate, passionate encounters around
    killing her first hubby Tantalus
    raping her
    seeding her son Orestes
    sacrificing her daughter Iphigenia
    bringing her home lover Cassandra
    getting killed by her sharp labrys

    so much blood and incest and treason wrapped in those revered myths
    that today would get them an NC-17 rating even for reading only
    if not a Fahrenheit 451 event at the hands of some proselytizing do-gooders,
    oh, Clytemnestra, a name bringing to the forwards of my conscience
    disassociated homophones and homonyms considered indecent
    the kind of the kleitoris concealed by the labia pudendi
    and the beauty of thoughts of shared passion embedded in its modest structure
    versus the noisome efforts in relegating any mention of it in any literature of beauty,
    techno-medical and degrado-pornographical excluded.

    Deformed meaning? Deformed hearing?
    You are probably right. You are probably wrong. You’ve been warned.

    And what about virtureality?
    Don’t google it, it does not exist, yet, I just coined it.
    And if you google it tomorrow and it wall-papers your screen it means you stole it,
    someone stole it.
    I coin a lot of new words, this one is especially dear to my heart
    because of someone specially dear to my heart
    to whom I dedicated a not so great poem,
    fact which does not contradict the previous statement,
    titled this way. Virtureality

    You will find online a lot of material about virtual, and virtuality, and real and reality,
    so what the hell is my brain envisaging to mean differently by this ‘other’ word, you ask.
    Listen, don’t ask, interpret!
    I do not control the excess weight and the excess creases of my brain
    pushing me along these wondering and wandering paths
    and if you lobotomize them, provided you could find them,
    this kind of debatable poems will not come into existence,

    same being true for myths and children stories and theoretical math,
    thus accept, interpret
    and if you interpreted wrongly that’s great because you tried,

    what is virtureality? a world, a rich world, an incredibly rich world
    where you move in and out of dreams at will
    where you create and destroy and recreate lives at will
    where you are the god and the other God accepts your decisions
    at least until the end of the story
    the poem
    the sentence.

    Ism. What about ism? Well, you could call them philosophies,
    or ideologies or religions
    type capitalism, communism, totalitarianism, sufism, judaism, catholiocism, budhism
    and various other ism’s but there is a new one
    not named yet and yet it seems to have invaded and conquered
    the minds of all new era politicians and leaders to their kinds
    and this is selfishism.
    Mine, mine, mine (remember Gollum?)
    mine! the chair, the office, the leadership, the country
    the money ah money ah money
    and the rest can go jump from the highest bridge or tallest building
    or parachute without parachute for all these new generation mumbo-jumbo’s care
    and one particularly comes to mind
    the one who set the foundations for changing president into presidonna
    as a leading step towards further changing it to presidonnald
    and redefining the American constitution
    and its destitution
    towards idolatry
    and the setting of his image next to the Statue of Liberty
    or maybe even replacing it.
    And in one year probably adding his effigy to Mount Rushmore’s quartet,
    his lawyers would see to it,
    hmm, yey!

    There are other linguistic wonderings and wanderings I regularly dab into
    like all those words starting with caco
    or all those words ending with nym
    or all those words ending with ist, phy, ics
    and some even stranger triggers to my neurological paths
    but then I would be writing a dictionary, not poetry.
    So I’ll give it a break for now.
    Maybe later on I will add a “two” poem to this one.
    For now I will just give my back and fingers a break,
    go drink a smoothie and repair some roof and watch a debilitating TV show,
    all good for their regenerative powers.

    I hope you did not read this poem, I really do.




    When I smoke
    which I never do
    I think of you.

    Running on the ocean side
    with waves desperate to catch our footprints
    and we desperate to jump from footprint to footprint
    and we losing every time
    and they winning every time

    until that armistice moment
    when we all give up the chase
    and they return to churn and to mourn the litter scumming their kingdom
    for which we apologize
    and we return to churn and to mourn the life lost away from each other
    for which they do not apologize though they lay in between
    for so many uncounted and uncountable and unaccounted for

    Your hair gathers sand
    and I work
    days and days
    getting each and every one of the sand grains

    I breathe, most of the time.
    I never think of you when I breathe
    too busy handling and analyzing and sorting the masses of rubbish invading my lungs.

    I build us a solid raft
    autumn leaves glued and sewn to each other
    and throw it middle of the ocean
    then throw you on top of it
    then throw myself on top of you
    hoping you won’t pay attention
    which you don’t.

    I discuss the situation with orcas and sharks and passing flotsam
    all too busy trying to eat me rather than help me wake you up
    and let you fall asleep again
    in my arms.
    Probably I should have tried another ocean
    or puddle
    or barrel.

    I wash the salt from your body
    and from under your fingernails
    and from between your toes.

    I think of you
    all the time left after not thinking of you,
    smoking and breathing irrelevant.

    The waves died
    the ocean almost died,
    I find it under broken chairs and soggy cotton wads and empty, not always,
    shopping bags

    hardly alive all of us.
    I propose to you love eternal
    knowing eternality to be an eternally limited proposition
    and you answer by starting a collection of thrash
    for humanity’ ocean-thrash museum
    asking me to join you before you accept or deny my proposal
    and you apologize to me and to the ocean
    and I apologize to you and to the ocean

    night finding us exhausted on our microscopic thrash island
    and its mephitic smells.

    Is your poetry also here? you ask meaning probably something
    a clothespin pinching your nose

    I surely hope so, I answer meaning probably something else
    clothespins pinching both my nose and my ears
    since I probably prefer not to hear any answer.

    You remove all clothespins, mine and yours
    and point to your meanwhile liberated left nipple
    though I know by now we probably mean the same

    Your poetry is also here, statement, not question.

    The rest of liberated you lies on the wet sand
    with my index finger drawing continuous contours around it
    and the ocean erasing each again and again

    your sigh arising always at the same point in the cycle
    until I give up drawing and let my finger linger at the sigh-spot
    for as long as the ocean allows it. And you.



I guess

    I guess my books could have been thinner,

    by some not by much
    had I but chosen not to start each poem on the odd page
    for some obscure reason which I cannot reason out any more

    maybe I wanted a gimmick
    or maybe I wanted them artificially thicker
    (by single percent numbers, mind you)
    or maybe it made me feel good to flick through the pages
    and always see the titles same side of the book

    like east always east
    and west always west
    and porridge not everyone loving it... whatever it means.

    I guess my lines could have been shorter,

    not really shorter but looking shorter
    if I just placed a random carriage-return (as once called) here and there
    the way universities teach
    and contests are won
    and fashion and fad and temporary coteries à la mode
    are defined

    or define themselves

    or are brought about by those meaningless in their minds
    but deep in their pockets, gold or virtual.
    Would compensate the previous guessing paragraph
    relative to book lengths
    and number of trees saved or sacrificed.

    I guess I could have written poetry.

    Not erotic drivel.
    Of course I like my drivel
    else I would not have written it
    and I ain’t ashamed to admit,
    contrary to others.
    After all each have their specialties

    drivel writer
    prime minister
    and so on.
    Some jobs paying more some paying less.
    Some not paying at all.

    And if some university would have offered me a cathedra
    on condition that I end my slovenly, nefarious influence upon the brain-washed masses
    populating their thickly packed auditoriums
    I would have said “make love to you”
    (my politeness/deference/respectfulness is boundless)
    and refused.

    I guess in one or several other lifetimes
    you would have loved me
    for words.

    It will stay a guess, I guess.



Those Words

    Modern world.
    Modern words, or rather modern use of old words
    not always in the best of taste
    but in the best of modernity
    slang. Buddy-buddy. Chummy-chummy. Matey-matey. Ha!

    Now, imagine this modern world but with all these words banned
    or forgotten
    or never existed
    be they four lettered or three or five or whatever-lettered words
    how would our daily sound?

    Certainly possible
    but clean?
    Or simply and alienly ridiculous, at least to our present ear?

    You’ll need some imagination for the following, since in this “new world”
    I cannot use these above mentioned words,
    I can merely use analogies
    and your up-front forgiveness for my idiocy is an assumed certitude. OK?

    Fine, let’s start with examples.

    Assume you made a mistake at an exam and you discover it too late,
    what would you say out loud?
    The obvious or
    make love, make love, make love?
    Or imagine you are fed up with that fedable up someone
    what would you tell them at your ragest –
    make love off,
    make love you,
    what the make loving hell?

    Ridiculous you find?!
    Well, this is the kind of world we are now defining some small details about.

    Other examples? Let me see,
    look, in such a polite world where sob would be just the synonym to cry
    the other one we like using these days would sound something like
    you born of a female canine species or in short boafcs
    (not as piercing as the original but hey, it’s this kind of world)
    rejecting someone’s argument would be phrased along the lines of
    bull’s entrails expectoration
    rather than the “other” one
    and someone you despise would be called a
    backside orifice opening
    or an excrement head
    or a rooster suckling person... if you get my drift.
    Shooing someone away?
    Well, in addition to the above mentioned make love off
    you could also use urinate off. A bit cruder but still within definition –
    no four lettered words, no three lettered words, no five lettered words
    and what they stand for.

    Get stuffed would still be ok in this world,
    after all one stuffs also turkeys and things.
    Goddammit would also be OK,
    calling upon God is always ok, no?
    and Bloody Hell could be construed as both medical
    and ethical, thus acceptable.
    But inferring that people are masculine or feminine organs should not be tolerated
    and should transmogrify
    (I have no idea what it means)
    into cognomens
    (another one I have no idea what it means)
    such as in: you reproductive female organ!
    or in: you reproductive male organ!
    or if subtlety yet sharpness is demanded then such as:
    make love you you reproductive organ
    and leaving the gender undefined... this would be a real killer
    with no parallel in the other world.

    OK, close parentheses.
    I think we bloody hell should keep on using fuck and shit and other members of the clan
    else we all die of old age by the time the insultee gets whatever we mean by whatever,
    and we wouldn’t want that to happen, would we?




    You see, I have been blessed with this eighth sense.

    Which other two?
    Forget them, skip them, they are meaningless in this context,
    the eighth is the one I can boast about.
    And do.

    You see, I know when I write divine poetry.
    I know also when I write shit poetry.
    This is my eighth sense, part one.

    Part two is I know if someone shits me and praises my shit
    or abhors my artistry and decimates my divinity,

    divinity i.e. divine creativity and not the “other”.

    So whichever you are, don’t!
    I know.
    Come back only when you are awash with honesty, if to be Shakespearian
    and then praise me or abhor me
    I will love you.

    Cross all my hearts and hope to die,




    By the sun’s height over the horizon
    your eyes are blue
    and your name’s Lou.

    She turned off the mike for a few seconds,
    I guess she did not want me to hear her laughing.

    We were on the same continent
    if you account for the bottom of the ocean as part of the structure,
    but on different planets if you account for everything else.
    It was an across-the-world dating site,
    voice only,
    my first try and probably the last.
    Curiosity, you know.

