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Anatomy Of Missing

    When did I miss you more?

    When you deserted the bed
    tiptoeing bare assed to the bathroom
    middle of the night
    and for minutes few all I was left with was
    your warmth and your smell and your wrinkled pillow
    and those sounds telling me you were unmistakably unreachable,
    the panic setting in my body hardly able to cure itself
    even when that chilly, partly wet skin crawled back my side of the bed
    trying to infiltrate boldly every crevasse of a flesh
    sweating its fright into the covers?

    Or when I deserted your side
    dragging the dead weight of a meaningless suitcase
    into an equally meaningless lobby
    cluttered with a part of mankind I bore no relation to
    except that it breathed the same air you breathed seconds ago,
    and I kept walking, nose in the air, sniffing for those molecules
    which probably evaded the confined gardens of your lungs
    from time to time finding myself rushing like a madman
    from one corner of the big hall to the other
    swatting or sweeping or swashing a butterfly net
    in a doomed effort to get some of them into a tin box
    and carry them with me into that part of my life
    where you wouldn’t be present for many days?

    Or when, swarms of butterflies invading my eyes,
    I tried to remember those swarms of butterflies escaping yours?




    I plucked you out of my imagination,
    drawing shoes to your feet
    and clothes to your flesh
    and mascara to your eyes
    only to be able to pull you out of your shoes and clothes and mascara
    and make love to your skin.

    I, not you,
    the red one-flower orchards of your breasts
    blossoming under the sun of my palm
    following it wherever it moved,
    stretching the delicate tissue supporting them
    in a glorious effort to kiss my life-line until, cruelly,
    I moved my hand to your spine and they couldn’t follow anymore.

    They snapped back in place
    stabbing me murderously in the chest
    dissatisfied with the sudden sunset.
    We should call them palmflowers, I whispered between your teeth
    sounding to myself more like a hiss than a whisper.
    True, you hissed back
    rolling inside my embrace till the palmflowers settled firmly again
    at the crossroads between the fate-line and head-line of each of my palms
    in that mindless worshiping adulation of flesh for flesh.

    Tell me, I asked further,
    it never crossed your mind to call my palms... nippleflowers?



Forgive My Inspiration

    Forgive my inspiration,
    you stole it.

    It ended up with your mouth,
    choking in cruel asthmatic deprivation of the deoxygenated air
    once deserting my breathing paths
    and feeding your cavernous moistness with wheezing delights.

    It was adopted into your fingers and their desperado tips,
    chasing inexistent forms on the empty bedside next to you
    in a hallucinogenic attempt to create skin off the torn pillow case
    and flesh off scattering down
    sticking to the tar underneath your eyes.

    It collapsed inside your hip-hugging lace,
    sinking into a mire excoriated of its surface rushing spiders
    and bleeding giant nuphars
    and mesozoic iguanas carrying the seed of creation
    from the day God’s finger touched the water.


    I form a familiar number,
    a few technological clicks,
    and familiar music invades my ear...


    and suddenly I am flooded with air and flesh and iguanas
    and inspiration is but a meaningless word
    evanescing in the beauty of you.



A Day's Seasons

    clapping their heads inside your chest,
    Was this the sound I heard
    first time I laid my ear to its awaking bareness?

    confined to a room, a bed, a bed sheet,
    Was this the fist squishing our bodies
    into an amorphous writhing mass of beautiful agony?

    wrung into ribbons knotted to your eyelashes,
    Was this the river carrying rolling boulders down your cheeks
    the last time you saw me?



Blind Moment

    Squeeze my fist
    between your thighs.

    Let straining knuckles struggle for the freedom of fingers
    stretching the thin fiber of resisting underwear
    until a broken finger gashes a rugged hole through the thin fabric
    sinking into that mire of indecorous sensations
    and dragging the rest of my body inside your flooding ecstasy
    the while lupine teeth sink vertebrae deep into each other’s neck muscle...

    Pulling out... teeth, body, fist... the smell of freshly spilled love
    draws glinting paths down your thighs as you slowly lick my wound, whimpering.




    the dark grey mountains mass
    lending its sharply outlined irregular crests
    to a darkness engorging my surrounding horizons,
    was not there yesterday.

    Alone, my car keeps its eastward rush
    infatuated with the importance of its own phlegmatic lull
    and completely out of tune with looming unknown
    growling there, beyond.

    A pale red drifts above the shimmering black outline
    shifting hue into scintillating scarlet
    and suddenly deep crimson layers of lazy magma climb above the ridges
    and start pouring down the fading slopes,
    converging from all sides upon my indifferent car
    with the confidence of a leopard... paw lifts to strike...

    Burning rubber smells assail me, tires explode in random sequence
    as I leave my clothes behind and dive in
    swimming upward towards the rolling vertex
    leaving a flaming lava trail behind
    and slowly sinking inside that incinerating viscid swamp
    howling, howling, howling...

    I feel a quake, a shudder, a hand shaking me awake
    beneath eyes watching me worriedly,
    “Lover, lover, you had a nightmare...”
    I hug her waist hungrily
    burying my head inside the soft breast, still howling,
    finding the fire in her flesh and crying,
    “It was not a nightmare, it was beautiful, it was your love...”
    She knows better than contradict me,
    she accepts my tears
    watching them sizzle on her nipple
    then turn incandescent steam
    then burn holes through the desert of smoldering bed-sheet fabric.




    To stretch your body
    across the sky
    inside rain, inside sky, your toes touching horizon’s edge
    your fingertips sunk deep into... my heart.

    To feel like God,
    light pouring out of my chest in all the colors of beauty and white
    the huge inverted smile of your rainbow
    plucking my ribs into a tune you hear and I feel.

    To reach across the miles
    and gather those toes and ankles and collapsing knees into my arms
    and redesign your spine to its subdued foetal curvature
    fingers knotting their steel around my neck.

    To fold your body
    around mine
    and forget that once upon a time you were a rainbow in my sky
    and now, you are the rainbow coiling between my skin and my flesh.




    I feel like more and once again committing sinful rhymes
    And place my tip of tongue and lip inside some rolling dimes
    Then wait beneath the marble stairs for you to lose your shoe
    And pay my tribute to your toes with poems overdue.

    So supple,
    your ankle lean
    and velvet pearls guise your soles,
    a breezy waft
    upon my skin its marvel scrolls.

    Inside its cage of sordid nights a nightmare cries forlorn
    Then falls asleep at soothing sounds of wailing doomsday’s horn,
    You pour the salt inside my tear to guide my way astern
    Before your nipples paint my lids with passion’s chanting burn.

    A touching
    a sweet romance
    inside your closing little fist,
    Your elbow’s
    so mean and vile
    defeats my eyes with frolic’s mist.

    Between the lines of crumbling odes asleep in ancient tomes
    And wonder runes in heedful care of hefty senile gnomes
    I leave the horses of my mind to roam till sunset dawns
    Then beg of them to carry home the grace of sobbing swans.

    Your rounded
    your iron grip,
    your mouth above that stubborn chin,
    My singing
    my doom, my faith,
    my music’s verse enchased with sin.



Not Just Your Shoe

    at a sun rising underneath the staircase,
    is it a whole sun
    or just a crumb
    or just your shoe, rolling down there last night
    when I carried you in my arms to our bed?

    For a moment I thought you lost your little toe inside that shoe
    as I could not find it when I tried to kiss it,
    that could have explained the blast
    and radiance.
    Then I found out you painted it with invisible ink
    trying to make me think you are a buggy eyed monster.
    You did not paint your eyes with any buggy ink
    letting my lips do it
    with words, incantations, prayers,
    I rhymed eyes with thighs
    and you whacked me only to have an excuse to kiss me later.
    As if you needed any excuse.

    I kept investigating your body parts,
    by now several suns colliding incoherently from several floor spots -
    a button, a second shoe, one stocking - guiding my thirst
    and competing with access to your folds and blush and soft...
    I shooed them all away
    making sure I am the only one partaking in your nightmares
    and those odd dimensions turning them sad.
    What is a sad nightmare if not a smiling memory?
    You allowed me to paint a crude heart and arrow on your elbow
    using lipstick and eye crayon
    and black match-heads ignited inside those meddlesome suns.

    You did not mind the rest of my verses,
    those stolen from your ransacked mind
    and from my delirious exclamations
    when allowed to ride my horses galloping around your hips
    and inside your mouth
    and upside down hanging on to your chin
    till exhausted we all swam side by side inside your eyes,
    you, and I, and my horses and all those graceful silver tinted swans.




