Hobbies - Poetry - Anonn
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    I looked in the mirror,
    the grey stubble on my face
    mercilessly slaughtered by the sharp tools of civilization
    in that endless fight for supremacy I knew I was going to lose.
    Yet I persisted in the ritual, stubbornly,
    the grey plague spreading like an invincible tide.
    I looked in the mirror.
    Is this the way of the dragon
    when the proud green of his scales fades into the brittle grey
    and the knight’s spear finally finds his heart?

    I shook my mane, or rather what was left of it, and roared.
    The roar still there, my song as powerful as ever.
    I reached for the reaper’s blade and snapped it in my fist
    mindless to the blood,
    then pushed the hooded figure aside, impatiently.
    I still have one song to sing and you better move out of the way.
    He soaked back into hell,
    I opened the door and entered the night.
    I was on my way to meet woman.

    Silence. Absolute.
    For one night, my last, the world died
    and the mountains were mine for taking
    and the forests were mine for burning
    and the seas mine for drinking.
    I did not want any.
    All I wanted was you.

    The night wept white on our wedding bed,
    gossamer icicles weaving their ephemeral art
    between the rigid sharp ends of grass blades
    crunching underneath my shoes.
    “Blasphemy,” you gasped,
    your undefined whiteness parting with the night
    and kneeling next to me,
    deft fingers unlacing one shoe
    and making it disappear in a soundless puff of blinding glare,
    then the other.
    My now bare feet tingling with the cold.
    “Let me undress you,” I gasped back
    waiting for the words to roll around the world
    and return the long way around in a faint echo.
    “No, you first,” you answered
    waiting for my echo to die a second time,
    undoing my shirt, undoing my trousers,
    then with one magical gesture blasting them out of existence.
    I was cold. I shivered.
    “I am cold,” I said.
    You placed your open palm on my chest,
    then removed it leaving a five fingered glowing imprint on my skin.
    I felt the burn.
    “Not for long,” you answered. “Undress me, now.”

    You formed the words, without voicing them.
    I touched your white gown
    and it decayed into a filigree of frost melting within seconds
    and gliding down on your skin,
    glinting like thousands of stars inhabiting your body.
    “You glint... yet there is no moon,” I wondered.
    “Your eyes... they shine,” you answered
    taking my hand and guiding it gently along a rivulet
    starting under your left eye, along your cheek,
    the side of your neck, shoulder, ribcage, belly,
    and losing its way inside that soft dell where all ends and all begins.
    “Touch me...” you urged.
    “And then... can I sing?” I asked.
    “Yes, when I lose my way... sing, and let me find you again.”
    “It will be my last song,” I said, knowing.
    “It will be our first song,” you said, knowing.

    I suddenly touched you, violently, deep.
    “You are too soft, touch me,” you urged again.
    I touched you, hungrily, ravenous.
    “You are too soft, touch me,” you urged a third time,
    your hands taking possession of my body,
    the glowing spots tracing your fingers turning blisters
    as a timorous flame enveloped me
    from loins down to toes and up to eyes,
    and as my fingers crushed your exploding nipple
    you inhaled with one mighty breath my fire, my skin, my decomposing flesh
    and we sank into the white cool sheets of our last wedding night
    melting the ice linen, burning the grass mattress,
    the ground bed under our threshing bodies turning molten lava
    and absorbing us into mother’s entrails
    as we absorbed into each other.

    I was the first one to hear it, the lark.

    “No!...” I wailed, trying to get up,
    unable against the chains of your arms.
    “The lark vanquished me, there are no larks in winter,” I sobbed.

    You opened your mouth,
    I heard the lark again, then again,
    I kissed you savagely, the lark silent,
    I removed my lips and there it was again.
    You smiled.
    “I vanquished you, I am your lark.”
    I sank my fangs, my claws into your soft flesh,
    in anger, in pride, in glory.
    “I am your last lark,” you trilled. “Do you want me?”
    I removed my fangs, my claws,
    soothing your pain with my tongue.
    “I still have to sing my song,” I trilled,
    May I sing my last song? Before the world awakes?”
    “Will I be your last song?”
    “You will be my last song.”
    “Then you may...” and you let me permeate once more your body
    as I opened my mouth and opened my throat and opened my chest

    and flowers blossomed on your lips
    and sunshine dawned above your hips
    and springs adorned your fingers’ tips.