    She opened the mike again.
    I measured said height
    resulting in green and June.

    Hmm... so maybe it was not my last try after all.
    Intelligence at the end of a phone line was not what I expected,
    maybe I was wrong.

    Did you use a sextant? I asked.
    No, I’m not that rich and or talented,
    I used an Internet table. And my ID.

    This time it was I who closed the mike for a few moments
    and when I opened it again she snickered audibly.
    I guess you had to laugh off-line, right?

    The discussion started taking unexpected turns
    each turn finding me more intrigued than the previous one.
    Laughing was not an issue anymore
    the mike staying open even during the most embarrassing moments
    or the most stimulating ones.
    Like when she asked me my age.
    Like when I asked her what she was wearing.
    Like when she asked me my postal address.

    Why, do you want to investigate me?
    I want to send you a package.
    Naked pictures?
    Also, when I was three months old.
    Also a few books, CDs, DVDs,
    if we’re ever going to fuck you’d better know more of me.
    Do you like poetry? I asked just to kill the embarrassing moment.
    No, she answered.
    Even rhyming poetry?
    Worse, she answered.
    Can you give me your postal address? I asked.
    Why, do you want to investigate me?
    I want to send you a package,
    I do not have any three months old bare-assed picture of myself
    but I have some rhyming poetry I wrote I want to send you.
    You know you risk that theoretical future fucking moment? she mussed.
    I know.

    Three months later.
    Mr. Post did not get any richer with one package each way, I am sure.
    The continent size reduced to one bed size
    the different planets reduced to same one bed size
    we reduced to crazed animals finally settling their bodily arguments
    with one final sigh... well, more of a growl.
    If I remembered correctly, we did not exchange one word from the moment she landed
    to the moment after the mentioned growl ended.
    I believe I fell for your books and CDs and DVDs, I offered.
    I believe I fell for your rhyming poetry, she offered.

    No more.



Not quite an argument

    So, really,
    why does one write poetry?

    No one remembers it
    no one reads it
    no one in his right mind buys it.

    Maybe some college professors to justify their paid desks
    and flaunt artificial knowledgeness towards the innocent flock
    grazing the waxed floors of their auditoriums
    and paying with daddy’s hard (or easy) earned money. Or mommy’s, if you insist.

    Maybe also the afore mentioned flock
    to get their pass/fail points
    from the afore mentioned professors.

    But does anyone really READ it?
    Dive into it, mine into it, dig into it until the fingers bleed
    and the spades blunt.
    Does anyone really try to understand it?

    Yes, it carries some glow from the “classics”
    or even “recent classics”
    not that they were more of a success than of a fad,

    is it reason enough?

    I wonder.
    I keep wondering.
    Maybe I should stop wondering and keep writing
    even if I do not remember ninety-nine percent of whatever I whenever wrote

    and once I become a classic myself
    someone else will ask the same question
    and maybe by then there will be also an answer.

    My answer to myself?
    Because one loves it.
    Because I love it, damn humanity’s short span of interest and brain activity
    and though it is one of the most disregarded forms of art
    it is one of the deepest
    most accessible and most evocative forms of art planted on this planet.

    No one asks a nightingale the reason.
    No one should ask a poet the reason.




    lay me awash
    with sex

    let my concupiscence betroth your prurience
    and we’ll chisel longer words straight into bones

    while you smear thick layers of flesh upon mine
    sprinkled with thin crumbs of glinting skin

    allowing me no time to avenge my departed morality
    and lost time before its departure.

    let me disembogue
    into you

    as I anneal into emptiness of reason
    do deliquesce into fermentation of wantonness

    and the sizzle of lancinated insides
    rise to nostrils with the screech of desquamated outsides

    like a symphonic orgy
    of birds trying to find their places on disemboweled staves.

    leave me hunting
    for a lifetime lost

    faltering between worlds unknown to man
    and worlds unknown to this man

    while caviling at the injustices befallen me since creation
    and then gather my entire corporality

    to lay it down gently in your lap
    just underneath the garlands of your breasts.



Fame. Or is it fameish? Or maybe fameishness?

    Nobody thinks I’m as good as Shakespeare,
    an overwhelming minority thinks I’m better
    the rest don’t know I exist.

    Same idea when comparing to Bukowski,
    again overwhelming, again minority
    but this time another minority,
    I wonder why.

    In a state of complete and total excitation
    I tried other names:
    Cummings, Pound, Plath, Eliot, Yeats, Lorca...
    each time decisively winning by a minority of 1-2
    in a total count of 2-3
    the minority component changing each time
    entirely dependent on the street corner where I ran my research.

    Significant find, don’t you think?

    I intend to expand my research from East Papua to West Papua
    and after this, who knows,
    the world?

    I mean, world domination was never my intent
    but given that it is offered to me so readily
    who am I to say no?

    BTW, I will have to raise my books’ prices,
    everyone thought I was an idiot for asking such a low price for such high quality
    and kept pointing to their temples
    with their index fingers going round and round.




    brought you into my life,

    bucketfuls of word-puzzles broken into single components
    which you could magic-wand into bubbling brooks
    and rising larks
    and falling snowflakes upon the ends of my eyelashes

    took you out of my life,
    the lack of it, mine.

    it was short
    measured in seconds, in inches, in pounds

    it was not as short as it would take not to be cut
    to slivers.

    we’ll never walk
    we’ll never talk
    we’ll never endure through that riveting gasp
    that kneads steel into wax and pounds flintstone to chalk

    we’ll never abide
    by the groveling tide
    we’ll never emboss into sinew and bone
    the profound veneration that alloys groom and bride.

    read it. learn to.
    we’ll never live it. accept to.

    by the time you solve the last puzzle there will be no last puzzle left
    to solve.




    I listen to the orchestra tuning their tools,

    ok, they call them instruments,
    so what?

    Still tools of trade
    like hammer, rasp, drilling machine

    I can also call my tools instruments.

    So I don’t compose a concerto to one vise and three screwdrivers
    and I don’t play one since no one ever wrote one

    but still,
    these are honorable tools
    and I play them no less enthusiastically than a cello, or a trombone, or a piccolo

    like my father before me
    and his before him
    and how many before that?

    I like the dirt under my fingernails
    making me one of the many
    who really count.



the 8th

    ...and on the 8th day God was bored

    and then He had this wonderful idea
    and He gave His creation free will

    and from that moment on there was never a dull moment.

    and at a certain moment
    it even became
    maybe... too much.

    and it got Him thinking...



Rant. Seventh? Last?

    I read them.

    Not all, the good ones,
    the so called good ones
    classics and modern classics and neo classics and similar classics
    trying to understand the roots to their success
    and influence carrying throughout the masses
    limited masses, that is, but still – masses,
    and rave reviews
    and repeated editions

    and similar extraneous manifestations of success,
    not necessarily money.

    And I found.
    It is crap. And shit.
    The more the better. Crap and shit.
    And the crappier and shittier the resulting world, the better.
    Distribution. Fame. Compilations, anthologies, fifth editions. Bestsellers.
    Crap. Shit.
    Literally and figuratively speaking,
    there is sufficient analog material available in among drugs,
    smoking, alcohol, self mutilation, suicidal drive, STDs, jail,
    parental abuse, parental neglect, parental violence...
    yes, parental is such a favorite pass-time.

    Admittedly all this carnival stops short of C words,
    C male and C female,
    not always but mostly.
    Yey! such gentleness of spirit and consideration.

    And I? Where am I?
    Damn, nowhere near.
    Beg to be exculpated
    but no parental problems, no drugs, no revolution except socially justified,
    yeap, down in the doldrums
    and lower.
    Thus no fame for me, no fifth edition, no bestseller.
    Damn it, not even first edition.

    I can’t claim I’ll survive it, I will not
    but I can claim acceptance.
    Ranting acceptance but acceptance nevertheless.

    Listen, you, the one assumedly reading it,
    I have as much life behind me as you have before you.
    So maybe you’ll get there, good luck!
    And if you can do it without crap and shit even better,
    it means you didn’t sacrifice your beliefs on Molech’s altar.
    It means your talent was spotted,
    and accepted.
    Hallelujah! Inch’ Allah! Soli Deo Gloria! Amen!




    I have to make sure my books are printed on FSC approved material
    controlled foresting, recycled non-bleached paper

    pages soft and thin and malleable
    ink water-based and preferably food-safe
    glue non-toxic
    binding thread fully soluble

    thus allowing fully flexible and fully ecological solutions and answers
    to the question “what to do with these books?”
    after (preferably) buying them or (less preferably) stealing them
    and (preferably) reading them, at least partially

    the options variants as in the following, non-exclusive, listing
    with estimated percentages of the total quantity distributed
    all based on pre PPP (Personal Private Prejudiced) research:

    0.0001% to private shelves or national libraries or lost in public places

    23% to composting bins, preferably aerobic though anaerobic would do as well
    as long as you and your neighbors agree with a degree of stank
    small price to pay for saving the planet,
    you’d preferably run the book through a powerful shredder beforehand
    to help with the process
    and only then mix with peels of oranges, pieces of rotten tomatoes,
    scraps of meat, borscht leftovers, torn cabbage leaves, sugar, spoiled eggs

    11% to support feet of wobbling tables or cabinets
    though no responsibility accepted by the publishers
    for eventual collapse of said tables or cabinets
    and resulting damage to persons of all sexes, pets of both sexes or property

    34% to be sent to sub-developed areas around the globe
    whereas these books should be dis-paged to individual pages
    and these pages to be fully mottled and then un-mottled several times
    after which procedure they should be impaled upon nails of various sizes
    on walls of private or public outhouses
    for the obvious use of keeping the planet and people thriving upon it
    clean and literate (some of them will know to read, I imagine)

    3% to feed goats, some like it mainly mixed with fresh cabbage leaves

    6% to be carved in between the covers and used to smuggle
    firearms, drugs, cheese, soup, waffles, diamonds and similar
    to prisons, from prisons, to mental institutions, from mental institutions,
    mainly the thick books

    15% to be used as individual pages to wrap fish in the market place,
    small fish, mind you, say sardines
    they could be also cone-formed for the storage of seeds, cherries, blueberries
    and similar but nothing liquid, mind you

    the-rest-of % ... imagination is the limit...
    origami folding, open fire supplement (one can try to fry potatoes in it),
    paper confetti, who throws it further games, weight lifting competitions,
    ransom messages cutouts (not recommended, letters too uniform),
    bullet penetration tests, winter stuffing for shoes,
    counter weights for cranes when mixed with concrete, platforms for short people,
    headgear protection against heavy hail
    scafanders sink weights
    balloons ballast
    weaponry (throwing off the walls of a castle on attackers heads
    if a time machine would bring us back to that period, still theoretical).

    Now that I am certain my name will be immortalized on the walls of the hall of fame
    if not for poetry then at least for ecology
    and now that the goals of my art were made so plainly clear to me
    and to a multitude of 2-3 other people
    by me
    I have no choice but follow my destiny
    and add a few more kilograms to said art.