    The paper
    naked underneath me
    underneath my hand,
    cuddling against my skin with its unmistakably erotic memories of wood
    and bark and perching storks
    until death marched in its blaringly glorious sounds of snapping nests
    and trampling boots
    and a wails-drowning army of buzzing saws.
    No one heard the tree cry.

    I touch the paper again
    trying to soothe its pain with the warmth of my palm and my words.
    “What are you doing?” you ask
    leaning appetizingly naked against my shoulder,
    your smell not unlike that of living wood and living bark and freshly raked earth.
    “I am telling the paper a love story,” I answer.
    “Need I be jealous?”
    “It is our love story,” I answer,
    not telling you about that first intimate moment, the first touch.
    “I know about it,” you smile
    taking your hand away from the paper and sitting in my lap,
    hands behind my neck,
    knees drawn up to your chest
    while I keep scribbling fervidly my love story
    on the stretched skin of your shoulder blades.



Spelling Mistake

    I opened the doors to your temple,
    button after holy button,
    kissing each with reverence before unfolding the piece of cloth attached to it,
    so many doors, so many locks,
    hey, I bet no respectable worshipping warrior ever heard of zipper doors
    or magnetic clasps
    or velcro strips...
    the perils a knight faces today before penetrating that inner sanctum
    holding... woman.

    “You sound sweetly irreverent, my lover,” she said
    kissing the bald spot on the top of my head
    (she knew I hated her doing that, knights are not supposed to be bald)
    and pushing a finger inside my mouth
    (she also knew how to mollify me)
    “I may just don my chastity belt,” she added suavely.

    Not after all this travail, I thought savagely
    and hastened to correct my spelling mistake...
    the perils a knight faces today before penetrating that inner sanctum
    holding... Woman.

    “That’s much better,” she purred,
    finally wrapping up her chewing gum and dropping it into the waste basket
    (a waste basket in heaven?... modern heavens these)
    and helping me with the rest of the doors.
    She had to, my hands were shaking.
    I wonder how Homer would have described them modern gods, I thought
    as the last door unfolded
    (or rather downfolded, an elastiband lock to this one)
    and she gathered me into her arms and into her body, praying
    (I, not she).
    The world ended.

    Veneration turned slaughter
    as the beast ripped innocence to shreds
    and shyness to tatters
    and modesty to crumbling clay
    and my body burned its way through the seven doors of love’s purgatory,
    no zippers, no magnetic clasps there,
    the doors light, the hinges oiled,
    the fire divine.

    I woke up in heaven,
    my head on Woman’s bosom
    (yeap, no spelling mistakes this time),
    my body one lump of hurts.
    “Awthuw was a mowon”, I declared.
    “Awthuw?” she asked, once more chewing her gum (a new one)
    and popping vanilla flavored balloons.
    I couldn’t speak clearly,
    not with her finger constantly searching something in my mouth,
    so gently yet firmly I pulled it out.
    “Arthur, the king.
    He went looking fow (oops...) for his holy grail miles from home
    inside stone temples.
    He should have looked for it a hand’s reach away,
    insides the clothes temple of Gwenhwyfar.”
    “Here you go irreverent again,” she pinched me
    (it hurt but it was with love so I didn’t scream).
    I turned to face her, Woman or not Woman
    I was still Lover (hey, I like this spelling mistake)
    pinning her arms to her sides,
    dominating her (stop snickering there...).
    “You are the holy grail,
    I worship you, Woman,” I said hastily
    before she had a chance to kick me between my... things,
    and watched her melt to a puddle and soak into the bedding.

    Well, this is just some poetical nonsense metaphor.
    What I mean to say is... well, what did I mean to say?...
    (and she touched me, watching me melt to a puddle and soak into the bedding).
    Did you ever see two puddles...
    p-u-d-d-l-e-s not p-o-o-d-l-e-s, you dorks...
    make love?
    They merge, and mingle, and coalesce, and fuse,
    the drops immerging,
    the ripples germinating, sprouting, propagating,
    the fiber of space cracking,
    matter transmuting
    laws dying
    and then...
    have you ever visited the heart of a supernova in making?



Lazy Colors

    I didn’t write you a poem this morning.
    I feel lazy,
    for once the lampposts look menacing,
    the sky is covered with fluffy horizontal stripes of spitting red...
    spitting red, hey, I like this color,
    a fast train swooshes by to my right... are you in it?

    The spitting red turns sniveling yellow,
    at this rate I will finish my ride with seventy three new colors,
    seventy three kilometers to go, one color per kilometer,
    by now the sky gets scratching white... see?...
    told you,
    did I tell you I love you?

    I love you. Not a color this one,
    a cornucopia overflowing with mango and pineapple and oranges...
    peeled, of course peeled,
    also the bananas, the pears, the watermelons... no, not the cherries,
    those I pick straight from your tongue
    red raw ripe... mmm... drunk on juicy alliterations...
    oops, missed a few kilometers, missed a few colors,
    me and my gardening...
    ok... and your garden...

    The sun suddenly kicks my eyes with a glare clad hoof
    peeping up from below the horizon
    and I have to pull down the passenger’s side sun visor
    a square halo forming itself around it... Saint Visor... I smile to myself
    regaining the right side of the road.
    Sleepy blue,
    not the sun, your eyes.
    I love you.




    It happened one day,
    No one could explain.

    The sun exploded,
    not with a bang but with a puff
    its belly bulging for one short, frightening moment of consuming fever
    and the next it exploded
    into trillions and trillions of butterflies
    flying their lazy butterfly way
    to... Earth.

    The chilly darkness, death awaiting
    as humans cried and animals whimpered
    and the ocean’s face started to freeze.
    Weeks, many, later they started arriving,
    their wings white
    their antennae white
    their eyes glowing a deep red surrounded white
    landing, touching, flying again, landing, touching...

    We watched the one approaching us,
    uncaring, us and it,
    soaking into the glass and emerging our side of the room
    avoiding the last candles still burning
    upon shelves and upside down turned wineglasses,
    fluttering a few moments above our heads as if hesitating
    and finally landing on your mouth.

    White... turning pink... turning scarlet... turning red...
    was it a roar we heard as it suddenly rose into air
    smashed out through the glass panel
    all the trillions and trillions of butterflies clustering around it
    a gigantic swarm spouting upwards through icicles of air and clumps of void
    in an apocalyptic landscape of death and creation...

    It exploded, the sun,
    not with a bang but with a puff
    and humans laughed and animals howled and fishes jumped out of ocean’s waters...
    I looked at your lips,
    not wondering,
    I love you even more than that butterfly, I said.
    And you knew.



Breaking The Bread

    Sitting across from you,
    the wooden table in between,
    wooden chairs, wooden spoons,
    wood carved bowls filled with simmering soup,
    the air shimmering above the freshly baked bread
    you laid on the table moments ago.
    “Break the bread,” I said.
    “No, you break,” you said.
    “No, you... please...”

    You picked up the hot loaf and broke its end
    offering me the steaming, fragrant piece of life.
    I took it, kissing it,
    kissing your fingers,
    kissing you.

    we sat swinging on the porch,
    counting fingers, birds,
    squirrels nibbling our toes.




    I see your fingers stretching
    way beyond your arm, your palm,
    trying to reach mine all those miles away...
    is there a tremor in their tips
    sending pain waves my way
    and asking for my fingernails to scrap bits of skin off them
    taking off the pain
    with the warmth of touch?

    I refuse to scrap bits of skin,
    I prefer to let them reach my mouth
    search for my tongue, my palate, the inside of my teeth and my cheeks
    and as they pull away from that humid sanctuary
    scrap bits of flesh
    from my lips
    allaying their wanting pain with bits of me.

    Your turn to refuse.
    We meet halfway,
    twining left with right
    till shoulders ache and lips curl with unfulfilled desires
    and birds perching on our wire thin arms
    scrap song dents into gossamer thin skin.

    I wonder if these are the same songs.
    I guess they are,
    are there any other songs lovers know?



Another Moment

    Another moment,
    you are not there and the moment is lost
    never to be recovered.
    So many of them.

    I do not remember,
    I do not care,
    it is one moment less towards the moments with you
    when eyes close
    and hands bind
    and our cube of momentary reality is the only universe which counts
    in this human drama called love.

    I would not swap any grain of my small confined claustrophobic space
    carrying traces of your breath
    for the whole of the infinite space outside of our cube
    carrying all of the known suns and fragrances
    yet... none of yours.