    “Must you die now?”
    “I must. You vanquished me.”
    “I loved you.”
    “I know. Yet death is immortal.
    The beauty of death.”

    I got to my feet, handsome in my scarred nakedness,
    breaking your chain and looking the grim figure in the face.
    “You have a new blade to your scythe, reaper.”
    He did not answer,
    just raised both arms and with a smooth swish cut my autumn’s bloom.

    November died.
    never came.



November Dialogues

    Was it November?
    Was it November the last time I wrote you the first time a poem?
    Was it white
    like the snowflake before touching ground
    before touching your bared breast
    like your breast?
    Which was whiter?

    Tell me of love in dialogues, you begged
    sitting across from me, painting toenails,
    caring not for a skirt pulling away from the intricacies of penciled silk threads
    and a shirt suckling indiscreetly at the felicity of crushed strawberries
    and dead suns floating in eye lakes to disintegrate into blinding sparkles...

    I will tell you of the paradox of penciled silk threads, I offered,
    fragrant, the way of crushed lilac feeding the mill of thighs,

    I will tell you of the paradox of crushed strawberries, I offered,
    dry, the way of watercolors spilling upon the forge of nipples,

    I will tell you of the paradox of blinding sparkles, I offered further,
    salty, the way of inclement lubricity chattering skin into dementia.

    Tell me of lust in dialogues, you begged
    your toenails done, now brushing your hair,
    your skirt cut to narrow ribbons tied to your ankles and wrists, fluttering,
    your shirt torn to as many tatters as nests in the garden, cushioning,
    dead suns boiling into tails of dragon and horns of unicorn, growling,

    I will tell you of the night of ankles tied and wrists lashed, I offered,
    and fluttering breath, or was it death?

    I will tell you of the night of tearing tatters from lurid flesh, I offered,
    and cushioning barks, or were these larks?

    I will tell you of the night of tails and horns and claws and fangs, I offered further,
    and growling fire, or was it lyre?

    And the dialogues?
    These were dialogues. Of one.
    Dialogues of one are called monologues.
    So you admit they are dialogues.
    Of one. I wish dialogues of two.
    Are dialogues of three called trialogues?
    Are eunuchs bisexual or monosexual or asexual?

    This, there, was a direct threat. I rushed through the house hiding all sharp utensils, dismounting window panes, clipping the dog’s nails (yep, threw out the clipper after that, he he). Couldn’t file your teeth, at least not as long as you were awake. A temporary risk I had to face. Thinking of wilder scenarios - I threw out the mixer, the grass mower, the dog's canned food - those pull-off covers were damn sharp.

    "Honey, where is the dog food?" you asked.

    "Today he's in for a treat, I will give him my hamburger."

    "And you, aren't you hungry?"

    "No, baby, and today's his birthday."

    I managed to smile. It wasn't his birthday. I watched the dog wolf down my hamburger, french fries, licking the plate clean of the ketchup even as my stomach experimented sailor's triple-knots later to be proposed as a Guinness entry (they were accepted).

    Here's my small toe, talk to it.
    I talked to it (just remembered I forgot the garden shears).
    Hey toe, I whispered under its nail,
    how does it feel to be attached to that heavenly ankle
    flowing into that angelic knee
    rushing through the crushed lilac of thigh
    into the penciled silk of threads?
    It feels like your hand...
    Since when do toes talk?
    Since when do fingers disguise into toes?
    Poetical license.
    Is it the same as lust license?
    The same as rolling a penciled silk thread
    around a tiny lilac flower
    one thin thread to one tiny cup, then one more, then all...
    It will take you a long time.
    Not eternity though.
    Do you have the patience?
    I have the passion.
    Do you have the passion?
    I have the patience. I have the passion. I have the love. I have the lover.

    You forbade me to use your toes...
    Your! fingers.
    ...so I had to use my lips to pick the flowers
    and my teeth to tie the knots
    and my tongue to mingle the fragrances and to sort the garlands and to...
    I tickle...
    That's an insult.
    I burn...
    That's much better.
    Will you finally plant the seed into the luxuriance, damn you?

