Plethora Of Poetical er Licenses|
You are a gazelle and I am an elephant,
you are La Belle and I am La BÍte, you are early spring and I am late autumn,
you are an opening bud
I am a herbarium. Dry leaves. Dry flowers...
where the hell did this dry fly come from as well?
You are younger, thinner, softer, beautifuler... sorry, poetical license.
I am faster, you said.
You took off in the general North-Northeast direction
until you were no more than a dot on the Northern Hemisphere map.
We are, though, oxymoronically equal in one aspect.
I was reading your lips through binoculars,
there was no way to hear you at that distance.
You are longer. I am deeper.
My head jerked with a sudden twitch. Church?
Church bells toll in heavy bronze, this was tinkling in fragile crystal.
I put my eyes against the binoculars again.
You were laughing. Laughing and gesticulating,
a variety of unidentified birds circling you
like as many winged satellites.
I rang your cell phone. You had no binoculars
and there was no way to make myself heard at that distance.
I am er than you in one aspect, I said.
I am patienter.
The tinkling paused for a moment.
Another poetical license?
Maybe I am even attentiver, enraptureder, abandoneder, lustfuler...
Quiet. Only Doppler chirrups
as the birds kept nearing and parting from you mouthís vicinity.
Thatís a lot of poetical license, you chirruped,
no Doppler effect to it.
It takes some proving, you added.
Sure. If you would only agree to desert your ornithological foster family...
You glided back. Like a snowflake on lifting smoke,
like down dropping from a nest,
like a thought
followed by its shadow.
Shall I float?
You wore nylons
No, not a horrible pantyhose
but real nylons, real stockings,
the WWII kind
held up by garters and used by GIís to seduce French women
worn since by whores and movie stars and fragile lovers and brides...
...which one am I?...
I asked, sliding the hem up until one garter started showing,
sliding further until a white triangle of silk started showing... a round, wet spot...
...are you just a gawker or also a doer?...
I did not find any comparative irony in these specific erís
as I pinched the nylon
picked a thread between thumb and forefinger
and started pulling.
How many feet of thread in one stocking? I wondered aloud,
or is it maybe miles?...
and you moved from floating
to floating and rolling
my fingers first trailing the thread away from your flesh
then tracing it on your flesh
then trying to count the countless tiny goose-bumps that hit my fingernail
like a living species of road speed-bumps
your shivers making me miss the count
the wet spot growing by gyration, I reached the knee...
...youíre going the wrong direction...
What can I do? The damn stocking is built the wrong way around.
Or you started the wrong way around,
is it something like err, you know, an er with two rís?
Now, this was already mockery.
If my erís werenít sufficiently stretched already
(at least those with pat and att and enr and... no, not the one with lus,
the lus one was hitting the ceiling and moving on towards the shingles
from the inside)
so, as I said, if this wasnít sufficient
now you were moving into mockery, next youíll start laughing, next...
No! Way! Okay, letís say I am slightly impatienter...
you offered me a respectable escape chute
picking my hand and dragging it upwards... please, stop gyrating
or youíll have me wrapped all around you in thin ribbons...
...and there will be so many of these, wouldnít there?...
I didnít have time to evaluate the mockery-slash-worry in this one
as my hand ended a bit higher (bad er) than hoped
yet lower (good er) than too high
and I stopped wondering if my palm pushed itself underneath your shirt
or your shirt pushed itself above my palm
and if the sudden pain in it was a heart attack
starting somewhere in a tiny vein along the life-line
or your nipple turned hot tipped dagger cutting right through it
cutting, cutting, cutting... something snapped.
Was this the sound of a heart attack?
No, fancy, cheap stuff, you declared authoritatively
shedding the colorful bra to gravityís voracious appetite,
...youíre so much braer than my bra...
and for whatever reason I bent forward
letting you bite my lips
and I forgot that I wanted to correct your oral typo
telling you that you should have said braver and not...
It was your turn. I didnít remember even whispering...
No, youíre certainly not a breast whisperer
though you might qualify as a breast mumbler.
Well, one or the other, not a bad qualifying er
and I probably passed some unknown to me test
since the next I knew you picked my hand, bleeding palm and all
and cancelled the earlier mentioned higher (bad er) than hoped
making it land... was I qualified xxxxx screamer, maybe?
You... definitely... are...
I wondered if I screamed for long. My then as well as my now recollections
qualify for nil. Do they?
You reached into my wetness
you tore my silk
you reinstated gravitation
commanding it to take control of my body
your clothes torn by ravens
my thighs torn by rave
our mouths ravished by armies of teeth and legions of grunts
and the flailing tongues of dragon seed...
Am I a poetical license for you?
You are a complete new ruling.
A whole new grammar. A language. A theory
competing with the Big Bang in unprovability and power of seduction,
how do you write a language of touches
of smells of warmth of lust
of passionate existence in three dimensions and three only
when one would probably need twenty three
All I have is poetical license. Cannot compete.
I fail trying
and all I wish now is keep on trying.
With my hand on your breast.
With your nipple between my fingers.
With er, lots of er...
...er, like ever?...
...er, like ever.
Like after. Like dreamer. Like erogenous, paper, deeper...
...no, Eros is competition...
...hmm... siren maybe?
You kind of mix your erís, thatís a lot of poetical license.
Okay, perennial, permanent, perpetual, eternal...
Terminator... you smiled.
Schwarzenegger... again the church again the tinkle, you laughed.
Poery. This was a sudden inspiration.
You lost a t somewhere.
I looked somewhere and did not find the t,
I found though perfume, leftovers, fire...
...fire, thatís a nice er, auditive.
I could hear the brain cells dying in my skull.
I could hear your hair grow.
Please, spread on the window.
Like a gecko?
Like a deco... ration.
Itís never wrong.
You extracted me from inside you.
Turn off gravitation.
I turned off gravitation.
You lay spread-eagled across the window
your palms suction cups, your ankles suction cups,
your hair floating, squirming like thousands of thin snakes
warming themselves in the sun...
...which hair? Tinkle.
I know where youíre looking.
You donít. Eagler, please?
So now itís applicable to nouns...
but you obeyed,
a four armed spider with poppy tipped breasts...
What about my breasts?
You look ridiculous.
I can set them horizontally,
I can set them one up and one down, one left one right,
No way, not trying even.
I still carried the crucifixion holes in my palms.
I waited for the sun to cut through your flesh and examine your insides.
The pinks, the reds, the darks, the zebra ribs,
the fluttering butterfly called heart
the incandescent grove called woman
the sons of sun called eyes - invisible, tormenting, blinding.
I had enough of sun, I brought moon.
The fashion freak to dress your skin webs,
to pour moths in your hair, hang fallen petals to your eyelids
and seed owl hoots between your toes
while stealing tiger tenderness from underneath your nails,
to feed its missing half with dew, its mourning
And when I got fed up with the moon
I called in the cars
headlights and horns and motors
to play a light-and-sound cacophony over your body
more beautiful than the Niagara falls
more beautiful than a tulips bed
more beautiful than a sleeping puppy.
I cannot hold gravitation off much longer, you know, I said.
We have to part, you know, you said.
We tore into each other,
our bodies giving up, unsuitable,
like a kitchen sink trying to channel a river.
We held hands. We walked.
She got into a bus. I got into a car.
She stood. I sat.
The bus drove East. I drove South South West.
Turning left, right, around roundabouts, across bridges, train rails, borders.
The hands still holding.
Strange thing, hands. So flexible.
I smiled. I even closed my fists trying to contain the blood. I could have answered forever
but the poem was getting too long already.