Little Murders

    don’t dream of me,
    don’t caress, kiss, embrace,
    just write a poem with your fingernail
    on my back
    as I suckle your breast hungrily.

    if I fall asleep
    as I certainly will
    please, don’t take offence,
    it is not in disrespect.

    it is in trust that your murderous fingers will find my heart
    to crush its walls
    and join there my dream,
    where I caress, kiss, embrace



The Middle Of You

    Bending backwards,
    your spine a perfect circle,
    fingertips touching heels
    breasts stretched till they are nothing thicker than skin
    nipples red stains
    and your heartbeat looks like a fist
    trying to ram its way out of your chest
    again and again.

    You smile,
    closing your eyes invitingly
    offering me the middle of you.

    I am less supple,
    brittle rings counting the years in my bones
    and the cracks in my joints
    yet I try,
    way a dog scratches and scratches and rolls and rolls on his blanket
    before finally lying down.
    I contort and deform and convolute
    till all that is left of me
    is not much more than an almost perfect meat ball
    hardly fitting in the middle of the circle in the middle of you.

    You bend further,
    your elbows reaching the back of your knees
    when I am finally clamped tightly inside of you
    and we look like a surrealistic nughtmare
    subtitled Love.

    Break perfection, you ask of me
    and my arm finds its way out of the tangle
    crawling its way blindly around
    till a nipple takes pity budding its flower
    and my thumb and forefinger close around it.

    Having found imperfection
    we fall asleep.




    I let crumbs of chocolate fall into my mouth
    from a crumpled package just opened
    and turned upside down way above my head.

    They melt even before reaching the wet haven
    brown drops of cocoa rain staining my lips,
    staining my tongue, my nose, my freshly starched shirt.

    I hold out my cupped palms underneath the invisible cloud,
    the splashing stains accumulating into the puce procellous puddle
    crashing against the finger borders of the fleshy basin.

    My turn... you claim, shamelessly opening your shirt
    and shoving me out of the way puffing your chest
    and looking upward towards the inexistent chocolate sky.

    Trails of rolling drops run down your shoulders
    and up the stiff hills of your breasts
    where they hang hesitatingly to the tips of your nipples.

    I lick noisily the thick liquid mud from my palms
    then rush forward lapping up the liqueur off your nipples
    before gravitation has a chance to lay claim of priority to love.

    Then I wipe my hands on your back and belly’s skin
    just a poor excuse to be allowed the embarrassing travail
    of licking you clean top to bottom... and other places.



The Wait

    beneath desire’s crimpled wraps
    bruised leftovers remember

    the muscled lianas of bare limbs
    contorting into that frightful

    the air rolling its flaming carpet
    inside sizzling blobs of

    the tune of screeching bed springs
    playing its rickety aria of

    beneath desire’s crimpled wraps
    bruises pray for tomorrow’s




    bending a tree trunk with my bare hands
    until it snaps,
    I can.

    gashing my flesh with a serrated knife
    without screaming,
    I can.

    dreaming snakes curling around my ankles and slithering upwards
    smiling in my sleep,
    I can.

    passing one single moment of consciousness
    not thinking of you,
    I can not.




    Stop counting
    or we’ll never make love in this lifetime.

    We were one week later
    and I was still stuck at her left little toe
    counting her imperfections.
    I had a full body to tour.
    She had a valid point there
    yet I still hesitated.

    You hesitate, she admonished me.
    No, I am mourning one week lost and discovery unaccomplished.
    Roll around and you will mourn no more.

    I rolled around, getting her on top of me
    the night sky on top of her
    the stars on top of the sky,
    countless sparkling imperfections...
    ...just like mine, she added
    making love to me while I was busy counting.

    Now, thinking back,
    I am not so sure anymore –
    were those sparkling stars not simply in my eyes?




    Two moons,
    a new world,
    looking down at two moons
    palely reflecting an invisible sun’s light...
    for a moment I lost sight of them
    and the next they were looking up at me again.

    Silly man, there is just one moon,
    these are the reflections in my eyes,

    and she tried to distract me pulling my head down.
    She may be right, she may be crazy
    I told myself, trying to poke at one of the moons with my finger.
    Hey, careful, she laughed,
    the moons hiding and re-appearing once more.
    That proves it beyond doubt,
    I told myself again, triumphantly,
    she is crazy thinking I can touch the moon,
    and this time I allowed myself be pulled down
    unwilling to witness her folly.
    She fully compensated for her limited mental abilities
    with corporeal abilities.
    Poor girl, she will never see the beauty of that bi-selenial landscape.

    Oh, you are so wrong, she giggled
    rolling me on my back
    then laughing hysterically at my surprised look
    as I watched that round yellow stain beyond her right shoulder
    before her mouth took over the skies.



What Is It With My Passion, Actually?

    The thin layer of hot oil
    clinging adoringly to the bottom of the frying pan,
    so deluding in its quiet smoothness
    and beguiling softness
    and somnolence...
    until a few drops of water gone astray
    commit the uncommitable
    diving into the luring semblance of heaven
    where a raging hell breaks loose
    deadly loads of flaming fluid catapulting their incinerating presence
    through air and skin and bone
    and woe to all and any who lives and breathes and nears
    that simmering lair.

    The squirrel sized mini pinscher
    ridiculously piping its so called bark and needle teeth
    and a long pink tongue looking for a master’s nose
    wagging a tail’s stump that’s seen a better day once upon...
    and then you feed it a bloody bone thrice its size
    to watch a toy suddenly turn feral
    and a mountain lion infest a once pet
    a dark line of stiffening hair thistles running an errand muzzle tip to tail end
    the ferocious bug ready to take on an army of humans and beasts and dragons
    and tear to tattered shreds any whose misfortune was to dare
    and penetrate the inner radius of the sanctum
    of its ferine momentary absolute kingdom
    of instincts.

    I, so called human,
    not condiment, not beast, maybe homo sapiens,
    humoral liquids of various kinds lazily strolling my alleys and valleys
    forgetful of the moments before
    and mindless of the moments after
    their only landscape a boringly repetitive venue of inner fibers and vessels
    and temporarily gushing lacerations...
    then a piece of you, be it a piece of tooth or of skin or of word
    touches a piece of me, be it a piece of flesh or of nerve or of sight
    and within fractions of second internal rivers billow into beating gales
    endowed with protean primal powers unremembered moments before
    deadly moments after
    abusing my body with demands beyond its feeble frame
    feeding it with the scream still hiding in Pandora’s chest of horrors
    and the thunder not yet relinquished by Thor’s hammer
    and the winged neigh escaping Medusa’s severed neck
    my flabby muscle turning bow’s string
    my skin turning glass strewn fields
    my breath burning its way through your gaping mouth into your fleshy texture
    and your body imploding before fulminating into resplendent desires
    clothing our nakedness with a comet’s melting heart of ice
    and passion.


    My goodness, you said moments after,
    amassing flaming leftovers of us from ceiling, clouds, sky,
    the broken window pane leaving jagged red traces long your arms,
    you really meant your words.

    I always mean my words, I answered.



The Color Of Grey

    You mounted the stairs
    I opened the door
    You closed the door
    I turned on the light
    You turned off the light
    I undressed you
    We made love.

    “And who undressed you?”
    I blushed the color of poppy.
    “You blushed the color of poppy.”
    I blushed the color of two poppies.
    “Will you turn my seed to your drug?”
    “Your seed is my drug.”
    I blushed the color of three poppies.
    You snuggled deeper into me.
    “You have a very limited colors vocabulary, you know?”
    “Red is the color of love.”
    “Do you know other colors?”
    “I know the color of grey.”
    “What is the color of grey?”
    You cried.

    I dressed you
    You turned on the light
    I turned off the light
    You opened the door
    I closed the door
    You descended the stairs.
    And who dressed you? I could hear the walls mocking me.
    I blushed the color of three violets.




    I wipe
    with thumb
    that shallow valley beneath your eye
    and above your cheek,
    I pull
    between thumb and forefinger
    the left corner of your mouth upwards... you look ridiculous...
    I pull up the right one as well... much better...
    don’t move while I peel the artificial layers of skin from your body
    until you lie there
    your white shivering on white
    and your breast nestles in the hollow of my palm
    rolling around looking for a more comfortable position...
    hey, tell it to stop moving,
    I get blisters...

    better now?

    No, I will not cover you,
    I want to see your flesh fall to sleep
    while I count goosebumps chasing pleasures into your body
    and the number of times your toes twitch
    imagining themselves




    Beneath the mountain
    hides a dream
    beneath the dream
    a morning’s gleam
    then deep below sweet mother’s crust
    a promise sleeping in a scream.

    What master’s furnace
    forged the lea
    and on the lea
    a maiden’s knee
    a maiden’s eye inside a book
    and drunken beetles in her tea?

    I dug the mountain
    found the dream
    and from the dream
    I stole the gleam
    then rhymed the promise in her book
    till beetles in her teardrop swim.