    You gave up on the dialogue of words
    favoring for this once the dialogue of flesh,
    our language basking in alien, unwritten, undocumented symbolism
    limited phonetically to grunts
    and moans
    and gurgles
    impaired physically to splashing sweat
    and rippling muscles
    and overflowing cavities
    afflicted mentally to visions of gods
    and torn strings of harp
    and obscene beauty.

    Here's my little finger, talk to it,
    you found your voice again.
    I didn't, yet, still busy gathering my body from your wilderness.
    Then remembered suddenly those undiscarded shears...
    Hey finger, I panted like an elephant,
    how does it feel to be attached to that serpentine wrist
    flowing into that limber elbow
    rushing through pools of drying watercolors
    into the crushed strawberry of nipple?
    It feels like your hand...
    You're plagiarizing.
    You showed the way.
    I showed you art.
    I showed you my body, is my body not art?
    Your body is a pagan's temple, a desert's carnation, a sunset's muse,
    a poet's nightmare...
    desperate in reaching for the bottom of his quill
    and bitter in finding it...
    when bottomless would have been the only answer
    and insanity the only poem.
    I like this dialogue.
    I love this body.
    I like this poet.
    I love this body.
    I love this body’s poet.

    You forbade me to use your fingers...
    Your! f...... fingers.
    ...thus I ignored the mysteries of phonetic hiccupping
    allowing my teeth paint the cerise inside areola’s amaranth splits
    and my lips suckle the cerulean alongside breast’s viridian stains
    and my tongue alleviate your skin’s uninterruptible pain
    with monochromatic insistence...
    I burn...
    That’s an insult.
    I fulminate...
    That’s much better.
    When the hell will you, finally, strip vestal poetry to termagant vixen?

    I stole your body’s sensations,
    leaving it barren of anything but the mute scream of agony
    and the numbness of expectancy as I stole voice and dialogues and song,
    and then I started dressing it
    with the limp veneer of ecstasy
    and the glutinous fiber of desire
    and the lambent flame of intemperance
    and then I gave you back your voice and your dialogues and your song
    removing the wax from my ears
    and allowing your call to crash me against the softness of your reefs
    as I hammered my way in
    and hammered my way in
    and hammered my way in
    and led you into a thorns-field afire.


    Does the dialogue end the magic?
    The magic begins with the dialogue end.
    It began?
    It ended.
    The magic?
    The dialogue.
    So the magic begins. So you got it.
    To never end? So you did not get it.
    To end never. The subtlety of punctuation. So you did get it.
    Can a dialogue end without beginning? You were getting better than me.
    It did.
    The dialogue?
    The magic.
    Plagiarist. Yes, you were definitely getting better than me.

    The rest was lost in that alien language written with the watercolor hues
    of hips, and thighs, and cavities, and spines, and skin, and mouths...
    the uniqueness of an artful masterpiece
    plagiarizing its beauty into endless fractals of itself.



When November Meets Wind

    Don’t smile.
    I want to see you.
    So if I smile you don’t see me?
    I want to see you without sunglasses.
    I don’t wear sunglasses.
    No, but I will have to wear them.
    My name is November.
    Mine is Wind.
    I know, your caress penetrated my shirt before I saw you.
    Only my caress?
    Also the knowledge.
    What knowledge?
    Knowledge of what hides behind those lips.

    You smiled. Damn.
    I closed my eyes steel shut,
    blindness never part of my plans
    as I fumbled desperately for my sunglasses.
    Insufficient, impossible...
    hey, help! I yelled
    and a pair of... round? welding?... goggles slid into my hand,
    you knew all the time, no? you... you... female.

    You had to guide me,
    I kept stumbling against trees and lamp posts
    and cursing little ladies with barking big dogs,
    finally we were seated, the smells divine
    and the menu in my hands barren of Braille codes
    with a stomach churning loudly.
    All I could see was a curved stain of sun,
    a horizontal crescent burning my face...
    next thing I will look like a panda bear
    after goggles.

    Mercy! I almost screamed
    as a hand snatched the goggles off my nose.
    I found a pair of lips drawing corners high up
    to meet a pair of eyes drawing corners low down
    the only obstacle between them some artistic wrinkles –
    did you draw these yourself?...
    thank goodness, no immolating piece of teeth showing.