    Oh, the beauty of this art
    scraping my shoulders to bleeding raw...




    I read Bukowski,
    I think I connected.

    Probably only partially
    but partially enough to call it connection.

    I thought I connected to you as well
    but I was wrong

    with him it was probably because I was close to the age
    when he wrote those lines
    with you it is probably because I am far from the age
    when you read these lines.

    I read Bukowski,
    some lines he says I would have said the same
    but better
    some lines he says I would have said the same
    but worse

    some lines I did.

    You agree with some of his lines
    I agree with some of his lines,
    we are not always in sync.

    I certainly agree to his one word answer to those asking his advice on writing poetry.
    His answer.

    I read Bukowski,
    I did not yet finish
    but I could write his rest of poems blindly.
    Except for a few words I would probably nail it,
    say – 93% ?

    Nothing to do with predictability,
    more to do with the mood he put me in.
    I will have to read now three times sequentially Cinderella
    in order to erase the lingering taste of futility, impotence and cynicism.
    Not that I mind aftertaste of such kind, it is reality after all,
    but I prefer to save the streak of optimism in me
    that tries to survive life
    and a Cinderella ending kind of helps.

    I do not mind if you consider it childish.

    I read Bukowski.
    I think I will give up reading Bukowski for a while.



Mixta Cogitationes

    Before my soul returns to dust, my dear,
    Et ne peut plus t’apprendre du désir,
    Before I melt my quill inside my art
    Et l’hirondelles avec ces doux mots partent,

    Just watch how sunset dips its evening brush
    Et peint ton lit avec des tendres taches
    Where I will lay you into whisper’s lull
    Pour faire l’amour cernés par des étoiles.

    Oh, don’t wake up from this embracing blue
    Et n’oublie pas ma vie, ma mort, et nous.



In a way

    I was a handsome guy.

    I was wiry, sexy, alluring.

    I was attractive to women,
    and not only but only that counted for me.

    I am not handsome
    but handsome in a way.

    I am not anymore wiry, sexy, alluring
    but wiry, sexy and alluring in a way.

    I am not attractive to women
    but still attractive in a way.

    In a way
    even more in this way, all of above.

    I do not care about handsome, wiry, sexy, alluring, attractive, etc.
    I do no try
    I accept
    and all I receive is truly
    beautiful soft sexy alluring attractive etc.
    so much more than once
    in a way.




    There’s a window.
    There’s a lake beyond the window.
    There’s a forest beyond the lake beyond the window and in the forest wolves, bears, deer.
    There’s a room beyond the window this side of the window
    and in the room red embers singing crackling wood tunes inside an open fireplace
    and I try to sing along poem tunes
    succeeding only in the crackling aspects,

    not even not my poems sound better.

    Yes, lack of oxygen takes over my expression
    though the logic stays intact.
    Your beauty intact.
    Your beauty incorporeal this side of beyond the window
    as you pendulate to me from me to me from me in the rocking chair
    your eyes glued to the row of willows pendulating in the passing breeze
    imitating you
    beyond the window
    before the lake beyond the window
    before the lake before the forest beyond the window
    before the wolves and bears and deer.

    Don’t read one, write one, you say
    and I don’t read one, I write one.
    You close your eyes.
    You smile when the verse is jocund
    you tear when the verse is tragic
    you light up when the verse is erotic...
    you read my mind

    as I write.

    Snow has fallen, you say.
    The bedsheets are cold, you say.
    Now read it into my ear, you say.

    You smile
    you tear
    you light up and with you the willows and the lake and the forest
    and wolves and bears and deer rage in illiterate appreciation
    of human passion.

    Morning finds us curled into each other.
    The fire long gone cold
    the hanging willow tips trapped beneath the lake’s glazy surface
    the forest painted with a thick whiteness shaped times wolf
    times bear
    times deer.
    Death? Life? Limbo?

    frozen into the immobility of beyond wonder
    beyond beauty
    beyond the silence of a breast fallen over my arm

    and the only sign of life an incidentally passing third party might hear
    are the soft snores of your puppy
    under the bed.



Click! Click!

    I pull both hammers back,
    click! click!

    I have it in my sights
    it’s barely advancing in the deep snow
    the chicken dragging lifelessly behind

    it senses me.
    It stops.
    It turns its muzzle towards me
    knowing what is to come,
    waiting for thunder.

    You kill me,
    you kill my cubs,
    go ahead, you can.

    I can.

    I guide the hammers softly back to their rest
    and turn my face sideways.
    The red tail disappears in the snow.

    Life has made another choice today.
    For whatever reason
    I feel good.




    What is your DQ? I asked.
    DQ? she repeated, puzzled.
    Yes, DQ, I repeated, Dummy Quotient,
    and my face was not there anymore as her hand lashed out,
    losing only a microtomic thickness of epidermis to the tip of her fingernail.

    Because only a high DQ would ask me
    ‘why do you write so much poetry lately?’
    when she knows that

    She wakes in the East and she sets in the West
    And she’s muse to my ink’s disenthralling behest
    With those forests absconding behind dropping lash
    And my mornings to evenings with laughter awash.

    What is your DQ? she asked, back into my vicinity
    and I feared the microtomic thickness would turn millimetric thickness.
    DQ? I repeated, puzzled.
    Yes, DQ, she repeated, Depravity Quotient,
    and my lips were not there anymore as her teeth lashed out
    losing various other parts of first clothing and then flesh bare of clothing
    as they disappeared into various other parts of her body lashing out
    first redefining and then undefining the thin perceptual border
    between depravity and desire deluging.

    What is your DQ? I asked, later,
    losing nothing this time if not moments of serendipity.
    DQ? she probably whispered, or maybe it was a butterfly fluttering by?
    Yes, DQ, I repeated, Delicacy Quotient
    and she did not answer
    she merely repeated earlier hell, or heaven, or whatever a human mind cannot comprehend.




    Erotistically speaking, I am second to last,
    I stated proudly,
    in this two competitors challenge.
    and then the rest.

    And the public is? she asked.
    And the referees are? she asked.
    You and you and you.
    And the prize is? she asked.
    Very erotful, she smiled.

    The world didn’t exist,
    she behind her glass of beer
    I behind my glass of beer,
    the world didn’t exist.

    And if you lose? she asked,
    the tremolo unmistakably there.
    Then you don’t give me your body and I die, I said,
    not even the shadow of a tremolo’s shadow in my voice.
    ...and thus you are trying to corrupt the referees even before the games begin, she said,
    another hue of tremolo invading the space the first one proudly owned
    just moments ago.
    I know of no more incorruptible referee than you, I responded
    draining the last of my beer
    and pulling out the pen.
    Chapter one, I said.
    Of how many?
    Of as many as you decide.
    Chapter one, I said, repeating myself.


    It was after a key turned the room into impenetrable realm.

    It was after unclothing reveled secrets of creation
    the masters of creation never engendered
    and its slaves never desired, before.

    It was after foreplay of forepaws
    and hindsight of hindlegs
    and various other mixed-up terminologies
    tore gales from unfathomable depths of lungs
    and left the rest of bodily constituents prey to the misery of profanity
    and upheaval
    and delirium
    of after,

    again, and again, and again... how many times?

    I opened eyes, sequentially,
    my four limbs tied to four bedposts in perfect Vitruvian imitation
    and you on your fours just above me
    your lips barely brushing my lips
    your nose tip barely brushing my nose tip
    your eyelashes barely brushing my eyelashes
    your eyes crossed
    the ferret the cobra the tiger about to pounce

    the softness in that regard turning dropping snowflakes to tumbling nails

    and as my eyes focused and crossed and grappled into yours
    you languidly started gyrating your body above me
    until you were facing towards my toes
    and your nakedness started advancing in inimitable felinity
    to somewhere
    my eyes uncrossing with every passing moment
    rippling shape of muscle
    glinting droplet of humidity
    locked bolted latched to that departing end of woman
    ferreting me into a litany of raging curses and conjurations
    that slashed impotently at the potent binds eating into my wrists and ankles
    while imperturbable you contemptuously continued that contumacious course
    until you halted above a jar overflowing with the viscidity of honey
    and slowly dipped one nipple in it, hanging breast following,
    then other nipple in it, hanging breast following
    and then you gyrated back
    felinity advancing now towards me
    living behind a train of sticky splotches
    with billions of ants and wasps and butterflies battling lives over them
    yet all I could see were those desynchronized pendulums advancing towards me
    growing in size
    in urgency
    in menace
    my brain decaying exponentially from millimating to centimating to decimating
    until one after the other the dangling torture carriers tarried above me
    lowered their load of nectar into my gaping mouth
    then again
    then again...
    the hell with nectar, I crave the carrier, I screamed...
    ...and will you behave if I unleash you?
    Will I behave if you unleash me?
    ...and will you abide by my bidding if I unleash you?
    Will I abide by your bidding if you unleash me?
    ...and will you...?

    I tore through the bonds
    broke the bedposts
    misbehaved and misabided and mis...

    Morning couldn’t find us,
    there was not much left to find in that fleshy tangle of knots and knurls and knars,
    three mornings had to invest overtime to disentangle us,

    not that we were in a hurry.


    A fly was sipping the leftovers of my beer.
    I tore the page and pushed it towards her
    then wrote on the top of the following page
    Chapter two.
    Of how many? she asked again.
    How long? she asked again, differently.
    Until when? she asked again, differently differently.
    Until you, I answered, not so mysteriously
    and bent over the paper again.

    Or until end, I told myself,
    whatever comes first.




    One hour later.

    Say, are all your poems, one way or another
    erotica oriented?

    All my poems are, one way or no other,
    erotica stained, suffused, soaked,
    even those that are not,
    not way and not other.
    And you keep writing?
    I keep writing.
    How many this year?
    Let me see, ahm,
    January 1st, January 2nd, January 3rd... no, January 3rd there were three,
    January 4th...
    OK, OK, I get the point.
    No, you don’t get the point,
    erotica is an art, my art
    and I am damn good at it.
    Why should I stop?
    Can I stop?
    Could a da Vinci stop?
    You compare yourself to da Vinci?
    You’re a bit outclassed there.

    No, I don’t compare myself to da Vinci, I am much outclassed there,
    he is a class on his own
    as were William (Shakespeare), and Pieter (Brueghel), and Auguste (Rodin), and Elvis...
    ...(Presley)? Yes, I heard the parentheses, I hope I pronounced them correctly.
    I see you did your homework.
    I did. Only men in your list?
    You interrupted me.

    She smiled, the first smile in the encounter.

    ...(La Fonteyn).
    And couples, any couples you intended to mention before my uncouth interruption?

    It was my turn to smile. The ice was broken.

    Laurel and Hardy, Fred and Ginger, and thousands of others
    in singles or couples or multitudes.
    I don’t compare myself to them.
    I compare myself to their stopping will.
    Neither I. Or maybe better said either I. None.