    What is your age? I asked.
    My age?

    You mean
    My age beneath the guise of dye
    At ease among my sleeping grey
    My age inside the shine of eye
    Embellished wrinkled sheets of clay
    The one so thick around a waist
    upon a time so pure and chaste?

    I mean...

    You mean
    A belly bluish-vessels rife
    Along a navel’s sagging line
    A breast once feeding wailing life
    And cheeks bespattered crystal brine
    The one forgetting count of years
    as night unloads its haul of fears?

    No, I mean...

    You mean The stumbling steps of now and then
    When trying rumba’s hasty pace
    And bleeding vowels from a pen
    Retrieving last of autumn’s grace
    The one behind the mirror’s wall
    when stars my wish on landscapes scrawl?

    Now - shut up and listen, woman!
    I mean to say... so young,

    You mean
    The doll I lay to bed at night
    The ribbon tied around my wrist
    The poems scribbled on a kite
    That frog I yesterday have kissed
    The harebrained sail upon the dew
    while shrieking songs of – I love you?



Philosophy Killers

    I watch your profile against the bus pane
    cutting with its sharp outline the flowing landscape,
    your transparent, barely visible, reflection
    echoing that part of your visage I cannot see...
    is that a tear there hanging on to the other eye?

    Does the moon cry as well on the hidden part of its face,
    the one we never see? I think philosophically,
    as you turn your head towards me
    allowing me to see both the hidden half of your visage
    and the tear glowing there
    killing my philosophical moony mood
    and filling my eyes and mind with that huge smile of yours.

    I decide to fight back,
    unwilling to give up my philosophical moment in time,
    stubbornly claiming repossession
    and changing only the moony with rainy,
    the tear... rain, the smile... sun,
    hey, aren’t rain and sun supposed to engender a rainbow together?

    You turn your head away, looking ahead of you once more,
    and I watch the tear’s reflection rolling down your cheek...
    oh, my God,
    reality killing my philosophy again
    as a tiny rainbow imprisoned in that blob of dematerialized happiness
    rolls along with it
    until, after a slight hesitation, it ends its way inside your sun.

    I love you, I say,
    and you just don’t understand why.



Beyond Nonsense

    sit in my lap.
    count my lips
    with yours.
    there are more... and more... more...
    seventy four of them?
    and you counted one hundred forty three tongues?
    I am a monster.
    yes, this is true as well,
    you love me.
    I am your monster.
    teddy monster.

    to sit in your lap?
    I will crush you.
    ok, if you don’t care... hey, you are tickling
    why do you slide your finger up and down my chest?
    measuring my skin?
    how many... much... whatever
    skin you measured?
    only three?
    oh, three thousand... three thousand what?
    stop kissing... oh, three thousand kisses?
    do I wait for you to finish?

    three thousand kisses later.
    three thousand more. and so on.
    after a few millions I was supposed to be old, very old.
    “you are never old when you count your life in kisses,” you said.
    I had to admit,
    I felt millions of kisses older
    yet not even one day.



Poetical Melancholies

    A horrid tale, a poet’s crime,
    I dipped my pen in viscid grime
    And spilled my wine for mellow lime
    When I deserted rhymes sublime.

    But beauty lies there in the spell beneath those random words
    The way a silver string convenes the fleeting chirps of birds.

    I looked at her.
    Was it intelligence?
    Was it love?

    I miss the trill inside my song,
    From wailing flute to baying gong
    The spark which never did go wrong
    And marbles tinkling all along.

    Yet tender is the humming voice of midnight’s mourning dove
    And rhymeless is a puppy’s bark effused adoring love.

    I looked at her.
    She was winning.
    I hated it.

    The magic thread of flowing runes,
    Like sprouting grass on glowing dunes
    Ablaze with starlight’s dying croons
    And lilac’s silent morning tunes.

    Behold that twitch when by mistake your finger’s touching mine
    Is this not poem’s most sublime of rune, of song, of wine?

    I looked at her.
    She finally won the argument.
    I love you, I said.




    You picked up the phone, laughing.
    “What are you laughing at?”
    “I don’t laugh at, I am happy.”
    “Happy at what?”
    “Not happy at, happy that you rang.”
    “But you were laughing already before you picked up.”
    “It was your kind of ring.”
    “I am calling from a public phone.”

    It was clear.
    I should not object to the obvious.
    She was either crazy
    or in love.
    Or both.



The Stage. The Journey.

    An overturned glass of wine,
    a crawling stain soaking into the linen
    spreading like a bleeding Antarctica
    looking for an ever eluding sanctuary from a killing sun,

    A sizzling candle in love with a moth,
    spouting angrily at the moth’s indecision
    between a stupid lonesome death hanging upside down on a ceiling
    and the blazing deathly embrace of the candle’s nakedness,

    A turning record,
    stuck in the same groove for an undefined time now
    the needle ground to diamond dust
    settling lazily into the shapeless melting plastic,

    The stage.

    Two bodies,
    twisting groaning agonizing
    squashing years into minutes and flesh into flesh
    as fingers tear through the fabric of time and the fabric of skin
    looking for the definition of infinity and for the definition of love,

    The journey.



Dizzy... Miss You

    I have no words left
    not now,
    they will come... later.

    I have only memories left
    of promises, of passion.

    You hear me calling,
    you hear the distress in my voice
    and you invade my mind
    steal my body
    you kiss a spring flower and the pollen covers my lips
    and while I wait for the rain
    you sing me to smile
    with your words, your passion.

    The day’s crawl turns to dance,
    the rain pours
    tasting like your morning’s yawn.
    You are beautiful.

    Still, I miss you.



Drops Of Make-Up

    A drop of paint, red, on your lip.
    A bit of blue beneath your eye, a bit of black along your eyelash,
    some gold in your iris, sparks,
    a woman’s touches of color
    and heart.

    You advanced,
    a flower of flesh among the lianas of the human jungle
    reaching me
    waiting for me to unfold your petals
    one by one
    then your leaves
    one by one
    then allowing me to swing your stem with my breath
    left then right
    and to pull up the corners of your mouth with my teeth
    left then right...

    You enfolded me with your arms
    and wrapped me
    inside your skin
    and as I started to fall into the innocent’s sleep
    you dropped into me stains of
    red, and blue, and black, and gold...
    drops of make-up,
    of dreams.



Is When I Know

    When your fist clamps
    around my finger
    like an alligator’s hungry jaws
    the moment before
    you desert your body into that world
    I will never be able to follow you into
    and the only knowledge I have is that clamp,

    When your fist crushes
    my finger
    and my bones turn powder
    inside the mush of my muscles
    the moment during
    that explosion stitching pieces of your skin to mine
    leaving me with the treasure of scars
    and the incomprehension of crush,

    When your fist falls away
    from my finger
    hitting the floor with a thud of dead flesh
    the moment after
    you lose your consciousness to the retreating demons
    dragging behind ribbons of your flesh
    a whole army of coyotes chasing the scent
    inside you
    unaware of that falling away,

    Is when I know that I love you.




    you grabbed two handfuls of blueberries
    and squashed them in your fists
    letting the dark juice drip into my mouth
    some drops missing and hitting my chin.

    then you smeared the mushy pulp on my chest
    wiping your palms on my sticky hairs
    and with a content sigh laid your head down on the mess
    claiming to listen to the squirrel in my ribcage.


    you lifted your head, your face sticky,
    ragged tri-dimensional stains hanging on to it
    like dripping stalactites from the roof of a cave
    your other cheek as rosy as a morning’s eastern nimbus.

    “i love you...”

    you picked a stray piece of fruit from my lip
    and licked your finger clean several times
    then shove it carefully inside my mouth
    your head back on my chest and within seconds you fell asleep.



So Now

    so now that I have drowned
    and the river carries me
    far away above me the stars
    far away beneath me the pebbles
    all around me you,

    so now when clothing has dissipated
    and bareness of bodies lies within us
    and you above me tender
    and you underneath me tense
    between me you,

    so now owning the knowledge
    unable to write in my words
    that unique innocence I uncovered
    that unique hesitation I buried
    absorbing in me you,

    so now
    behold my palm’s uncurling clasp
    as fingers fall from stilling flesh
    and all which stays inside my grasp
    is nipple’s singe and lovelock’s mesh.




    Feed me the morsels escaping your mouth,
    Chattering crumbs wearing traces of red
    Rolling down paths kissing meadows way south
    Smelling of lipstick and tasting of bread.

    Travel that road leading up to my lips,
    Show me your palms cupping half bitten seeds,
    Watch as my teeth take irreverent nips
    Crumping those fingertips seasoned with weeds.