    We sat,
    across from each other,
    face to face,
    toes touching, knees touching,
    the artificial hindrance of leather and textile and silk
    preventing obsecrating skin
    from performing the magnanimity of offertory
    to obsecrating skin.
    Fingertips touching, no hindrance,
    as they lay in conniving confrontation middle finger to middle finger,
    left to right and right to left
    the others stretching and never reaching,
    the touch interrupted just for the fulgurant moments
    when the need to pick a piece of food to feed the ravenous belly
    before returning to the previous electrifying position.

    Should we?
    Should we.
    You mean we should.
    I mean we shall.

    Fingers rising off the table surface,
    orphaned meeting orphaned
    palms meeting palms
    and in never stopping motion knuckles sliding and twining and knotting...
    when did our bodies recline over the table
    lips joining the twine
    with my tie falling in the ketchup bowl?
    Your tie fell in the ketchup bowl, you murmured,
    not letting go
    keeping my lower lip between your teeth
    worrying about my eyes, my blindness, a distance bigger than a table’s width...
    how did we reach the room

    Once more, facing each other,
    walls assenting to play mute witnesses to art in creation,
    our bodies fully naked from waist up
    fully dressed from waist down
    your big nipples flint rigid
    my little nipples flint, smaller, rigid
    the distance nipple to nipple shattering vertiginously...
    almost... now!... touch!... spark!...
    the hair on my chest burst in sudden flame
    and your left hand covered it instantly, clutching, smothering,
    with your right hand penetrating the atrium between my belt and belly
    clutching, smothering...
    I mirrored your move
    penetrating, clutching, smothering.
    Our bodies fully naked from waist up
    fully naked from waist down
    fully naked.

    Twined fingers, I whispered.
    Twined lips, I whispered.
    Twined bodies, I whispered.
    Define twined, you whispered.

    It took me hours,
    never content with my definitions you demanded more
    and I had to define sweat and friction and moans
    and I had to inflict upon you examples of slavery and mastery
    and I had to write interminable poems starting at ankle
    and finishing at ankle
    passing through the smoothness of inner thighs
    and intricacies of loins
    and the wide expanses of that smooth back of yours
    erupting in thousands of needles and gullies
    each time the pen of my fingernail separated a portion of your spine
    from your body.

    This is not love making.
    What is it?
    This is not ribaldry.
    What is it?
    This is not poetry.
    What is it, woman?
    This is the lost chapter of the sacred scriptures.
    This is blasphemy.
    This is faith.

    I did not mind investing more hours,
    now busy defining for myself
    the disrobed wonders of your body,
    never really sating.
    When do you die?
    When December hits. Before the twelfth toll.
    And your tie?
    The one which fell in the ketchup.
    I’ve never been so close to strangling a woman before
    with a ketchup stained, or else, tie.
    You smiled. Damn.
    and as I was busy groping for those welder’s goggles
    you started devouring me, alive.
    How the hell didn’t I die
    before December?
    I did, though, melt.



Of Kids Stories And Things

    Tell me.
    Tell you what?
    Your secret.
    My secret? Which one? I have twenty three.
    You count them?
    I number them. I like some order to my secrets.
    It doesn't sound so many that you need to keep some order there.
    These are my secrets.
    What do you mean?
    She kissed me on the nose.
    See, this is another secret.
    Twenty four?
    No, this is our secret. I have many of these too.
    So, if this is our our, I guess there are other's our.
    Sure. Jealous?
    No. Envious. Are our our more than other's our?
    I can't tell, then it won't be a secret anymore.
    You can tell me just the number.
    I thought you wanted to know a secret.
    My secret. Which one?

    Tell me the secret of your longevity.
    Your age.
    I mean, you are probably more than one hundred and fifty year old, no?
    Do I look that old? Did it feel that old when we made love?
    She had a point, there.
    I dipped my finger in her love and smelled it.
    You smell my love?
    I test and taste.
    And tease.
    I sucked my finger and smacked my lips for a few moments.
    Definitely tasty. Definitely hurty.
    Yes, it hurts. Look at it, it is burned to the root.
    She took my finger in her mouth, sucking it as well.
    Definitely betty.
    Betty? The bite was painful as hell.
    Better, much better. Look, it grew full size again.
    You're procrastinating. Do I look that old?