    She had stopped taking notes a long way back in the interview.

    You are a strange man, she said.
    I am a nonesuch man, I said.
    I am just a stopping-will-less man, and this about defines it.

    Now she laughed, finally she laughed and she felt good about it.

    You know, I came here determined to either blast you off the surface of Earth
    or worship you on it.
    I leave with none of these.

    She stood up.
    I simply like you.
    She handed me a card.
    Call me. I think I may make a good subject for you.
    You mean like a muse?
    I mean like a lover.

    She left.
    It was not the last of her that I saw.



How many different ways there are to say it?

    Say, are you trying to seduce me? she asked.

    Who, I?

    I am trying

    to sing praising tunes
    to the wandering dunes
    where a sweep of your hand
    harvests stars from the sand...

    Hmm, you are trying to seduce me? she hmmed.

    Who, I?

    I just try

    to let armies of runes
    descry why in the dunes
    after you wave your hand
    stars reflect from the sand.

    I actually do think you are trying to seduce me, no? she looked at me askance
    emphasizing ‘do’ and ‘are’ but hesitating on the ‘no’.

    Who, I?

    I kind of try and probably fail

    to describe green lagoons
    losing tears amidst dunes
    when your face flees the hand
    stars descend into sand.

    You are trying to seduce me, she stated
    the question mark gone, a smile pulling corners of lips to corners of eyes.

    Who, I?

    You decide,
    I merely try my hand in or at or with or to join

    unversed roving buffoons
    drudging taciturn dunes
    dreams of us hand in hand
    seeding stars in the sand.

    I decided.

    She didn’t tell me what.



A man under the influence

    You dragged me

    from rapt abysm
    to paroxysm
    of esoteric words
    from inane mires
    betwixt suspires
    to trills amidst of birds,

    You seeded inmost to me

    wake of deprival
    the savage revival
    of verses thousandscore
    the heartbeat thunder
    that rips asunder
    through silences galore,

    You smiled at me

    and mountains from crumble
    and oak trees from tumble
    rewake to sun delight
    the Ides of March witness
    a deadly pen’s swiftness
    that stabs to death the night.




    You entered the airport and we started kissing our first kiss.

    We took a taxi and started riding.

    We entered a restaurant and started eating.

    We entered another restaurant and started eating.

    We entered a third restaurant and started eating.

    We went to a museum and started gawking.

    We went to a cinema and started seeing a movie.

    We went to an ice-cream parlor and started licking ice cream.

    We went to a one-night hotel and started doing whatever people do in one-night hotels.

    Wherever we went we were either kicked out or had to leave in alarmed hurry
    leaving a trail of fiery destruction in our wake.
    Not intentionally. But unavoidably.

    We went to the airport – another airport, the first was still being reconstructed
    and started kissing our last kiss.

    The airplane had to leave in a hurry.
    Luckily, for all the passengers except for me, you did not fly with me
    so we couldn’t start anything.




    He was a very humil man...
    Humble, you want to say.
    No, humil, I want to say.
    Why do you keep correcting me all the time?
    No one corrected Shakespeare and he also kept using strange words.
    He was doing no such thing,
    he was using the words and slang of his times
    and composing beauty with them,
    you use words of no times
    and compose confusion with them.

    And why would you care?
    Because I want people to buy your books.
    People do not buy my books, aha! I said triumphally...
    ...winning the argument,
    my intellectual superiority inflammating my chest.
    Women, must always have the last word.

    She started annoying me.
    Correcting me, reading my thoughts,
    what next? Wearing my aftershave? Buying my books?

    I decided to change my mood from moronic to patient, persuasive,
    or as they say in French - changer mon fusil d'épaule.
    English, please?
    Her ongoing listening to my thoughts was disconcerting.
    Sorry, no good translation available for the expression. And stop reading my thoughts!
    She made a face that could mean anything from go f yourself to go f me.
    Listen, say I want to emulate Shakespeare,
    say I wanna...
    Shakespeare would not say wanna.
    Say I kinda...
    Shakespeare would never use kinda.
    OK, now listen woman, who BTW I am deeply in love with...
    Yes, I know, Shakespeare would never use BTW
    BUT if he did use wanna, kinda, BTW and whatever else, would you have objected?
    Would anyone have objected?
    And if he was the one loving you, would you have objected?

    Ha, I got her there, I got her to thinking
    though I wasn’t so happy with my last question.
    Hey, you can’t unring a bell, right? I thought,
    hopefully she will not answer? I thought
    knowing she can read my thoughts, I thought.
    Les risques du métier, you know. The métier in this case being lover.

    I decided to push my momentary advantage further.
    You know, words you would never blink at even once when hearing them today
    like unaware, green-eyes, lackluster, bandit, dauntless, lonely... he coined.
    Even undress, haha.

    She was still thinking while I was still undressing her in my mind
    (out of control association of ideas)
    hoping she could read only words, not images.
    Say, I discern some blurred images...
    Hey, your shoes are nice! What are you chewing? Today is after yesterday! La la la!...
    In vain, I knew it was in vain.
    Say, why do you bring so much master S in our discussions, lately? Hey, maybe not in vain?
    Are you obsessed with him? She kept pushing me eastwards.
    Are you not supposed to be obsessed with me? My knees hit the edge of the bed.
    Is it pictures of master S that I discern in your mind? The bed rose to meet my other end.
    Is he always half naked? Gulp.
    Is he always entirely naked? Gulp gulp.
    Do you always have this reaction when you imagine master S naked? Gulp gulp gulp.
    Say, I am not so sure but are you sure he had green eyes... additional gulps.
    and long hair... More gulps.
    and breasts?... I did not have any time left for gulps,
    I needed all my gulps for my breath and my sanity and my apotheosisation.

    I lost consciousness, manner of speaking.
    This was one scene master S, luckily, never tried to describe
    even with his broken Early Modern English.
    A lucky stroke for the theater world... he would have died of a heart attack so early in life.

    Say, you bringing him up again?
    Hey, I am smitten with his endeavoration to reach perfectibilation and completitude.
    I gave her ample reason to correct me. She did not. Good sign.




    Winter, your side of the world.

    Immaculate, innocent, incorrupt,
    vestal, virginal,
    You hate leaving foot-deep imprints in the freshly fallen snow
    and yet... so beautiful, so symbolic of you one and nature one and you two together one
    and none and nothing else to disturb perfection

    falling flakes, hanging icicles, tiny needles of wind...

    Yeah, sure, none and nothing to disturb perfection
    if not for the unleashed four-footed one-tailed furry fury
    criss-crossing between your legs like a demon swarm ripping lose from hell
    and chasing everything in sight and out of sight
    from the smell of your today’s breeches to the smell of yesterday’s foxes
    to the smell of tomorrow’s bears... she stops. She suddenly stops.
    “Hey, girlie, girlie, here...” you call
    but she remains frozen.
    “Hey, girlie, girlie...” you call again
    but she remains rigid, lips curling slightly back, horrifying fangs showing,
    hair ends making slow advance muzzle to tip of tail
    a growl
    a bark...

    The mass of air splits


    I emerge from worlds beyond
    grab you by the waist
    drag you to my world and close the portal behind me
    not before the four-legged fury follows in
    her teeth sunk deep into my ankle drawing blood.
    I do not mind the blood. I do not mind the pain.
    “Hey, girl, easy girl,” I say
    and the dog lifts questioning eyes towards you and as you nod your head
    lets go and coils in a corner, growling ceaselessly.
    “Are you frightened?” I ask. I ask you, not the dog.
    “No,” you answer, kneeling and pulling my trouser hem up. “It’s bad.”
    You look around and seeing nothing suitable you pull your shirt out of the belt
    tear a long piece and tie it around the wound.
    “It is a cave,” you state matter of factly, looking around,
    “is there a world outside of this cave?”
    “I do not know, do you want a world? You asked for a cave so I created one,
    shall I create a word as well?”
    You do not answer.
    “Are you not afraid?” I ask further, partly surprised, partly relieved.
    “No, I am not afraid. I asked for it, why should I be?
    And thank you for dragging my doggie in as well.”
    “I did not drag her, she dragged herself,” I smile at the dog
    who looks undecided between the desire to tear me to pieces or to lick me to death.
    “Do you have something hot to drink?” you ask.

    I throw another log into the fire,
    the cave around us lighted by tiny coal sparks exploding all around us
    and a few flying fireflies buzzing a halo around the dog’s head. Then around yours.
    “Fireflies mid of the winter?” you smile, knowing the answer.
    “Fantasy allows for anything, fireflies in the winter,
    I kidnapping you,
    a cave on another world away from the world.”
    “Even for hot coffee?”
    “Even for hot coffee, or chocolate, or soup, or milk...”
    “Milk for the dog.”
    I pour a bowl of milk for the dog who decides to let her good nature get the upper hand
    and licks my bandaged wound asking for forgiveness.
    She didn’t have to ask, it was nice she did.
    “Do you have some warm blankets around?” you ask.

    You lie on the soft sofa,
    you asked for a soft sofa in the cave so I created a soft sofa in the cave,
    the blankets up to your chin
    the hot coffee mug moving rhythmically to your lips and from your lips and to your lips
    and I do not know anymore which part is my creation and which part is reality...
    “Are there bears around?” you ask.
    “Do you want bears around?” I ask.
    “Are there eagles around? you ask.
    “Do you want eagles around?” I ask.
    “Do you want to make love to me?” you ask.
    “Do you want me to make love to you?” I ask,
    and then point to the one-eye-awake nightmare sleep-make-believing in the corner,
    “will she not mind?”
    “Not if you love me.”
    “Not if I love you.”
    None of us ends the statement with a question mark.
    She does not mind. The doggie.

    The mass of air splits


    You open eyes, look around you,
    the snow slightly higher
    the foot-deep imprints behind you start filling up
    the mass of snow around you unperturbed by even the slightest of imperfections.
    “O, God, day-dreams...” you admonish yourself
    and turn around.
    “Hey, girlie, girlie...” you call the mutt to follow you
    and you kneel next to her as she gets close to you.
    There’s something strange with that piece of cloth hanging from her muzzle,
    there’s something really strange.



there not there wherever

    Look into my eyes.
    Doesn’t matter there not there wherever
    look into my eyes
    and find there home

    for pains
    for joys
    for life, love, answered question marks and exploding exclamation marks

    I’m there whenever you need me
    there there wherever.
    Just look into my eyes.
    Find them.

    Take my hand.
    Doesn’t matter there not there wherever
    take my hand
    and find there warmth

    for freezing breath
    for freezing fingertips
    for freezing flesh bared of pretense and bared of questions and full of exclamation marks

    I’m there whenever you need me
    there there wherever.
    Just take my hand.
    Find it.