    Look, there’s some fritters above your left breast
    Pull off your necklace and let me invade
    Pastures with shivering florescence blest
    Falling like spikes to my tongue’s sweeping blade.

    More to your belly, your navel abounds
    Droplets of ginger and strawberry flakes
    Lost in between tiny chocolate mounds
    Bubbling beneath grenadine flavored lakes.

    Smile, when I finally lie by your side
    Sated with syrupy dribbles of dew,
    Whispering, heavy with sleep and with pride,
    Thank you for crumbs, and for love, and for you.




    I saw sadness in those eyes,
    The sadness of the knowledge of bombs,
    The sadness of the knowledge of lost child,
    of lost love, lost yesterdays, coming tomorrow...

    I saw pride in those eyes,
    The pride of the knowledge of tenderness,
    The pride of the knowledge of having found warmth,
    of having found joy, having found trust, the reality of dreams...

    I saw happiness in those eyes,
    The happiness of the knowledge of having found love.
    I love you.



If I Was A Poet

    If I was a poet
    I would have written about your fingers,
    those long slivers of flesh tapering into nothingness
    on their long journey starting at your palms’ periphery
    and ending inside my flesh and its transient desires,
    their end of travel
    the blisters on my skin,

    I would have written about your eyes
    before and during and after the storm,
    those scraps of sky
    hiding their innocence behind thin crescents of rosy flesh,
    so many suns in them,
    so many mountains of salt their sunspots,

    maybe about your mouth,
    oh, your mouth,
    so generously allotting its smile wrinkles,
    abounding in the gift of lip and tongue and tooth
    the softness of lip and tongue and song
    the fire of lip and tongue and breath.

    But I am not.
    I am a miserable plagiarist,
    all I do is copy reality to paper,
    the reality of your fingers
    of your eyes
    of your mouth.
    The reality of you.




    A bed for one,
    a TV which wouldn’t work,
    a sun which wouldn’t rise over interwoven limbs and mouths
    and a golden neck chain caught in a strand of hair.

    A dark street far away in the past,
    last night,
    a small figure hurrying away from the dog barks
    from the bed for one
    from the TV which wouldn’t work,
    its shapely form twisted grotesquely
    feet facing one way
    eyes facing the other way, my way,
    tears trying to mark a return path
    as they keep rolling and rolling
    splashing like tiny white explosions of salt in her wake,
    all around me,
    my shoes my socks wet...
    when did this puddle form at my feet?

    I am back,
    past the dog
    into the bed for one
    waiting for the sun which wouldn’t rise over us
    and breathing, breathing, breathing the leftovers of her scent.

    “Hello... I love you,”
    feeling ridiculous between the clicks
    as if you don’t know.
    “I love you too,”
    nothing ridiculous in your answer,
    just the essence of passion reduced to a few words.
    “I love you,” you repeat
    and the red round hole in the sky is sun again
    and the shapeless splotches in the grass - flowers again
    and even the thundering motors cutting the clouds
    suddenly don’t bother me anymore.
    Thunder?... what thunder?...
    I find myself thinking,
    wondering how the monster airplane could take to the air
    on those crystalline trills
    of your laughter.




    The day starts with a sigh.
    Strange, I think,
    not recognizing it till I sigh again.

    Stranger still,
    some crumbs of bread are still under my tongue,
    after so many days of tooth brushing and mouth rinsing
    and sneezing and yawning
    they are still there
    reminding me of the hands which prepared them
    with so much love.
    I chew on them, slowly,
    roll them on my tongue
    waiting for that other tongue to invade me
    and steal all my mouth’s secrets and possessions
    leaving me once more with that unrecognized sigh
    and stowaway crumbs.

    I finally know what I wish me for a birthday present.
    As sighs, as crumbs, as the tip of that inquisitive tongue.
    Hey, of course,
    and the whole body attached to that tip of tongue too.




    A creaking bed, a screeching door,
    A squeaking brown and beaten floor,
    Two window hinges set in rust
    Beneath some ancient Roman dust,
    A wizened spider’s snoring rest
    And one, brand new, mosquito pest,

    A crystal clear bewitching sea,
    An early blossomed apple tree,
    One clearly hesitating dove
    Between some crumbs and lady love,
    A puppy’s bark, a falling star,
    Three purple freesias in a jar,

    A pair of lips to melt a stone,
    A pair of arms to break my bone,
    A mermaid’s body, eyes divine,
    A willow’s graceful supple spine,
    That smile to blind away the sun,
    That soft and sweet and only one



X Else?

    when you see me
    and I am not there
    touch the pebble you come to step on
    the tail of the dog which just barked by
    the obliterated bus ticket in your hand
    I am there
    where else?

    remember the air
    I forgot to exhale
    I still choke on it refusing to let part
    that part of world which touched you
    under garments and underneath skin
    my delight
    what else?

    I am not an artist
    but merely a lover
    blessed with the knowledge of drawing
    tiny pulsating rainbows beneath eyelids
    and blooming freesias on thin fingertips
    true love
    how else?




    The magnolia sheds its big, white-violet petals,
    same way I shed my years,
    a thick, velvety carpet covering the ground underneath it
    several inches thick.
    It will grow them back next year,
    beautiful, fragrant.
    My years will not.

    I push the grass mower into the thick of the layer
    hearing the shearing sound with... anger?... envy?...
    and again, and again.
    Then, as the engine rumbles dangerously close to my head,
    I lie on the scattered leftovers
    trying to find you there
    among the broken branches and the peeling lichens
    and the incessant drip of petals.

    Shhhhh... I hear your voice above the rotating blades
    and feel your hands gathering me into your lap
    making there place for my pains,
    my hunger, my scratched knees, my sobs.
    Sing... I beg, and while you wash my dirty cheeks
    you start singing a lullaby in that soft voice
    God used when he called the day from the night.
    How do I know?
    Else, how did my night turn to day as I fell asleep?



A Mess... Maybe

    I almost wrote my first poem
    my first poem for today,
    my first poem ever
    for today

    Not word games
    word games
    like poetry...
    poetry likes word games,
    word games
    like poetry
    are bliss to those who understand them
    curse to others
    a waste of time to others than the others.

    Shortcircuits in my mind
    when I think of you
    and poems and words and word games
    and all which my fingertips create
    is a mess
    and flowers hide inside
    behind scents
    and visions
    and childhood memories.

    A puzzle
    all which I want said is said
    but wrong order and syntax
    and language
    the whole picture hiding in the parts
    visible and invisible
    scattered yet complete yet complex yet indecipherable
    to all
    but you.

    You don’t have to de or re or un cipher the cipher,
    all you have to do is... sing,
    yes, sing,
    and then you will know all about me
    and my poems
    and my word games
    and the indecipherable mess
    when you sing and listen to me listening.
    You will find there the only solution
    so simple
    so much like love.




    I knew they were there
    splashing against my life’s windshield
    as I kept rushing onward,
    all I saw were exploding blotches breaking the sunlight
    in the deformity of their suicidal impertinence,
    or was it innocence,
    was I as transparent to them
    as they were to me
    insistent as they were to penetrate my protective enclosure
    asking for color
    and ready to give up their lives
    for the once chance in hell or heaven
    that I see?

    I saw you at the side of the road
    smelling the flowers, touching the earth,
    I stopped.
    You approached me as if it was the most natural of things
    and touched your finger to my finger
    putting it then next to your lips
    in the universal sign of silence
    then started singing words which could mean only
    Why did I decide to make one sweeping movement with my arm
    when you opened your eyes upon me?
    I don’t know,
    just did it.

    And a sudden flood of fluttering colors followed my arm’s movement...
    where did all these butterflies come from?
    I did one more sweep with both my arms
    and additional hundreds of fluttering wings and trembling antennae
    followed the arc of my movement,
    I did it again, and again,
    turning into a human windmill
    and waves and waves and hordes and swarms of fluttering color
    started spreading outwards from me
    filling the street, the fields, the sky,
    I was sunk in a sea of color I did not know its existence
    and it kept pouring on and on
    while you kept singing and dancing and making love to me
    and millions of butterflies singing in color landed on my body
    tearing down my clothes, clinging to my skin,
    chilling my burning insides with the incessant flutter of color
    while you kept singing and dancing and making love to me,
    oh, such a wonderful horror story
    crushed by tons and tons of the most exquisite of living colors
    while you kept singing and dancing and making love to me.

    I closed the door behind me,
    careful so as not to crush even one wing,
    smug and content in that crawling envelope blanketing me
    and telling me of all the color I missed in my life
    before that one and single finger touch.
    Finger... I looked down to it, something was holding it down,
    another finger stuck to it
    an arm attached to the finger
    a shoulder attached to the arm leading upwards into a neck
    then a red piece of smiling fire
    and higher up a pair of blinking blossoming orchards... a woman...