    I was not. Not procrastinating.
    Just enjoying the lull of her naked, soft belly,
    my head cradled by it.
    No, that's exactly the point.
    And yet, you have modelled for Charles Lutwidge Dodgson.
    Lewis Carroll.
    Yes, I know that. I don't know that I modelled for him.
    You must have.
    Did I?
    Yes, the Cheshire cat.
    Did I model for the Cheshire cat? Meow...
    Not for the cat. For its smile.

    You smiled,
    the Cheshire cat smile so evident, so embarrassingly conquering,
    so, well, feline.
    I moved position, now it was my ear against the skin of your belly,
    your breasts thankfully pulling each down to its side of chest
    and your smile showing in between,
    those wonderful crescent teeth between those wonderful crescent lips,
    I wondered what your wonderful crescent tongue was doing
    before it sneaked out cat-like, not necessarily Cheshire-like,
    and pasted a thin layer of lambent, lurid liquid on your top lip.
    I saw your canines.
    Are you going to eat me?
    The smile split into a top part and a bottom part
    allowing words to come out.
    Was this what I feared or what I hoped for?
    She pulled away from me,
    my head bouncing on the mattress,
    before she started crawling back, above me, on her way to the bottom of the bed,
    first her head and that impish Cheshire grin,
    then her breasts,
    now hanging and bouncing and dragging a stiff nipple across my mouth,
    then her belly button,
    no, the thighs did not follow
    as we dipped into each other, all motion frozen except one.

    No, she certainly was not one hundred and fifty year old.
    I wished there was a mirror above the bed,
    not for her skin but for my grin -
    I still wonder, how does a Cheshire smile look on my face?



Color Riddles

    Tell me, Wind,
    What is the white of your skin?

    Is it the white of melting snow,
    Of daisy's crush under the plow,
    Of crumbling chalk between my toes
    upon those fields where sunshine grows?

    My white? Well, let me see... it is...

    The water feeding thirsty doves,
    The petal saying - yes, she loves,
    The promise washed away by rain
    and saying - yes, we meet again.

    Tell me, November,
    What is the red of your passion?

    Is it the red of burning hell,
    The bleeding doe upon the dell,
    The hidden flame inside the grape
    before my feet its slumber rape?

    My red? Well, let me see... it is...

    The sunset burning day's debris,
    The fawn asleep in poppy sea,
    The wine upon a lover's lip
    enchased by lust's dementing whip.



That Artist

    I kept wondering -
    walking the carpet to shreds
    between the corner of the room with the bad Pablo Diego José
    Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios
    Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso reproduction
    (saved from the dog’s teeth but not from his teeth’s marks)
    and the one with the good Andrew Warhola reproduction
    (just a few tea stains, a bargain) -
    who the hell was that Flu guy you went to bed with,
    envying his luck
    hating his guts.
    And telling me about it shamelessly – oh, you, wench.

    It had to be what’s his name? who cares what’s his name?
    the painter, I was sure,
    remembering that forest you once showed me on canvas
    when I almost ran away
    afraid of the wolves... no, this is just a painting you told me
    and I did not believe you until you made me touch it,
    and still – I kept two steps away from your hand carrying the... thing,
    a guy can never be sure, can he?

    Or, what’s his other name? that other one?
    the poet, I was sure,
    the one you wrote stone melting poetry to
    (I remember losing my shoe into it,
    once you showed it to me)
    and brick igniting poetry to
    (I remember burning my eyelashes with it,
    once you made me touch it)
    and trees inebriating poetry to
    (I remember not being able to count beyond two trees, they kept wobbling,
    once I kissed you... oops... it).

    And what if I was wrong and it was the sculptor, I was sure,
    or the singer, I was sure, or the actor, the composer, the writer, the plumber?...
    in my despair I started tearing pages from the Britannica,
    from the Encarta, the Smithsonian, the Yellow Pages, the Bible...
    help!... I kneeled in front of the bush in my garden
    which looked like the other bush
    (in the Old Testament, people, not in the White House)
    tell me before I die, I need to know... who is this guy, Flu?