    Hear my voice.
    Doesn’t matter there not there wherever
    hear my voice
    and find there succor

    for cracks in dreams
    and crevasses crisscrossing desires
    and abysses gaping hungrily around you to steal your reason and drown your avidity for creation

    I’m there whenever you need me
    there there wherever.
    Just listen to my voice.
    Hear it.




    rules and regulations and recommendations
    that force you through the narrow funnel of some snobbish know-it-all’s,

    termites and rats and moles to gnaw your dam to dust
    and let real you burst and overshadow the unreality surrounding you,

    the fire of your lava
    and the sweep of your hurricane
    and the nutrients of your river
    into those words that you alone can bend to a will forcing them to burn through
    blocks of marble
    and slates of iron
    and slices of oak
    on their way to become mind statues and eye nuggets and pages in a book
    of uncountable dimensions.

    Your voice
    the green stain in the yellow of a desert.




    my naked fear
    is to appear
    my naked self
    afore you, elf

    your eye to curse
    with thought averse
    your heart to lose
    to thought bemuse.

    my naked crave
    is to embrave
    your naked self
    before me, elf

    my eyes to nurse
    with rhyming verse
    my heart perfuse
    with godly muse.




    Never used it before, shrapnel,
    not as far as I remember anyway,
    strange that I found use for it
    same as for mansion. Strange ideas.

    You cut through me
    like saber shaped shrapnel
    the gash large enough for a house to pass through, a mansion,

    Look through the gash
    use tunnel vision
    see those galaxies?
    They are real though not real real,
    I placed them there, for you not to feel lonely
    for you not to feel sorry for the gash you opened
    but elated for the view
    for the gluttony of stars
    for poetry
    Do you recognize it?

    A crow flew through
    a murder of crows, mind you,
    I think I love crows,
    more intelligent than me.
    At least in love affairs. None.

    I’ll never use again shrapnel
    at least until I use it again,
    thus all options are covered
    no promise broken. Same for mansion.

    Same for gash, though I used it already
    and I’ll certainly use it again.

    Same for crow.

    Same for you. Again. Again. Again. Guess what follows...



Of geographies and geometries and sex

    Your legs were pointed east-west.

    Doesn’t matter which left and which right, does it?
    Yes, sometimes north-south and sometimes north-north-east-south-south-west
    and sometimes... okay, take a compass rose and decide
    what matter is that they were always at one hundred eighty degrees to each other...
    well, almost,
    well, I know you’re not a ballerina
    and splits or spagat or spaccata is more like my dream than more like your specialty
    and reality was more like, ahm, east-south-west, to name but one possibility
    i.e. one hundred thirty five degrees,
    closer to your bodily limitations and acceptable relative orientations
    sometimes trying more into the one hundred eighty
    sometimes more into ninety
    sometimes into zero when you wanted either to punish me or to delight me,
    depending on when in the process you decided – before, during, after?...

    OK, I know, there are additional complications to this educational expose
    this due to us being three-dimensional creatures
    and using just 2D Euclidean geometry may be misleading to the masses.
    And then we may be in need for 3D Euclidean geometry.
    Sometimes, for example, your body lies in one plane
    yet your feet extend above it in another plane, sometimes perpendicular to the first
    sometimes not
    sometimes together like in two I’s side by side
    sometimes separated like in one V connecting at a crucial point
    sometimes trying to achieve an O always imperfect and always crushing my spine,
    I wonder if an R could be achieved or a W without breaking any bones.
    Geographical references are even more difficult to apply,
    though we could use zenith and gravity as directional references
    but these would be easier applicable to me and my whatevers
    than to you and your wonderfully complementary to mine whatevers.

    Additional difficulties? Easy.
    Your legs are composed from a variety of segments
    your arms are composed from a variety of segments
    your body is composed from a variety of segments
    none of which accepts being confined to one or two or three
    or whatever number of dimensions we may accept as given to us
    eternally moving
    eternally attacking barring demanding locking interlocking outerlocking
    leaving poor me lost in my mushy adimensionality
    until you decide to lend a helping hand
    and help me find the one and only uni-dimension of any meaning applying to me
    and I let it take control
    forgetting anything about geography and geometry and Euclid and sex
    when we are both mowed down from whatever dimensionalities
    to a rigid singularity
    with nothing around us except the freeze of eternal space
    and the fires of eternal novae inside us...

    even eternity is not eternal.
    Eternity ends.
    You curl in defiance to any compass rose dictate and whatever dimension Euclidean rule
    everything about you soft and cuddly and invertebrate
    and you gather me to your chest
    letting me sink inside your embrace
    the way of a burning thorn
    in honey.




    are proof to the inexistence of gods.

    would be envious creatures.
    They wouldn’t have allowed the existence of someone
    so good at the harp of words
    that she could sing them out of existence,

    so good at guiding my mind over the harp of words
    that I could sing them out of existence.

    That I can sing them out of existence.
    Quod erat demonstrandum.



Shakespiritisms, two

    if Shakespeare would have been born these days
    and written those words
    he would have been panned, banned, oh-manned by the hoi polloi of critics,
    literati, intelligentsia, philosophiae doctors in litterae and clerisy of this world,
    dying of scurvy and hunger
    while the Rowlings of this world would have kept on making their billions.

    If I, on the other hand, would have been born those days
    and written these words
    I would have been quartered, iron-maidened, beheaded, spiked, burned at the stake
    by whatever equivalent of the hoi polloi above mentioned was active those days
    while the Rowlings equivalents of that world would have kept making their billions
    in whatever equivalent coins and measures were applicable then.

    And this is where the symmetry ends.
    While he, then, was accepted by the hoi polloi of relevant mouths at his time
    and is at my time
    I, now, am shirked by the hoi polloi of relevant mouths at my time.
    and there is no way to test the symmetry at his time.
    Ah, would have been nice to be burned at the stake,
    would have meant so much
    would have meant that it mattered to someone sufficiently enough to pay attention.

    Say, you’re still obsessed with the Shakespearean subject? Or what?

    I am still obsessed with the Iean subject.
    He, Bill, is just the crutch I support my I subject with
    and you’re to blame because you sent me this book of his
    and I keep rolling his phrases around my mind (not all of which, admittedly, I understand)
    and it keeps me awake
    dying of scurvy and hunger
    while the Rowlings of this world keep making their billions.

    You’re partially insane, you know?
    But instead of getting farther from me you inched closer.

    I know.
    There is, though, one point in which I win hands down over him,
    and over all the Rowlings
    and over the entire hoi polloi above mentioned past and present and future.

    Hmm, I wonder what that would be. You didn’t sound convinced.

    I lifted towards you puppy eyes,
    at least I thought they were puppy eyes and I didn’t even try to make them puppy eyes
    it came natural. Puppy eyes.

    I have you, I said.


    The publishers excuse themselves for obliterating the rest of this poem thus preventing any kind of criminal and/or civil and/or class-action lawsuit brought against the company due to graphic descriptions of an intimate nature way beyond a child’s and/or an adolescent’s and/or an adult’s and/or a libidinous person’s eye and mind and comprehension [sic].



it’s you, somewhere there inside

    abet fire
    with desire
    when you pluck that rebel lyre

    let your horses
    run the courses
    painting flames in your discourses

    winds pelagic
    visions tragic
    weave them through your poem’s magic

    barter horning
    with a morning
    every bridal bed adorning

    fill the terces
    glowing verses
    as your pen its light disburses.



Absolutes, two

    Was there a ‘one’?
    I don’t remember, so I call this one ‘two’,
    just to play it safe.
    Do you always play it safe?
    Thus... no.
    No, agreed.

    I could imagine her fingertips flitting above the keyboard
    writing some snappy answer then erasing it after careful consideration
    and mellowing the tone.

    Absolutes what? she asked.
    Senses. I can hear for example the grass growing.
    Everyone can hear the grass growing.
    I can hear the grass growing in your garden, I replied
    and before she could answer added...
    I can also see the moon, absolute vision.
    Ha-ha, I can see the moon too...
    Yes, but there is no moon here, I see your moon, and it is a nice thin crescent.
    Sure, you took it from the internet, I know the site...
    Will the internet know about the plane just crossing the moon’s line of view
    right now?

    Maybe she went outside to see, maybe she was freaking out.

    Lucky draw, lucky guess...
    but she did not really seem convinced with her solution.
    What about the sense of touch, absolute too?
    Absolutely. I sounded smug but I was not.
    Your lips are soft...
    ...shall I repeat my ha-ha?...
    ...and there is a soft breeze now touching your left cheek.

    Quiet again.
    It can all be circumstantial, she was thinking
    or rather I was thinking that she was thinking.

    Taste? Thank God she was not hysterical.
    I believe gin-tonic, around three minutes ago,
    following which you chewed two green olives.

    She was back two full days later.

    I left the computer on but there was no sign of her
    until a beep made me aware of a new message waiting for me.

    OK, there is a bunch of magicians who can do much better than you –
    David Copperfield, Dynamo, Penn & Teller, Carbonaro...
    This is your last chance to prove your pretense, lover.


    There was defiance, expectation, challenge... maybe even entreaty in this one word?
    Smell, she said. The last of the senses.
    Well, she asked for it.

    7066 kilometers away
    at one hour fifty three minutes PM
    you made love.
    Probably to a non-present me.

    A flood of beeps invaded my space.
    It accompanied an ohhh composed of seventy-four h’s trailing the o
    followed by one hundred thirty-two smileys of all shapes and sizes and colors
    all of the happily smiling type.
    Not even one wink. Or bawl. Or wiggle. Well, admittedly, some of them blushy.

    There is only one thing that can beat this, she messaged waiting for me to rise to the bait.
    And this is? I rose to the bait.
    To reduce the 7066 to 0...
    and she disconnected.

    OK, an order is an order.
    I mean, all these absolute remote senses may be great and fabulous
    but still...

    I started walking.




    I don’t know, maybe I should write about September?
    Or preferably October? November?
    No, not December, December is the last, the end, finito,
    I prefer to stay optimistically one step ahead, or rather afore...
    still hesitating,

    help me decide?!

    Not very popular, any of them,
    April May beat the shit out of October November
    in every category – music, poetry, theater –
    I guess apocalyptic thoughts are present only in apocalyptic minds
    closing in on their apocalypse,
    personal as it may be,
    and then still – these minds need the means to express themselves
    and find listening ears
    in a world that does not give a shit for this kind of apocalypse.
    Yes, I used the s-word twice in this poem, I know. It’s appropriate
    though maybe not educational but, hey,
    who gives a shit (3rd one, last?) about education when apocalypse knocks at the door?

    Fine, settling on November
    not that it matters,
    sounds more poetic than October and less abused than September,
    at least I think so.

    Have you ever thought of making love to November?

    Even if inside it’s hot July and stormy March
    it is November outside.
    Of course November can be beautiful
    with all those gold and copper and bronze crowned once trees now cathedrals
    and yet the definition could hardly apply to me
    since my gold and copper and bronze have gone bare
    not unlike a plucked eagle, dead
    a shaved lion, dead
    an antlerless megaloceros, dead

    and yet so like their hearts I inherited
    eagle, alive
    lion, alive
    megaloceros, alive

    but who gives a shit (4th) about heart when headdress is gone
    and November is come?