    I closed my eyes,
    no need for eyes anymore to see, feel, hear,
    color invaded my life
    and all I need do now is simply... open my skin
    and let color seep through into my blind




    The sky’s belly hangs low above my head,
    waiting for the delivering cut
    suffocating, impatient,
    do it, human!...

    I feel your hand sliding into mine,
    I look at you
    knowing the time has come,
    the moment
    I pick up the knife and slash,
    oh, that scream of inebriated, delighted agony
    as disemboweled clouds fall out of way
    and a cataract of rimpled sunsets and knotted rainbows
    and squashed stars drenches us,
    and a liberated sky-mother cuddles us to her lap
    together with its writhing, giggling, burning newborns
    allowing us to join in nectar’s suckle off boisterous mornings
    and defiant comets
    and sumptuous lilac.

    Is it real? you ask frightened, delighted.
    As real as a dream’s birthing, I answer,
    forgetting the boisterous mornings and defiant comets and sumptuous lilac
    and turning my mouth avidly
    upon your breast.




    hanging on thin silver wires
    inside transparent crystal spheres
    tinkling with every breath
    as they gently knock against each other
    testing melodies
    and sparkles
    and resilience.

    mine a bluish shade, yours a rosy pallor,
    ours an exploding brilliance
    as the spheres deliquesce and coalesce and effloresce
    into tiny, fragile burgeons
    descending along cobweb-thin and eternity-long rain strings
    down to your mouth
    where they open iridescent petals
    and fly away into world’s wild gardens
    leaving behind
    that delicious crimson stain on your lips.

    now a savor to be collected with finger’s tip
    and lip’s tip
    and tongue’s tip,
    those mystical tools of worship pertaining only to those true of love
    and rich of heart
    and of flowers.



Ha... Crazy You Say?

    pulling the river
    around my shoulders
    an endless, streaming scarf
    carrying carrion, pebbles, life,

    filling my pockets
    with clumps of air
    breathing leftovers of dead storms
    asking for shelter from rain,

    nailing visions to walls
    with nine inch long nails
    the nine pounds hammer
    squashing my fingertips...

    “you look a mess,” you laughed
    kicking out of way rivers and clumps of air and nails
    and making exotic love to my fingertips
    and flesh love to the rest of me.



You Laugh

    You laugh,
    Trying in vain to pull up the tears
    back into their flesh containers,
    Gravitation wins,
    it always wins.

    You laugh, happily,
    Love at the other end of a wire
    having found you
    and you are happy to be found
    in your own modest, passionate way.
    Modest, passionate,
    you invented a new art.

    You laugh,
    Wondering if you ever laughed before,
    or loved before,
    or lived...
    Not even aware of the alliterative triumvirate
    soaking into your senses
    and into those fingertips playing with the buttons of your blouse.



Another World

    I loved
    I was loved
    I was never loved
    like this.

    a touch
    unwilling to untouch,
    asperity a word
    anger a legend
    acrimony a salad dressing.

    so rich your love,
    so poor my words.



Love In The Morning

    The morning stretches lazy arms
    Then yawns beneath the sleeping fields
    Before it smiles and coyly yields
    From endless lands of sunrise farms
              a sun’s sweet charms.

    Your body rolls into my arms
    I breathe my dew upon its fields
    Until it soughs and slowly yields
    Those sighs it groomed in lilac farms
              with feline charms.

    The light invades your naked arms
    And seeds my touch inside your fields
    Your skin its fire gently yields
    Inviting me to satin farms
              to reap your charms.




    The end of all time.

    The ominous grime
    Of hordes swarming southwards like menacing slime,
    The bilious moves
    Of iron dressed hooves
    And stone studded shields above bleeding flesh grooves,
    The sharp ended hooks,
    The vacuous looks.

    Death, asleep inside the pennons dangling from the somber tents
    Dreams of drowning thousand mornings in the hues of bleeding scents
    As the vultures fight coyotes for the carrion behind
    And a sparrow mourns each sunrise world’s forsaken peace of mind.

    The ashes way back.

    A sky burning black...
    A colorful village across on the track,
    And others beyond
    With laughter in bond
    Then others and others of innocence fond...
    Unsated, the rage
    Unburdens its cage.

    Breaks the wheat beneath the bellies set with thunder’s neighing fret
    Howling earth turns viscid mire under waves of acrid sweat
    While beneath horizon’s garden fears a moon the budding night
    Knowing of the coming slaughter bound to stain its pallid light.

    A childess, afar.

    A smiling pale scar,
    Her falcon, her flower, her flute face the tar,
    Incredulous stares
    When warrior glares
    With powerful fingers turn hilts into flares
    And growls reave the earth
    With words bare of mirth.

    “Pray your death be swift and painless, lest your falcon be of God...”
    Roars a voice devoid of spirit, scant of rancor’s mocking prod
    Watching falcon’s take to heavens turning lizard’s flying mate
    And a burning hail descending in a tidal killing spate.

    The raining coal dies.

    No fear in those eyes,
    And warriors mutter the strangest of cries
    As horses draw near
    And faces austere
    Begin to unravel from halberd to spear
    And bellows the voice
    Its omen of choice.

    “Pray your sleep before my saber, lest your flower scents of Ghost...”
    And from petal’s blinding whiteness rolls a blade of cutting frost,
    Sleet beneath unblinking eyelids joining fingers with unthought
    Metal splinters streaking earthwards like bedeviled chains unwrought.

    The mist sinking low.

    And hands tend to bow,
    Unscathed the trot turns to gallop then flow,
    The army and might
    No hindrance in sight,
    And what can the childess still throw to the light
    When hearing that bold,
    Dispassionate, cold...

    “Pray your kin has fled of reason, lest your flute bespeaks of Ghoul...”
    Thin the wafting sounds of summer rising from the silk and tulle
    Rolls the crystal tinkling sweetly birthing moans away of hills
    Trunks of ages hundred eons melt beneath the seeping trills.

    A vision unreal...

    Black stallions keel,
    All bearers of arms yield the saddles and kneel,
    To rear and to fore
    The irons of war
    Dismembered to slivers like summer’s rain pour,
    The grim turning meek
    The roar turning weak...

    “Tell me childess pale of visage, maiden soft of breast and eye,
    What was this of strangest magic turning war-lords battle shy?”
    Turns the fright to trilling laughter, falcon, flower, flute and storm,
    “Fire... frost... was none and neither, music was it... tender... warm...”




    the blue
    in your words
    so not like the azure in your eyes,

    the spot of blood
    at the tip of your punctured finger
    so not like the richness of red flooding your heart’s chambers,

    the pale
    of your uncovered breast
    so not like the moon’s pallid beam trying to cover it in modesty.

    I leaf through the album of your colors
    like through a shopping catalogue
    at war with myself at what do I like most
    what do I want most
    what is it which I will finally purchase?
    I would so like to have it all... I could never pay for it all
    with the cheap value of my poetry and words...

    shhh... you calm my fears with your lullaby,
    you can have the blue and you can have the azure,
    and you can have the spot of blood and the richness of red
    and the pale and the pallid of my breast and of the moon
    and you can have the paper of the album
    and its covers
    and all of the colors you did not yet see and feel and still need discover...

    but... I try to protest...

    and... you break my barely started protest,
    you will pay me with your cheap poetry and words
    and your summers
    and your mornings
    and your unslept nights lying there without me in your arms
    and your bleeding knees praying there for my touch
    with the dreams you seeded in my chest,
    with the breath you finally exhaled into my lungs
    with... your love.

    and when will you allow me to say “I love you”? I ask.
    and what are you waiting for? you ask.



