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?

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Sunflowers 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. After. Sated. 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?

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

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A Day's Seasons Mountains, clapping their heads inside your chest, Was this the sound I heard first time I laid my ear to its awaking bareness? Sunrise. Gale, confined to a room, a bed, a bed sheet, Was this the fist squishing our bodies into an amorphous writhing mass of beautiful agony? Sunshine. Clouds, wrung into ribbons knotted to your eyelashes, Was this the river carrying rolling boulders down your cheeks the last time you saw me? Sunset.

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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.

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Today Threatening, 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, advancing, 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.

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Rainbow 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.

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Succumbed 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, keen, your ankle lean and velvet pearls guise your soles, Gyrating, soft, 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 glance, a sweet romance inside your closing little fist, Your elbow’s smile 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 hip, your iron grip, your mouth above that stubborn chin, My singing wraith, my doom, my faith, my music’s verse enchased with sin.

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Not Just Your Shoe Wondering 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.

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Wood 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.

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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?

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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.

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Apocalypsis It happened one day, suddenly. 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... explosion... 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, knowing. I love you even more than that butterfly, I said. And you knew.

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

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Scrap 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?

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Another Moment Another moment, came, passed, 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 then, 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.

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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 enter and join there my dream, where I caress, kiss, embrace you.

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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.

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Cloud 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.

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The Wait beneath desire’s crimpled wraps bruised leftovers remember moments the muscled lianas of bare limbs contorting into that frightful hold the air rolling its flaming carpet inside sizzling blobs of sweat the tune of screeching bed springs playing its rickety aria of love beneath desire’s crimpled wraps bruises pray for tomorrow’s rampage

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Simple 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.

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Accomplished 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?

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Bi-Selenial 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.

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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.

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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. Giggle. “What?” “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?” “Blue.” 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.

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Wings 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... stay!... 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 wings.

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Pastels 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.

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Age 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, how? Oh... 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?

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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.

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Beyond Nonsense sit in my lap. now count my lips with yours. there are more... and more... more... seventy four of them? wow, and you counted one hundred forty three tongues? yes, 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.

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Poetical Melancholies Crime, 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? Song, 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. Runes, 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.

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Phones 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.” “So?” It was clear. I should not object to the obvious. She was either crazy or in love. Or both. “Both.”

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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.

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Dizzy... Miss You I have no words left not now, they will come... later. I have only memories left now 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.

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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.

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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.

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Blueberries 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. “hey...” 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.

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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.

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Crumblets 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.

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Extremes I saw sadness in those eyes, Immane. 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, Immense. 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, Immeasurable. The happiness of the knowledge of having found love. Mine. I love you.

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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, Or 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, Or 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.

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Desolation 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?...” “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.

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Stowaways 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. Life. 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.

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Phases 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 You...

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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?

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Garden 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?

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A Mess... Maybe I almost wrote my first poem today, my first poem for today, my first poem ever for today 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. Love.

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Colorless I knew they were there splashing against my life’s windshield as I kept rushing onward, colorless, 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 flowers. 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... butterflies... 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... you? 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 odorless tasteless colorless world.

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Birthing The sky’s belly hangs low above my head, pregnant, 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 ripe... 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.

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Dreams, dreams, 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. dreams, 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.

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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.

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

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Another World I loved I was loved I was never loved like this. a touch unwilling to untouch, hesitation inexistent, asperity a word anger a legend acrimony a salad dressing. so rich your love, so poor my words.

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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.

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Foes death... 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. thunder... 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. falcon... 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. flower... 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. flute... 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. music... 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...”

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Shopping 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.

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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 together I could not say... see? as air was not the vehicle of love anymore between us but romance pure immaculate innocent romance mmmmm... you suspire and finally we fall asleep

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Morning Breath breathe 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 breathe your morning breath upon the gloss of my eyes

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Alien the tiny apples rolling down your cheeks the freesia blooms opening beneath your fingernails the missing rhymes flowing inside your arteries alien feeding me your mornings

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Concrete Concrete, 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, soulless. Your concrete soft like the pillow I hug at night shaping into your body, enveloping like the shower making way for my skin respectfully following its contours, shapeless 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.

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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.

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Different different, like the night differs from water, like a finger from a song... strange, like asphalt from apple pie?... different, like the before you from the after you.

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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.

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Moonset 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.

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Rome 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.

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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.

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Like Love your skin rough, 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.

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Competing 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.

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Your Mouth The same words in your mouth sound different, mean different. Sighs 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. Asleep 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.

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Misconception 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...

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Well... I felt like writing a poem, so I closed my eyes. I opened them minutes later, satisfied. 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...

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Emerging 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... mmmmm... 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?...

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A Continent Away Lying on the back, in bed. A continent away lying on the back, in bed, you. I watch fascinated, your rebel foot baring itself from under the blanket white your rebel hand hugging the pillow white hugging white your eyes, closed, blue on red, your lips open, red. Have you been crying? I ask. You don’t hear me, a continent away. A few miles less still 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. Neither.

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o 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.

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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.

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Utopia 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, Finally 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? Utopia.

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Handyman stretch 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.

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Melancholy 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.

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Like Images to run through your hair a comb made of wild flowers chicory and shasta daisy and foxglove and yarrow carelessly 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 passion, 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.

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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. tears? asks a voice you recognize as mine. tears... 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.

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