    But, da’hling, it is not Flu, it is flu, you said,
    your hand on the vacuum-cleaner’s handle, ready to strike.
    Huh? I responded, intelligently.
    I said flu, da’hling, not Flu, you elaborated, a it not a he,
    and I still did not get it, after all - you, the other you, you dear reader
    see the capitals, but I could not hear them.
    I said flu like the middle of Influenza, da’hling,
    and you laughed the tea stains off my Warhola stuff...
    by God, you could laugh...
    Influenza, ha, a matador, I shrieked indignantly.
    No, da’hling, Influenza a sickness, you replied.
    Huh? I quoted my earlier poem.

    You refused to make love to me that night, pretending indisposition.
    Yeah, I know you women and your indispositions,
    so I pretended to believe you
    and after you fell asleep, I pulled the full Britannica under the covers
    and with a shaking flash-light in a shaking hand
    started reading shaking page after shaking page, looking for that matador.
    Even if it took me a life time.
    Eventually, it did.



the power

    the sword,

    as it cuts through the butter of trill of lark
    and of wing of butterfly
    and of color of rainbow
    dispassionately waiting for the severed parts
    to tumble into a grave of boiling water
    running all the way into an endless sunset,

    through the heart of pebble of rivers
    and of bed of seas
    and of ink of escaping squids
    mindlessly watching the gash in world's inner skin
    as flailing life boils itself to evaporating steam
    flowing into a monster grave of eternally molten ores,

    crawling rivers of magma
    into death before and death after
    and nothing but death
    as its cutting edge emerges indifferently victorious over nothing
    but the grandiosity of dream
    while ash pours through a constricted throat
    to a grave of cooling passion and basalt rock,

    back into blue and ash and vapor
    as furrow and boulder and mountain fall apart
    seeding as many tombstones
    for those pieces of animated clay wielding as many sub-versions
    of saber and dagger and rapier and cutlass
    to sub-cut themselves into sub-pieces of clay and mud and dust,

    and the poet sits back, awed into the fright of annihilation,
    waiting for all the halves and halves of halves
    to fall apart and disintegrate into the sun
    and looking for the reason why they do not
    with the lark still taking to air
    and the pebble still rolling with the river
    and boiling magma still coalescing into poppy studded rock
    and clay still dancing with clay,
    until he finds the reason, the only,

    in the touch
    of fingertips against fingertips
    and the caress of lips against lips
    and the brush of chest against breast
    and the feel
    of lover

    the power.



I, Diary

    Sleeping next to her for so many years,
    Waiting for a never coming caressing hand
    the humidity seeping into my yellowing flesh
    cracks showing up, age creeping in relentlessly
    and eating away at once shared memories... once shared beauty.
    I was still in love with her, did she know it
    as she kept dancing through life forgetting all about me?

    “Hi...” a soft voice said,
    and for an instant I was afraid my spine was going to melt
    as liters of moisture accumulated inside my pages
    suddenly started flowing down her fingers
    and I wondered... did it taste salty as she kissed my battered cover
    then allowed me hear for a few godly moments the thump of her heart
    before opening my first page and whispering – “tell me...”?

    I forgot her betrayal, her indifference, now was all that counted
    and after coughing a few layers of dust away from my lines
    I started telling her all those secrets I was the only one to know
    and she was the only one so hungry to hear, mainly the first’s –
    the first pink dress, the first kiss, the first boy who touched her breast,
    the first boy who touched her heart, the first heartbreak.
    Then... second’s,
    and we both exploded in laughter and we both howled in tears
    again and again, coffee drops staining her dress and my pages,
    human tears staining her dress and my pages, drunken in the glory.

    Finally she fell asleep, hugging me to her chest,
    I was her lover again, the loyal companion,
    never even once disappointing her, I, her shield and knight,
    the keeper of the castle and the keeper of the soul...
    and I fell asleep counting heartbeats as many as pages,
    and more.

    “Hi...” a soft voice said,
    and I shivered knowing of the pleasures to come
    as she picked up her golden tipped pen, opened me at my first empty page
    and started telling me the stories,
    oh, all those stories I so missed for these many past years.
    I did not complain that she was tickling from time to time,
    I only hoped those fingers will never finish caressing my skin
    allaying my thirst and hunger
    with rivers and rivers of that inebriating red ink.