Inner Space

    if I could reach
    through my inner space
    into yours
    to find there the flowers you secretly guard
    and the words you zealously gather
    and the kisses you groom
    for me

    I would have curled around your imaginary finger
    and gone to sleep
    to never wake up
    from your world

    but I do not want you to go to sleep
    and never wake up
    even in my world

    and fore to that
    I would have reached out
    and let my arm coil around your waist
    pulling you in next to me
    your clothes forgotten outside
    your skin washing against mine
    and only when our mouths weld
    into one
    fall asleep

    and care to tell me
    how would we breathe?

    the gills
    at the ends of our fingertips
    breathing each other’s skin
    will keep us alive

    you are a romantic

    am I?
    and I guide your fingertips to my skin
    and after ensuring they are solidly sunk in
    I let my fingertips sink into yours
    and finally our mouths weld

    I could not say... see?
    as air was not the vehicle of love anymore between us
    but romance
    innocent romance

    mmmmm... you suspire
    and finally
    we fall asleep



Morning Breath

    your morning breath
    upon the gloss
    of my eyes

    watch the thin layer of whitish steam
    waiting for the tip of your finger
    to doodle
    on it
    the word... love
    ...hey, I have two eyes...
    and on the other the word... you

    lick away
    that tear suddenly rolling down
    and don’t drink it

    press it between the pages
    of your memories’ book
    and one day
    far away in the future when you open this page again
    watch carefully the still wobbling round blob...
    these are stars you see in there
    a whole universe of stars
    which you mothered

    your morning breath
    upon the gloss
    of my eyes




    the tiny apples
    rolling down your cheeks

    the freesia blooms
    opening beneath your fingernails

    the missing rhymes
    flowing inside your arteries

    feeding me your mornings




    flowing from my pen,
    shaping itself into rigid slabs
    formed around the irregularities of my mind,
    Industrial Poetry
    classed on one shelf with asphalt and cogwheel and microwave,
    mass products,

    Your concrete
    like the pillow I hug at night
    shaping into your body,
    like the shower making way for my skin
    respectfully following its contours,
    like the thread woven into the tissue tailored into the cloth
    barely covering me.

    I wonder,
    I wrote both these stanzas
    yet they sound so different...

    No wonder you wonder so stop wondering,
    you are trying to impress me
    when all you have to do is...
    love me.



Silly Farm

    I saw a cow,
    her graceful bow having performed Rossini’s miaow,
    A purple pig
    about to dig
    while grunting airs of Bach and Grieg,
    A duck, alone,
    today with dawn
    rehearsing for Tchaikovsky’s swan,
    And then there’s I
    don’t you deny
    the greatest bard beneath the sky.

    My rhyme sublime
    from coo to poo
    and if there’s need adjoining moo,
    My verse so terse
    take itch and witch
    and if I’m mad I throw in bitch,
    Let Shakes (the Spear)
    and King (the Lear)
    forget their pride in lukewarm beer,
    And Poe (the Crow)
    be there to know
    the Raven’s dead and long live Joe.

    Tomorrow noon
    with my bassoon
    I’ll sing my name upon the moon
    (I know there is no moon at noon, so what, I am a poet and I paid three bucks for my license),
    The Little Prince
    now tiny toad
    the Alice chick now gangster’s broad
    The Cinderella
    of times past
    just getting now a teenage blast
    And gone are all
    the big, the small
    and live long live my silly ball...


    Like a B-rated movie. You checked my temperature. Then made sure there were no sharp instruments around before leaving me alone for a few moments to seek professional help. You found no one, all relevant professionals having gone for one week of shark spotting in the Dead Sea... ha, speaking about the maturely insane.

    “Love, are you alright?...” you asked, reading again the paper in your hand and comparing the handwriting to the one in the waste basket. It was the same, undoubtedly mine. I didn’t quite see the problem there. So I was the greatest, did I have to be sick for that?

    “I am perfectly alright,” I said, emphasizing every word, mainly the I one, and making a big aaaaa... in the mirror. Nothing new there, same old teeth and the little thingy hanging to the roof of my throat. I saw you in the background searching my pockets for leftovers of pink pills or something, finding nothing there except a pebble you once gave me.

    “Ohhh...” you started sobbing loudly, blowing your nose in my discarded underwear.

    “Why... what happened?” I asked alarmed, thinking you may have found my previous poem (even worse than this one... I thought in a fastly dissipating moment of lucidity).

    “You... you... you...” you mumbled incoherently, all those years society invested in teaching you other words, now lost forever. Then you rushed my way, hands aiming for my throat. My end... a voice panicked in my brain, my whole life rushing in front of my eyes - that unpaid traffic fine, the new pair of socks I planned to buy next day, my dentist’s bad breath... then you reached me and... hey, what is that? now worrying even more and this time about your sanity. “I love you, I love you, I love you...” you sobbed further in my ear forcing me to take off your blouse, forcing me to take off your... well, you know what I want to say, you were there, weren’t you?

    “So, suddenly I am not crazy anymore?” I asked later, now certain of the answer. “And you admit that there is no bigger poet than me?”

    “Suddenly you are the craziest yet biggest of all...” and I smirked knowingly “...except for me.” I stopped smirking and was about to burst into tears. “I must be, for falling in love with you,” you added swiftly, and after blowing my nose in your underwear you showed me once more what you meant by it.

    No, I will not go into any details, take it with those professionals once back. If the sharks don’t get them first, ha.




    like the night differs from water,
    like a finger from a song...

    like asphalt from apple pie?...

    like the before you from the after you.



Don't Dance

    Don’t dance between your noon to night,
    Don’t dance before you paint your lips,
    Before your iris’ wafting light
    Bestows red ribbons round your hips,

    Untie the laces from your shoes
    And braid them round my waiting wrist
    Then pick a wreath of sunset hues
    To paint inside my eyes the mist,

    Allow the music dress your toes
    With splashing tints of titmouse call,
    Behind your ear a yellow rose,
    Inside your heart my careless scrawl,

    Wait moments few beneath the moon
    And let me tie around your neck
    Those rays about to shrivel soon
    And turn a glinting roving speck,

    Don’t dance, just splash your face with dew
    And leave behind your smiling spoor,
    Then sing for me your - I love you
    With tinkles sweet and tunes demure.




    The silver dies into the sea
    A daring ebb reveals its den
    Amidst the roving silent fins
    Protecting its abysmal glen.

    The master blacksmith’s gone away
    The one who drilled those endless holes
    Now dripping glimmers from the dome
    Upon the ice of sleeping poles.

    We sit, a passionate embrace
    Dissolves in whispers barely heard
    While fingers scrape into the sand
    A story with a single word.

    The waves have found the sobbing skin
    And dress us in a mirthful gest
    Those drops of silver still afloat
    Beneath a sky collapsing west.




    My fingers through your body wade
    And roam upon your shoulder’s blade
    Before you offer them the rest
              inside your nest.

    My lips uncover secret trails
    Adrift with morning’s folded sails,
    You grant them rights to read your book
              inside your nook.

    My tongue invades your landscapes’ shapes
    To soothe your squashed and bleeding grapes,
    Around your breasts, your hips, and then
              inside your den.

    My body blooms with sprouting seeds,
    With sparks, with sighs of strangest breeds,
    Just play your harp, your flute, your fife
              inside my life.



A Memory

    Clinging candidly to my arm,
    like the root of a tree
    like a cat’s nail
    like a lover.

    I opened your fingers one by one, gently,
    like uncurling the root without breaking it
    like easing out the nail without wrenching it
    like whispering a lover’s ear into submission.

    Kissing your opened fingers,
    like a butterfly’s wings
    like a flower’s petal
    like your lips.

    Then you curled them again around my arm.
    Like the desperate root of a thirsty tree.
    Like the nail of an affectionate cat.
    Like the heart of a true lover.



Like Love

    your skin
    brittle like traces of glass following the fire in the sand,
    my fingers the fire
    your flesh the sand
    the swollen tips of your nipples the beggars
    asking for the clemency of my cupped palm.

    I waited for you, you say,
    like the grey cloud waiting for you to undress
    in order to rain upon you,
    like the dry leaf letting winters go
    until you passed by to fall at your feet,
    like the puppy watching for your lifted foot
    to get its tail squashed and squeal for attention.

    I love you, I say,
    like the rainbows hiding inside your warm rain,
    like the summers soaked inside your majestical fall,
    like the innocent adoration inside your ferocious grace.




    You gave me a kiss
    I gave you two,
    I hugged you
    you hugged me twice as strongly,
    you opened one button of my shirt
    while I opened three of yours
    impatiently trying to beat you at the game
    when you reached my second I was at your seventh
    you finally defeated me when you cheated and tore the rest of mine
    smiling devilishly
    as your mouth attacked my chest
    and I was still struggling with the last of your buttons...

    I gave you my lips,
    you gave me your nipples,
    I gave you my fingers
    you counted my toes,
    you gave me one night and I counted one hundred... how did you do it?
    I forgot to say I love you before falling asleep,
    I woke up in a cloud of lilac and jasmine and freesias
    looking for your eyes... two of them counting left to right
    and the same right to left,
    I said I love you before making love to you again
    you said I love you after making love to me again and again,
    I spoke of the minutes passed
    you spoke of the minutes to come, so many more,
    I wished to lose
    you wished to hold me,
    you won.



Your Mouth

    The same words
    in your mouth
    sound different, mean different.

    that cerebral commotion
    expelled by your mouth
    turn into exquisite poetry of expression.