    So you think I sound scared.
    And why would you think so?
    Pissed off is what I sound
    (so glad I can use the p-word instead of the s-word)
    pissed off that my November will never meet your June July August
    pissed off that my heart will not get a chance to prove its worth over my headdress
    pissed off that my body will never melt into yours
    pissed off that your June July August flower will never burn in the sun
    of my November.

    Shit! 5th. And last.
    Oh, so un-poetic!



Lost Art

    Lost on me

    that art engendered by our ancestors before the invention of write and read
    and further cultivated by our other, more recent ancestors
    after the invention of write and read but before everyone had it
    and finally reaching the summum of evolution
    at the hands of our contemporary ancestors more or ancestors less
    when everybody knows read and write and compute and internet and tiktok and so on

    what I mean it’s lost on me
    the oral art.

    Poetry, storytelling, theater, oratory, sermon, lawyer double talk... lost on me.
    So I’m afraid I am going to lose you
    because of my ineptitude at this art form.
    I don’t even mention the oral art of singing
    be it hymenaios or epithalamium or serenade or aubade or aria or rock or punk
    (hey, I do mention it, damn, told you I am inept at oral art be it even in written form)
    because the oral art of singing will bring upon me an eternal curse of meowing cats
    and a few dogs joining as well.
    Plus a hefty fine from the neighborhood police.

    I am desperate. I don’t want to lose you yet I must.
    My oral art insufficient.

    I will not hang myself, not in Belgium at least,
    it is too heavily taxed here, by meter of rope noose excluded, plus VAT.

    She looked at me, pity in her beautiful green eyes enveloping me like the noose a neck
    (idiotic metaphor, I know, still in that mood).
    Then, strangely, her face started changing hue
    like some strange traffic light
    a red developing at chin level and slowly ascending to forehead level
    and then developing at forehead level and slowly descending to chin level
    and after several such up-down-up moves she closed eyes
    took a deep breath and exhaled one long...
    there is other oral art possible...
    after which she turned and ran away so fast
    that some of the red hue lingered behind until it dissipated in the gentle morning breeze
    causing me to bite my tongue
    (when she turned to run her skirt lifted slightly above knee level, if you didn’t guess).

    I remained behind, perplexed, mystified, befogged...
    could there be a solution to my oral art dilemma, disaster, discontinence
    (I have a vague feeling this last one may try to mean something else)
    and the girl I love may have tried to hint at it?
    Without saying it?
    If there was a solution I was going to find it
    may it even cost me more that the Belgian tax, VAT included.

    I rushed to blog groups...
    I rushed to facebook instagram twitter tumblr youtube...
    I rushed to a local lawyers firm (first half hour for free)...
    I rushed to an ATM (to pay for the 2nd half hour)...
    I rushed to a fortune teller then back to the ATM then back to the fortune teller...
    I rushed to a museum claiming all arts...
    I rushed to a kennel (one never knows)...
    I rushed to a library and the librarian condescendingly told me to look for Come Ma
    and when I returned a bovine regard her way she pitied me
    dragged me to an aphotic corner of the establishment
    where all vegetation was yellow going on reddish-brown
    and the few human specimens present were reddish-brown going on yellow
    and where she shoved a heavily dog-eared book in my hand
    and observing my bewilderment she opened it at a certain page
    pushed my ass into an empty chair
    and pointed with a knobby finger... there!
    And there it was, this strangely named Indian book
    and the definition of oral art. Another kind of oral art, mind you.

    I followed the same facial changing hues my lover followed earlier on
    then I surreptitiously photographed the page
    put the book back on the shelf, hopefully the right shelf -
    I was too agitated to pay much attention -
    and ran out of the place
    rolling and rolling the images in my mind, text superfluous.
    I looked behind me... no, police was not following.

    I called my lover.
    I kneeled in front of her and she knew it was not yet for a proposal.
    I looked up at her and when she closed her eyes
    I looked straight ahead of me.

    After several sessions I was an artist.

    Strange art, the canvas participating in the creation effort
    but such beauty, oh, such beauty resulting from our shared effort
    pity we couldn’t share it with the world.
    Well, some art probably better stays... private.




    I’m going to hover
    from webs stretched above
    like lingering thoughts
    I’m going to write you a poem of love
    with dashes and dots
    and when you’ll demand of your lips if it really behove
    to tie their wishes to mine with a hundred score knots
    I will let my tear drop
    with my rhyme’s latest crop
    like a bundle worth naught,

    I’m going to paint
    in your mornings a moon
    dropping ribbons to leas
    I’m going to swindle late April to June
    and seed May inside trees
    when the obstinate seasons will call for the cranes in my rune
    to share their lives with the mystery lands beyond wandering seas
    I will whisper your call
    and await through late fall
    for my terminal scrawl,

    I’m going to sing
    songs I never have known
    blowing breath into leaves
    I’m going to drip sweet together in lone
    under vine cluttered eaves
    with a rustle awakened to climb to its nest in your moan
    I will fold lung to lung and to heart as my chest slowly heaves
    the ink in my pen
    will retreat to its den
    as I fade in the glen.





    you slide between crisp bed sheets
    the way of wind between flittering leaves,

    hospitableness envelopes your contours
    the way of water finding its way around the smoothness of pebbles,

    thoughts invade your mind
    the way of nymphs dancing from nenuphar to nenuphar
    until they collapse in the agony of exhausted pleasure,

    you fall asleep
    the way of a puppy against the warmth of its mother bitch belly
    and you both chase robbers and butterflies and tender caresses
    in your shared dreams,

    you shudder briefly
    gaze into the surrounding sea of darkness
    and then turn on your side
    to enwrap me into you
    fusing to me
    the way of hot wax infiltrating amongst the flaking cinders of
    burning paper.

    Morning takes pity on us
    and postpones its arrival several times
    watching us intricately braided around each other
    the way of a rhyme
    and its poem.



Softly, two

    Your lips battle a rising smile
    lose the battle

    I touch them with mine
    you accept to offer me first the lower
    then the upper
    then both
    tightly closed, vestal in their abstention
    and arrogant impishness,

    I do not insist
    preferring to regard them with my eyes
    and guard them with my life
    until such time as you find befit
    to accept my plea,

    they touch the rim of the glass...
    what is in that glass – beer, wine, poison?...
    what does it matter
    they opened to the touch
    and I snatch the glass from your hand
    and I taste the inside of your lips
    by interposed party,
    you snatch my glass and let your lips touch it

    now full kiss by interposed party
    I wonder if we could skip the interposed,

    your nose against a shop window
    I like that hat, you say
    leaving a lips’ imprint to evaporate behind
    your face upwards
    I love snowflakes, you say
    letting miniature rivulets drip both sides of your lips,
    your finger points to a cafeteria
    I delight in winter ice-cream, you say
    and a smooth trail follows your tongue and then your lips upon the creamy cone,

    your lips
    will they open for me as well
    one day?

    Train station.
    Platform number 2.
    My train to Nowhere.

    Our chests separate, softly,
    our cheeks separate, softly,
    out palms separate, softly,
    and suddenly you cling clamp clasp
    and your lips craze
    and my lips crack
    and our lips clash knead foment

    Train station.
    Platform number 2.
    My train from Eden.



Incomplete questionnaire

    Maiden, can you tell me why
    Light is dripping from the sky
    Leaving stains of bleeding color
    On my page’s scribbled squalor,

    Maiden, care you tell me what
    Makes those horses rear and strut
    Neighing explicit distasture
    When I snatch you from their pasture,

    Maiden, will you tell me when
    Did you join the perky wren
    Trilling life into my paper
    As your words carol and caper,

    Maiden, please do tell me how
    Do I carve into a bough
    My impossible romance
    Be it fate or happenstance,

    Maiden, now just tell me where
    Hides the adit to your lair
    That I may submerge it flowers
    Born of passion that devours...

    Sir of one and thousand question
    Let me frame here a suggestion -
    Shirk the queries, build the pyre
    And let’s wrap these hearts in fire.



Just another day

    We slide from within each other
    to the ends of the bed
    to the ends of the room
    to the ends of the world.

    The LP finishes, Sammy Davis Jr.
    I flip it expertly and let the needle guide its own way on face two
    guide my way as well
    on many faces, some I don’t even recognize.

    Second face finished.
    I decide to go depression and plug in a great, bitter, incredibly realistic
    Paths of Glory, movie,
    followed by a more sweet than bitter The Russians are Coming
    and then again to LPs, maybe Glen Campbell
    maybe By the Time I Get to Phoenix will do.

    It’s raining.
    It’s windy.
    I probably have to do some repairs on the roof.
    I hope I don’t fall.

    What next – LP? DVD? bitter, tragic, sweet, laugh myself to death?
    Strange ‘laugh’ and ‘death’ in one sentence
    would have been stranger if not in the same sentence.

    I don’t feel like philosophy
    I don’t feel like life
    I feel like dream

    we slide within each other
    from the ends of the world
    from the ends of the room
    from the ends of the bed.

    Was it a dream? you ask.
    It is, I answer
    cursing the cursor for its indifferent insincerity
    while I wait for you to ask if it was a dream.




    If I set my mind to it
    I could cleave the moon in two, vertically
    and push the two halves so far apart that one could see stars between them...
    Aha, and some obvious obstructing elements like, say, gravitation?
    It wasn’t the reaction I expected.
    Why should gravitation be a problem?
    You are kind of... insane, you know?
    This was the reaction I expected.

    If I set my mind to it
    I could slice the sun in so many vertical slices
    that it would look like a burning garlic head in the sky.
    Aha, will also smell the same?
    It wasn’t the reaction I expected.
    No, the distance would be too great for any smell to reach us, no problem with this.
    Tell me, were there other cases of insanity in your family tree?
    This was the reaction I expected.

    If I set my mind to it
    I could rip the galaxy into clusters and then squeeze each cluster into balls
    thus eventual giants could play galactic tennis or basketball or pétanque with them.
    Aha, all trillions of tones of mass involved, right?
    It wasn’t the reaction I expected.
    The giants would be gigantic giants, I don’t see the problem.
    You definitely are insane, and this includes all the synonyms of the word.
    This was the reaction I expected.

    Now, that we are agreed on all the relevant insanity aspects...
    is there anything you could NOT do if you set your mind to it?

    I knew my insanity was secondary consideration,
    we both accepted it.
    Our future relationship depended on the reality of the answer to this other question
    and its relevance.

    There is.
    I could do any of those mentioned dinosaurian tasks, just give me a day or two.
    But I could not cut the earthy distance between us from kilometers
    to meters,
    I don’t know why.
    Even given a lifetime, or the rest of it.

    The quiet that followed was humbling in its immensity.

    I guess that your insanity is selective.
    Write me a poem.

    This was the reaction I expected.



