Hobbies - Poetry - Anonn
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    Tell me the color of your eyes, I asked.
    I donít know, you answered.
    It is your eyes I am asking about, I repeated.
    Whatever your covet is, I wish to satisfy, you answered, hurt.
    Are you witch? I asked.

    I could read in my mind the look of distress on your face
    as you stood up, the chair ramming into the wall,
    turning over,
    I hurried to correct the situation...
    Are you angel? ...only to get it worse,
    my imagination guiding me onto realityís path
    watching you pick up your coat
    then bend to click closed the shoeís tiny buckle
    the one you just opened...
    Desperation, or was it desire,
    how did I come to mix all the dís in my head... doubt, doom, drought...
    what was it that took hold of rampaging dementia
    and clamped down on it for one last try?...
    Are you woman?

    The miles in between rolling lazily
    indifferent to the waves battering my chest bones into mush
    as I waited the hours long distance of your answer,
    my imagination for once betraying me
    enshrouding you in the secrecy of my unknowledge of you.
    I heard a door slamming half a world away,
    oh, God, no... donít... the cold waft of air hitting my face
    and I refused to open my eyes
    not asking
    not wondering
    just accepting
    a door slamming just a breathís distance away.
    I opened my eyes.

    Where did you drag this posture from,
    one shoe dangling from an index finger stuck under the strap
    the other still on your foot
    the lopsided effect enhanced by a coat dangling from your other hand
    dragging behind a wooden chair, one sleeve clutched in your fist,
    a torn, hanging piece of blouse baring a white shoulder, half a braís cup...
    What did you get hooked on? I asked
    caring not for fantasy or reality.
    An airplaneís wing tip, you answered,
    and it sounded logical somehow.

    You cut the breathís distance to half,
    then to nothing, inhaling my lungs.
    No, you did not kiss me. What did you me?
    I womaníd you, I think you said,
    and at that moment I knew this was the only answer
    and the color of your eyes whatever I covetted it to be
    because... I tore my lungs away from your mouth
    and savored my victory asking again
    Are you woman?... and before you had the chance to vanish
    through that hole in the ground back to your world
    I added
    You are woman!...
    making sure you heard the exclamation mark.

    You heard it.
    I felt it.

    Your mouth
    ascending from that sunken south,
    demanding of its breathless prey
    its famished want with bites allay
    and curb its ageless drouth.

    Your hand
    emblazing timeís untarnished sand,
    descending through a flaring swarm
    amongst the crumbs of raging storm
    its lust with coals to brand.

    While knotting muscles down my spine the soothe of balsam shun
    And plowing nails invest my flesh in search for crimes undone
    We share the desert of a night beneath the willowís bark
    The spasm a dance, the pain a balm, the scream a trilling lark.

    Your breast
    denying skinís demure protest,
    invoking gods of sunken suns
    to guide my fingers just this once
    and claim its lasting nest.

    Your eye
    enchasing stars in morningís sky,
    beseeching passionís cleaving bane
    and endless waves of screeching pain
    till morrowís sad good bye.

    I kneeled to remove the lonesome shoe
    you dropping the one hanging to your finger,
    you dropped the coatís sleeve as well
    and the chair made a hollow noise
    as it disappeared to your side of the world,
    I pulled down your stockings... there were wide runs all over them.
    Do you want the white of my flesh? you asked.
    I stood up and further ripped your blouse
    pulling along the one visible white cup of your bra
    regarding the tiny blue veins of your breast pulsing
    as they pumped fresh supplies of blood into a nipple
    demanding the pity of my touch... such cruelty in my ignorance of the plea,
    my rampant fingers destroying the other half of the bra
    dark red stains threatening to explode through your skin
    and straight into my mouth.
    Damn you, you screamed against my neck, your canines penetrating
    and our hands taking hold of each otherís waistlines
    in one savage pull our nakedness joined
    and the stank of burning clothes charred our arms to the elbow.

    The cruelty of ignorance replaced by the cruelty of conquest
    melting tiles cracking in a cacophony of mutilation
    a black funnel descending around us
    as our bodies inhaled the hiding sunís threshing corona
    and next dayís comatose dawn
    enthraled to be touched by the reaperís long blade.

    What eye color shall I wear now? you asked,
    painting circles around the corner of my mouth with your tongue.
    Kaleidoscope, I answered,
    watching imploding galaxies and exploding buds
    playing havoc in your eyes and on my brains.
    You are... I started, and you placed a shushing finger on my mouth,
    Please, donít break the magic, you implored.
    I removed your finger ever so gently, placed it once upon each of my eyes,
    then placed it on my left nipple,
    I wanted you to feed my heart with memories.
    You are woman, I said,
    and you smiled.


    You put on some of my clothes,
    a t-shirt, a pair of jogging pants... I donít need more... you said
    when I asked what about shoes and underwear.
    I stopped you for a moment, before you fully pulled down the t-shirt,
    tracing the intricated topography around the maturity of your breasts,
    skin deep valleys and dull stains decorating the skinís
    otherwise snow whiteness, other lines running around your abdomen...
    Birth giving marks, flesh deformation marks, gravitation age marks, you smiled, unembarrassed.
    Life marks, I admited,
    and you thanked me sucking my lungs into your mouth for one last time.
    Gravitation will never touch my inner side, you added,
    and fell through the hole in my world back to your world.

    I keep sending you words.
    One day we may unbury this hole again,
    or we may forget where we hid those spades,
    or that there ever were spades, who knows?
    I will never forget the color of your eyes, though...
    Whatever your covet is...



The Book

    You let me touch your book jacket,
    not yet the book, not even the cover.
    I will leave stains, fingerprints,
    I feebly objected, eager to touch.
    It isnít new,
    you brushed my insincere objections aside
    pointing to the miniature tears along the edges,
    a few oily stains, one burned spot...
    Cigarette? I asked.
    Heart, you answered.

    I turned the book over and over in my hands
    absorbing the smell, the warmth,
    pointing to some pen doodles... rings and squares and triangles...
    Poems someone wrote for me, can you do better? you asked.
    Yes, if you allow me, I answered
    and wrote you a poem.
    Then laid the book on the table, my cheek on it
    ready to fall asleep, it was so soft...
    When you wake up I will allow you to peel off my book jacket,
    then my dress, my shoes.

    Because you wrote me a poem.
    And then, will you allow me to open your cover?
    No, you will have to peel my cover, then my lace, my silks.
    And leaf through your pages?
    Peel my pages, my skin, my eyes.
    Why do you keep saying peel? You are a book,
    one opens a book, one leafs through a book.
    I am also a woman, you have to uncover me,
    discover me, then cover me with poetry.

    But you are written already.
    You will have to fill in the blanks.
    Like my heart.

    I dreamt of falling asleep on a book,
    then sinking into it,
    letters settling comfortably inside the groves lining my brain
    delectating in the tiny electric jolts I was sending their way.
    A woman started telling me her story.
    I touched her.




    I will launch my ship
    into the red of your rivers,
    the white of sails blemished into loverís epiphany
    by the blue of ink,
    the black of cannons cut to giantís wedding rings
    by the green of grass blades,
    the helm deserted
    as the anchor fails to grab the undulating walls
    leading to the thunder of your cavern
    where it will smash against muscle, and whorls, and oxygen blasts.

    You send your scouts to the wreckage
    salvaging as much of the colors as you can,
    the white, the blue, the black, the green, the diamond,
    the topaz, the coral, the ruby, the emerald
    and let the dye set in your bedcoverís linen
    where you curl alone at night
    and let the hues soak into your eyeís white,
    and your skinís topaz,
    and your breastís smoldering ruby.