    Breaking the flow
    for breathing
    makes me wonder if you inhale or exhale
    when your mouth chases mine in that pursuit for my
    exhaling and inhaling.

    your mouth concedes to my conquering offer
    knowing that awake
    it would devastate me.

    Your mouth
    my travel, your mystery
    I wish never to know its unraveling
    only its taste.




    I saw you
    hiding behind the moon,
    looking embarrassed at having said I love you.

    I pulled the moon aside...
    Don’t be embarrassed.
    I am not embarrassed, you answered.
    Your cheeks are aflame.
    This is the sunset on Earth, reflecting, you answered
    moving further away behind Venus,
    the star you called our.

    I pulled Venus aside...
    Come back, there is no air behind Venus.
    There was no air behind the moon either, you answered.
    That was a dream, one does not need air in a dream.
    This is a dream too, you answered
    moving closer nevertheless.
    Then you should know this is not the way dreams end.
    Why should the dream end? you answered.
    Because I am about to wake up.

    You gasped,
    pieces of moon and Venus
    glinting in your hair, underneath your fingernails,
    the flame covering by now half of your body –
    your breast, one hip, one thigh...
    I was not sure it was the reflection of a sunset on Earth,
    You are naked.
    Of course I am, you answered,
    finally gliding inside my embrace.
    The flame was real, I was burning,
    Dreams can at times be so real...
    Dreams are always real, you answered,
    as we both turned glowing scoriae
    and I opened my eyes.

    I had a strange dream,
    I said to the figure coiled around me like a birthday present ribbon,
    picking pieces of moon and Venus
    from your hair and from underneath your fingernails
    and cracking them between my teeth.
    Hey, it tastes like hazelnuts.
    You bit my nipple.
    Hey, it tastes like morning, you answered,
    coiling yourself a few more turns around me
    making sure I cannot move my palms away from your breasts.

    Poets are wrong, I thought,
    reality is so much nicer than dreams...




    I felt like writing a poem,
    so I closed my eyes.

    I opened them minutes later,

    And your poem?
    she asked, baffled.
    You know, this is the first time a poem talks to the poet,
    I answered, embarrassed.

    Luckily there was a box of Kleenex close by.
    Unluckily I was close by too,
    my goodness, she could bite...




    the grace
    absorbed inside the muscles of a puppy’s pudgy hind legs
    stumbling nose down against the carpet’s fringed edge,

    the pulchritude
    cocooned behind the walls of a chrysalis’ sticky shell
    hanging by a thin thread from the tree’s withered branch,

    the majesty
    hidden in the hard aridity of a lost grain of sand
    falling into the unsuspecting heart of the closing shell...

    do they always come in three’s?...

    the femininity
    curled around the somnolence of a girl’s downcast eyelids
    entrusting her sleeping skin to my desperate embrace...


    the enchantment
    burning deep in the bowels of a rock’s shapeless edges
    hurling towards Earth’s unforgiving blanket of air,

    the magic
    glimmering beneath a full moon’s pale yellow frailty
    hiding in the moments before beyond the ocean’s curved rim...

    is there an end to wonder?...

    is there an end to you?...



A Continent Away

    Lying on the back,
    in bed.

    A continent away
    lying on the back,
    in bed,

    I watch
    your rebel foot baring itself from under the blanket
    your rebel hand hugging the pillow
    white hugging white
    your eyes, closed,
    blue on red,
    your lips open,

    Have you been crying? I ask.

    You don’t hear me,
    a continent away.
    A few miles less
    a continent away.

    You get off the bed
    the chill of the tiles turning your nipples from mush to steel
    you lift the chemise top offering them to me
    Where is your hand? you ask
    and I can’t hear you
    that damn continent minus not enough of those damn few miles
    between us,
    oh, how I miss you.

    You leave the bathroom door half open,
    wishing me to hear the soft purr of liquids leaving your body
    the following cascading flood eliminating them
    the sob...
    then you let my hand guide you back to bed
    tuck you in
    and slide intimately between your cotton and your skin
    before pulling it back into the confines of your mind.

    I love you, you say,
    loudly enough for you to hear,
    silently enough for me to imagine.

    I love you, I answer,
    the continent between us suddenly reduced to as little as a thought away,
    never letting go of your hand
    until you fall asleep again.
    And neither after that.




    the o
    between my thumb and forefinger
    tips touching
    your wrist locked in
    your pulse hammering my skin into blisters,

    the o
    of your mouth
    lips pursed in abandon
    as I cull the many layers of lipstick
    you so generously sowed
    for my sake,

    the o
    in the moan, in the growl, in the sough,
    when letters lose meaning
    and words lose sense
    and poetry is the only of godly gifts
    apt to capture the art of bodies sharing sweat stinking of blossoming lilac
    and freshly baked bread
    and bitten apples.



Make Love To Me

    make love to me
    like it is the first time in your life
    like it is the last time in your life
    the only time.

    I will love you
    like I was born yesterday
    like I died the day before
    like today enshrouds all of my tomorrows, and more.

    make love to me
    first with your body
    then with your mind
    and forever with your memories.

    I will love you
    inside the orange I chew
    along the fence I touch on my way to the garden
    with every tick of every watch in the city, all cities.

    make love to me
    and do not think of shame
    and do not dress after
    and do not forget what I said remembering what I will say.

    I will love you
    as shameless as a tree in winter
    as naked as an unwrapped birthday present
    as enamored as an enkindled thistles field on a mountain’s slope, singing.




    You opened my eyes
    to offer me yours,
    You opened my mouth
    to feed me the tip of your tongue,
    You sent me letters
    falling off the tips of your fingers
    in the random sequence known to lovers,
    after turning on one sun, a mob of chirping swallows
    and one hungry meowing cat on my doorstep
    you... went back to sleep.

    Leaving me with the tailless cat,
    the gossiping swallows,
    the trees cutting the sun into a flickering stroboscope,
    your letters, your tip of tongue, your eyes...

    Who needs more?




    on the crumpled piece of linen next to me
    like a boneless, spotless cheetah,

    and I will iron flat your nipples
    with the heel of my palm
    and pick the nectar dripping at the top of your thighs
    with the tips of my fingers
    and offer my knuckles to be carved by your teeth
    for the duration of the one blissful moment
    when the feral in you unleashes that primal howl
    of hunger appeased.




    along your spine to paint you wings
    and round your toes to weave you rings
    and when your breast invades my palm
    to teach your flesh my fingers balm,

    from lilac twigs to knit you crown
    with lilac’s bloom to pad your frown
    when lilac scent betrays your den
    to soak your love inside my pen,

    your dangling feet inside the creek,
    the tulip’s hue upon your cheek,
    the burrs asleep inside your hair
    to mix with sunset’s wading flare,

    upon your skin to sow my touch,
    to pour my want inside that hutch
    beneath your ribs, inside your chest,
    inside your heart to end my quest,

    when night bemoans its setting moon
    and plays its weary, old bassoon,
    to crawl inside your tight embrace
    and die inside your loving grace.



Like Images

    to run through your hair
    a comb
    made of wild flowers
    chicory and shasta daisy and foxglove and yarrow
    leaving petals
    attached to strands of hair
    and pollen
    streaming down hair ends
    and perfumes
    remindful of endless fields
    between endless forests,

    to pour upon your nakedness
    a scramble
    of smooth pebbles washed ashore
    with crumble of dry eucalyptus leaves
    and honeycomb leftovers falling off a bear’s paw
    and resiniferous bark
    decorated seeds of pine and fir and spruce
    straining down your shoulders and thighs
    like so many necklaces
    hugging your bare flesh
    with delicate

    to wash you hair
    to wash your nakedness
    to wash your beauty with mountain’s spring
    and dry it with late noon’s sun
    and lay it to bed
    on a thick layer of ripe strawberries
    and forgotten down
    and roots willing to cradle you into sleep
    singing of last year’s wind
    coming back
    in longing for you.



Raining Color

    you walk,
    petals raining around you
    from trees shaking heads
    and birds shaking wings
    and winds shaking invisible robes,

    gliding down your hair,
    your bare arms,
    searching for that nook inside your palms
    where they take refuge
    from loneliness.

    alone, you,
    inside the color dressing you
    looking behind your shoulder
    for me...
    where is he?...

    you open your palms
    and shake your head
    and the rustling mound around your legs
    reaches your knees
    the weight of your tears
    pushing it down to your ankles.

    asks a voice you recognize as mine.
    you answer,
    are the ultimate manifestation
    of happiness,

    as petals keep raining
    and tears follow.

    you let me join
    and I collect your petals
    and your tears
    and your happiness
    and promise you eternal color
    to rain
    around you.