My survival kit for a deserted island

    for the competition ‘my survival kit for a deserted island’
    would consist of:

    1. a condom, to pull on my finger once I cut it,
    to prevent infection;

    2. a mirror, to give to the natives so they will not eat me,
    in case the deserted island is not deserted;

    3. a few colored beads as back-up to the mirror
    in case it does not work;

    4. an empty tin can
    for showering;

    5. a nail to make holes in the tin can,
    see above 4;

    6. a hammer for the nail,
    see above 5 and 4;

    7. an electric razor
    so I will have an excuse for not shaving;

    8. another condom
    backup to the first one in case of rupture, cut, pierce, break, lava flow, etc;

    9. a Hellfire missile
    if the communists decide to invade the island;

    10. a plastic toothpick,

    I continued confidently until I reached number 117
    at which point she interrupted me.

    This is the longest, stupidest, most useless list I have ever encountered, she said,
    you’ll never win the competition.

    Wait, I did not finish it,
    I responded passionately.

    At 201 she tried to stop me again but I shushed her
    and at 336 she put a bucket over my head
    so I had no choice but to listen as she Morse’d me her words
    by tapping on the thick tin... haha, thick tin, nice poetry, no?

    She did not think it was nice poetry.
    Listen, the dichotomy between your list and their expectations is unbridgeable.
    By now you’ll probably need a trans-oceanic container for your stuff and still nothing of use there.

    I knew what trans-oceanic meant however I did not know about dichotomy
    but with a bucket over my head there was no way to access the internet.
    I guessed it meant she was displeased with me, at least.
    And why the hell do you want to participate in this competition?
    At least she removed the bucket so I could look up the dichotomy thing,
    not that I understood any of the explanations.
    But her question opened the door for me to prove my superiority,
    be it solely in matters of islands.

    The winner of the competition will be allowed to live on the island for a year,
    all expenses covered except the trip costs.
    What expenses on a deserted island?
    Building a fence to keep the alligators away.
    Building a hut for the TV crew and feeding them.
    Building an antenna.
    Lover, I believe that senescence is getting the better of you.
    I rushed to the internet to find senescence and I did not like what I found.
    So they invade your life and you get nothing in return, if you win.
    And this for what?

    For writing. In peace.
    A flicker of light shone in her eye for a moment, maybe my imagination?
    And you think this entire useless list will keep you alive for so long?
    You did not let me finish the list. I left one crucial item to be the last on it
    but you interrupted me mid way.
    OK, so let’s skip from mid way to end way. And what would this crucial item be?
    I cringed, looking at the bucket, then decided I had nothing to lose.

    Well, it wasn’t a flicker of light this time, it was a bolt of lightning.

    She forced me to erase my entire list.
    She forced me to entry just that one last item.
    She forced me to re-learn the Morse code, just in case.
    I won.

    Incredibly so but I won.
    Maybe I was the sole entrant, who cared,
    I won.
    And they were sorry I won.

    The first night over the antenna short circuited
    the crew hut caught fire
    the fence to keep the alligators away fell mysteriously down
    and the alligators infested the camp,

    everybody flew.
    But I and she and the alligators.
    And no one returned
    once it was found that the island was under UNESCO protection
    and the TV show went bankrupt.

    Now it is only I and she and the alligators.
    And the mosquitoes of course, which was the sole real inconvenient.
    Say, lover, she yawned luxuriously
    exposing to me some feminine secret views I was still in the process of processing,
    and when you finish writing, how do we leave this damn Eden?
    Even I knew that ‘damn Eden’ was an oxymoron.
    Listen, lover, the way you keep me busy with alternatives to the writing,
    I doubt I will ever finish with the writing.

    She got up, stretched luxuriously (previous it was ‘yawned luxuriously’)
    and started floating (yes, floating) towards the water.
    Listen, lover, if you ever imagined this deserted island to play fulcrum to your writing,
    (fulcrum??? damn, no internet here!)
    now you better consider it the embodiment of your capital punishment.
    Vivamus, moriendum est.

    I wished she would stop using these Turkish expressions
    but one look at that divine body slicing through the first wave
    and any poetical aspirations just flew out of the window
    (just an expression, we didn’t have any windows).
    I dived after her,
    a glorious army of alligator bodyguards diving after me
    like undulating arrows of light looking for a new dimension of musical cadences.
    Believe it or not.

    Creo quia absurdum est, she said it, as you can surmise from the italics.
    As for me, I will take some lessons in Turkish once and if ever I get off this island.
    Which I doubt.
    Yes, promise.



And the rant goes on

    I’m a fanatic.
    Not religious fanatic.
    Not political racial social fanatic.
    I am poetry fanatic.
    All good poetry, mine included,
    and I can read day and night and in the bus and on the john and in the attic
    as long as it is not written to impress
    but to express.
    Natural poetry, born from the need to say
    and not from the need to sell.
    Not from the artificial need to get recognition of whatever powers to be,
    not based on the artificial need to blindly emulate the tools given
    but from the need to externalize thoughts
    while the tools given are, well, just tools.
    Sestina, sonnet, oxymoron, terza rima, alliteration, calligram, leonine verse, iamb...
    and hundreds more.
    Tools, expressions, explanations, dictates
    of all those compensating their shortness of talent
    with the length of their exposés dealing with those that do have talent
    and making a profession out of purporting to explain and teach and impose
    what they cannot perform

    Strange thing, poetry.
    Such insignificant need of physical tools, if at all,
    so populist its accessibility
    so cheap and easy to copy and distribute
    so difficult to understand without investing time and effort
    so under-rated in the temple of arts.
    I did not choose it, it chose me
    and damn if I am not thankful every ranting day
    for this bane.




    My heart beats blue.
    For you.

    Corny, huh? I know.
    Probably as corny as I love I miss I adore.
    Which could be made cornier by adding ‘you’ after each couple.
    Or corniest by an extra ‘forever’
    or corniester by an additional ‘and ever’
    then corniesterest with a second ‘and ever’
    then corniesterester by...
    and so on, etc.

    Damaged, ain’t I? Or maybe just my brain.

    My heart beats blue,
    for you.

    No, blue is not just a color,

    blue is the sound of train rails
    the creak of a tree felled by storm
    the wail of a dog kicked by a mean foot
    the thought behind a hand waving goodbye
    the poem of a lover to a once lover
    the hand ending that cheek caress
    and never rising for a second caress

    The color in ink
    be it red or green or black
    or blue
    selling its pigment soul to its word master.

    What do I know about blue?
    and everything
    and all that lies in between
    filling up minds with thoughts
    and patching holes in memories with wishful thinking
    and drilling holes in memories where wishless thinking made homes
    trying at least
    to patch
    to drill

    to disguise.

    My heart beats blue for you.

    Because I see your blue.
    Any chance to carve some red
    into it?



Hey you, thieves

    You, yes you
    don’t look over your shoulder
    you – the one who steals my words and steals my art
    and dare pretend it is yours
    and right now reads these lines and hesitates between stealing and running away.

    Did I tell you I protect my art in ways you’ll never guess?

    Did I tell you the FBI is a bitch and the CIA is a bitch and the IRS is a bitch
    yet I am the greatest bitch of them all?
    Especially when I sink my teeth in your ass
    which will inevitably come?

    Did I define you already as an impotent worm
    enveloped with bubbling mucus
    and wallowing in a two years old outhouse diarrhea?

    I do now.

    I will not call you even plagiarist, it is an insult to honest plagiarists.

    I do will call me artist.
    I do will call you parasite.
    Do we agree on the definitions?



Collation of [sic] idiosyncrasies, ha.

    My poetry is inchoate,
    I get it.

    It lacks the beatnikality [sic] of a Bukowski
    and the classicality [sic] of a Shakespeare
    and the rhythmicality [sic] of a Raven... sorry, of a Poe.

    If anything, then it possesses the arrhythmicality [sic] of a Heart,
    no, not the poet Heart but the heart Heart, the organ
    sickly sneezing packets of life through a maze of vowels and consonants and syllables
    and trying to keep alive under the amassment of oppugning indifference
    of the massed masses
    and somehow still breathing. Quite proudly so, I may add.
    Ave Poetica, poetae te salutant.
    Yes, morituri as well.

    Sure, I foist it upon said masses discriminately [sic],
    reducing said masses to a chosen few capable of reining in the opprobrium
    evident among the complementarytothefew [sic] masses
    an opprobrium suckling its life from the very radix of knowledge
    brainwashing said complementarytothefew masses with the glittering promise
    of a honoris causa title. Or a conventional title, mind you.
    In an academic institution, mind you.
    Eyes fixed on the horizon
    maxillae grinding teeth to dust
    cogitations rolling in a predefined precisely mindgeneerd [sic]
    laboriously intellestructured [sic]
    painstakingly mentagripping [sic]
    endlessly spinning squirrel cage round and round and round
    mumbling a stream of cacophonies qualifying under other circumstances as obscenities
    with a hand consciously sewn to the trousers’ side
    yet unconsciously barely containing itself from rising and stretching to a deafening Heil!

    Intellectual bullyism. Joining the nefarious ism family of communism, capitalism, nihilism,
    nepotism, consumerism, fascism, racism, totalitarianism, imperialism, despotism, sexism
    and similar human banes...
    wonder how humanitarianism got itself trapped inside the family
    the way I wonder why does democracy rhyme with bureaucracy
    when the later one should have been named bureaucratism,
    oh, the curse of language evolution and language academies...
    close unopened parenthesis.

    Ha, brilliant sheep minds,
    Ave Magister, ovis te salutant.
    Yes, other humans as well.

    And then I met this creature.
    Female of gender. Intoxicating of word.
    Free roaming of mind like a swallow rushing up and down a congested street
    like a drop of water chasing cascade after cascade
    like a geyser spewing sufficient diamond dust to block the sun
    and cast upon humanity an Armageddon of enlightened beauty.
    Upon me too. Words. Sounding so different within her scribbled thoughts
    and unexpressed wishes that I have to hear. And harken. And heed.
    Beating the best and worst out of me
    and forcing me even farther away from any academically forged fogged path
    as it compels me to thread magical spherules and tread magical landscapes
    seeded with incongruities and lexicalities and syncopations
    and lots and lots and lots of [sic]s.
    And lots and lots of flowers.
    And butterflies.

    Oh, ye sycophantic inexistent followers of mine
    with your inexistent obsequious servileness
    and your inexistent slavishness catering to my paltriest of emotions
    Thank You! for your non-stymieing inexistence
    allotting me with the assubjugated flights of imagination
    enveloping this wordity [sic]
    and deviatority [sic]
    and unrestrictity [sic]
    of mine.

    Oh, ye tenderly worded and gently whispered muse of mine
    with your inexistent inexistence
    and your impenetrable impenetrability
    and rolling silences chained to each following other the way morning chains to night
    and day chains to morning
    and evening to day and night to evening and midnight to lost heartbeats
    and butterfly to pupa
    and my poem to your breath
    be it before you go to bed or after you wake up from sleep or in between smiles.

    Ave Puella, verbis te salutant.
    Mine especially. Yes, one day others will appreciate you as well.
    But until then
    let me lay this layer of vociferous nonsense at your feet
    and may each of your steps tangle it into as many multitudes of garlands
    as songs there are yet unsung
    and poems there are yet to incise fortuitous intaglios into humanity’s cerebral cortex.

    did I mention butterflies already?
    Oh, so unforgivably corny of me.




    Push your nose, mouth, face
    in that enclave between my neck and shoulder
    while your arms clasp the other enclave between same neck and other shoulder
    and inhale me, imbibe me, absorb me

    your stiff nipple this side of my body
    drilling itself in the intercostal space between my third and fourth ribs with each heart thump
    the way of a nail into wood
    a moil point into asphalt
    a fist into flesh

    the other nipple screaming in dissonance its rage at being abandoned to orphanage life
    until I give in and molest it
    with the tenderness of a mother molesting its baby
    of a bitch molesting its puppy
    of a snowflake melting on your face.

    Don’t move,
    let glowing coal’s rigor mortis settle upon you
    and as you slowly burn your way into me through cloth
    and muscle
    and bone
    my yielding corpse turning squirming snake
    for that moment’s insanity

    when my mouth totters against yours and reaches into its consuming furnace
    seeking the solace embodied by the divinity of cocooning pain
    and tiny drops of saliva
    gluing our tongues

    when the grapple of my fingers grabs the roots of your hair
    and the grapple of my knees grabs the roots of your life
    leaving nothing for the world
    but the envy of not being you
    not being me
    not being us.

    Don’t pull your nose, mouth, face
    from that enclave between my neck and shoulder
    while your arms clasp the other enclave between same neck and other shoulder
    and inhale me, imbibe me, absorb me

    your nipple this side of my body finally asleep
    melted between my ribs
    the way of a nail bending
    a moil point collapsing
    a fist turned palm

    the other nipple tuned into the softness of lullaby
    under the twitch of those fingers that once belonged to my hand
    playing it with the tenderness of a mother humming to its baby
    of a bitch licking its puppy
    of a snowflake courageously insisting on riding your face
    until death do you part.



I am

    a snowflake, willing to live
    only if it can die on your eyelash,

    a poppy petal, its red suffusing into your cheek
    until it falls to the ground whitened and withered,

    the Beast, waiting for Beauty’s loving kiss
    before falling into the beauty of tormenting severance.

    I am

    summer’s choice, tenderly rejected
    after it tenderly adopted your blossom to embosom my leftover stains,

    oh, the sublimity of rejection...




    The campfire was hesitating between life and death,
    flames dwindled to flares
    with tiny novae shooting into air each time the glow hit a resin filled pocket
    some landing on my eyebrows, scorching,
    some landing on your eyebrows, scorching,
    some landing on the page I was reading
    creating tiny, star-shaped black craters,
    the perfume carrying smoke

    You cry?
    My eyes smart, I half lied
    and threw another log into the small hell.

    You were alone inside your own sleeping bag, wishing you were not.
    I was alone in my own sleeping bag, wishing I was not.
    I turned the page.
    I was reading you poems from my self-published book, enjoying it,
    the flashlight bobbling like a tiny dragon’s mouth between the lines
    sometimes disappearing when the contact disconnected.
    You listened to me reading you poems from my self-published book, enjoying it,
    sometimes even sighing. Or maybe it was snoring.
    Why self-published? you asked once,
    and I did not answer.

    The moon kept laying layer after layer of silver cobwebs upon the meadow
    never quite satisfied with the previous layer
    and I felt like an orator in ancient Greece reading love decrees
    to an accompanying choir of cicadas... or was it grasshoppers? or crickets?
    with a lower toned choir of croaking frogs throwing in its own impersonation of romance
    and the baritone of a lost wolf punctuating each poem’s ending,
    strange coincidence, I know.
    Strange concert, I know.

    At which point did you fall asleep?
    I kept reading, making sure the moment you woke up the sound would be in your ears
    as if it never stopped. Which it did not.
    Did you read aloud all night? you asked.
    Yes, I answered, crawled out of the bag to re-kindle the fire
    and crawled back again. I am at page...

    You crawled out of your bag
    crawled into mine
    and lay silent.

    When did we leave?
    Probably when the fire died. When the cicadas or grasshoppers or crickets turned silent.
    When the wolf gave up its monologue to the moon.
    And the frogs?
    When the frogs all turned princes.
    I did not know you were once a frog.
    The greatest compliment anyone ever gave me.
    When I ran out of poems.
    No, bad joke, I never ran out of poems,
    I never ran out of muse, how could I ever have run out of poems?



And when I’m gone

    And when I’m gone, and when I’m gone
    and mornings roll unhindered
    through willows kneading night to dawn
    upon a mead encindered,

    And when I’ve left, and when I’ve left
    into my last tomorrow,
    my flesh asleep, my soul bereft
    of happiness and sorrow,

    And when the words, and when the words
    I carefully commanded
    succumb like flocks of dying birds
    between my pages stranded,

    And when beneath, and when beneath
    a crumbling stone, forgotten
    lie rhymes I never will bequeath
    of poems misbegotten,

    And when old Earth, and when old Earth
    falls into its hell’s conclusion
    and nothing’s left of poem’s birth
    not even an... illusion.



My poetry (or Rant, x)

    No, not big words really, neither the my nor the poetry
    and nor the collation of the two into this brazen declaration: my poetry!
    After all
    the world might be partly infused and partly infested and partly inflicted with poetry
    but I prefer to think of mine as inflaming.
    Thus worthy of presumption. And proliferation.
    Infuriating, ain’t I? Maybe also... ahm... infantile?

    I do categorize it into four levels, mind you.
    Masterpiece. Great. Nice. Shit.
    Of course, I could increase the resolution and include extra levels such as splendid,
    wonderful, extraordinary, magnificent, superior... hey, calm down, just joking
    but yes, it would be possible to classify it with, say, ten levels of quality.
    The only thing that wouldn’t change would be the limits.
    Masterpiece top. Shit bottom.
    Each with its adepts out there in the world, I guess the majority going with the shit
    however also the masterpiece is not an empty group,
    it has at least one member – myself. No haha, haha.

    As any of my hugely trifling number of followers, largely incommensurate with my ego
    can easily state
    my poetry is mostly dealing with the irrelevancies of life: romance, love, erotica
    and other members of this shamed, outcast family
    shunned by do gooders, do badders, high nosers, officially publisheds, bitter critics
    double diplomaed double breasted double minded others.
    Hey, even Bill was a sucker for love... so why not I?
    Of course – perfect rhyming is perfect
    and imperfect rhyming is imperfect
    and line lengths depend on full idea lengths
    and not on the millimetric precision of a ruler placed on the screen
    ensuring that all line ends align to a part of a micron, give or take a few atoms.
    And of course – no extra inflating spaces
    neither horizontally nor vertically contributing mostly to obfuscating the view
    and contributing to the poem looking more like fly shit
    then like word shit.
    And of course here and there big words, if they fit,
    and of course here and there ecological/political/social points, if I feel like it,
    and of course here and there breaking my own rules, if I consider it appropriate
    or inappropriate
    or anything in between.

    There are other sorts of categorization possible, capped not by masterpiece-shit
    but by insightful-idiotic (one could add ‘mighty’ before each)
    or by useful-useless (one could add ‘mighty’ before each)
    or by entertaining-depressing (one could add ‘mighty’ before each, yes, said it already).
    All applicable to my poetry with, certainly, a change in the poems’ list falling under each.
    I do not mind whichever is used.
    Probably I do not mind also if none is used because, after all,
    they all fall for me under the top category.
    Unless if the top category happens to be equal to the bottom category
    with the bottom one baptizing both of them.
    Which could apply. In certain circles. With certain minds.
    Well, as the saying goes, you can bring them to the water...

    On one aspect, please allow me to insist,
    a creed I hold onto with the tenacity of a Carcharodon Megalodon
    or at least a Crocodylus Porosus if for corroborative evidence you insist
    or at the very least a Crocuta Crocuta if for a neighborly character you insist.
    I write intelligent poetry.
    Please, make an effort to understand it.
    Then I won’t blame you if you don’t. Thankfully, not all are born equal.
    Thankfully, neither I.



Making Love

    oh, the Panglossian locution,
    the in nubibus equivocation pouring the rose of roses upon the sub rosa moment
    when two bodies entangled in the inmost of grapples and burrs and ripping claws
    steamroll petals into abysses of asphalt asperities
    into crenations of bedsheet creases
    into ridges of broken hazelnut shells consumed way before contumacy turns consummation
    and contortions erase minds of pain and of duty and of God,

    the metaphor fed to babes in arms
    alongside with birds and bees and flowers and seeds and sexless dolls and storks
    up to the moment when the babes grow too heavy to be carried
    and too knowledgeable to care about metaphors
    and rush out into the world looking for the hammers
    and the pincers and the sickles and the screws and the anvils and the nails
    and whatever contraption they deem necessary for the deed of making love
    only to find out the only tools ever needed were words sleeping ignorant in their brains
    and heartbeats wasted unused in their chests,

    the immixture potpourri omnium-gatherum pasticcio farrago medley gallimaufry
    of equivocation and metaphor and consummation and words
    all of which salmagundi is too heavy to swallow
    and too uninteresting to disentangle into its atomic components
    driving the perpetrators into empirical fields lined with mines
    leading through gruesome deaths towards magnificent awakenings
    where love rhymes with nothing yet experienced
    and making it rhymes with nothing to be found inside human’s tool box
    and the only tralation coming to mind is a kiss between corners of lips
    after an interminable century of separation.



A Different Kind Of Legend

    You are a princess

    your white skin all the way from Eden’s Clay
    and your silken dress all the way from China’s Wall
    and your satin ribbons all the way from India’s Ganges
    and your cobweb lace all the way from Belgium’s Brugge
    and your glass shoes all the way from Italy’s Murano
    and your golden bracelets all the way from Colombia’s Eldorado
    and your pearl earrings all the way from Philippines’ Sulu
    and your smile all the way from Earth’s Sun.

    I am a frog

    I was never a prince and will never be a prince
    eternally rhyming with myself each time I open my mouth
    with the perfect rhyme dual syllable poem
    ribbit ribbit ribbit
    or in its various dual or single syllable translations
    kerokero kerokero kerokero
    guo guo guo
    op op op
    vrak vrak vrak
    and not far from the (rather successful) species-gap duckish translation
    quack quack quack.
    Could do also for doggish woof woof woof.
    Or in tenderer birdish chirp chirp chirp.
    Or in quieter fishish mum mum mum.

    You will never kiss a frog

    irrelevant of relevant legends or curses or nightmares
    with you securely set to your ocean
    with your laces and bracelets and etceteras
    and I securely set to my pond
    with my ribbits and vraks and etceteras
    I guess translation from my species into humanish inexistent
    and ever.