Hobbies - Poetry - Anonn
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Morning Lust

    Watching you,
    parading in front of me
    almost naked,
    waiting for the snow of your underwear to melt
    as it molds your shape
    and hugs your forms
    in a disturbing spectacle of lights and shadows
    and deeper shadows
    and memories not much older than minutes,
    my mind undressing you back to your primeval, feral state.

    You bend to pick up your nylons,
    is it innocently or conscientiously
    that your back is turned towards me
    the white stretching to an almost transparent state
    with the line separating it from the white of flesh barely visible
    if it was not for the tight elastic band
    biting into your thigh
    and separating it from the rest of your body?...
    the nylon sliding further upwards
    as my mind slides further downwards
    into the aromatic gutters of lovemaking
    and scented soaps
    and perfumed shampoos.

    I reach out
    and pull you back towards my side of the linen,
    unwilling to disturb the pristine condition of yours
    my side being the only one to have taken the battering
    of a whole night of thrashing
    and moans
    and pouring sweat,
    and as I pull, the clasp of your brassiere falls apart
    and the waistband of your panties gives with a snap
    and we make love once again,
    half a nylon stocking still dangling ridiculously
    from your left foot.




    Drag my flesh into your bed
    Wrap your skin around my head
    And when sunset’s purple dies
    Let my bashful lips and eyes
              storm your thighs.

    Let your tongue allay its drouth
    Whipping cream inside my mouth
    Pouring from your smiling shrine
    Bitten strawberries and wine
              into mine.

    Carve your conquest in my chest
    Turn your nails a welcome pest
    Driving in between my ribs
    Burning spikes and flaming nibs
              crimson dribs.

    Fades the storm and fades the gale
    And for moments I inhale
    Woman’s breath and woman’s smell
              woman’s spell.



Scribbles, Two

    You wrote me a poem.
    I wrote you two.
    You wrote me a dozen and then twenty-two.
    I gave up.
    I told you I love your poetry.

    I removed your shoes.
    You removed my shirt.
    I removed your blouse and your bra and your skirt.
    You gave up.
    You made love to me.

    You smiled.
    I laughed.
    You sang.
    We gave up.
    We fell in love.




    I wasn’t yet.

    They showed me an album,
    carefully selected future memories
    even a few videos.
    The making of bread,
    the rolling of laughter,
    the sound of wind through a thirteen holes flute,
    and when I still hesitated they showed me

    I hesitated no more.
    The more intelligent refused,
    I guess I wasn’t as intelligent
    and I accepted.
    I was born.

    To find that they didn’t tell me of
    and when I was about to give up
    I discovered the black of mourning.
    I gave up.

    Hi, you said,
    making the bread
    rolling the laughter
    and allowing the wind sing lullabies through your vocal cords,
    and when I was about to give in
    you opened your garden to me.
    I gave in.
    I fell in love.

    Thank you, you said.
    For what? I asked.
    You did not answer,
    for a few moments weird flashes of bread and laughter and flute
    passed through my mind.
    Strange, I thought,
    and then your colors took over my sky.




    Some lovers have stars in their eyes.
    Not so you.

    Yours are orchards,
    and cherries and leaves and flower fields,
    chilly nights and warm blankets,
    midnight owls, midday nightingales,
    a waveless lake,
    a stormy bay,
    a dragon rolling out of the sun.

    Some lovers love.
    Not so you.

    You encompass, you enwrap,
    you embellish the fence spikes along your way with apples
    and sheathe the branches above your head with melting snow
    and the cobbled street underneath you sways in your stride.

    Some lovers remember.
    Not so you.

    You know.



What Matters

    what matters
    is not the instruments, but the music in them
    what matters
    is not the voice, but the words in it
    what matters
    is not the heart, but the love it holds.

    what matters
    is the instruments to play the music
    and the voice to say the words
    and the heart to hold the love,
    because without them there would be no music and words and love.

    you were right and I was right.
    I started thinking
    I thought for a whole year
    till I decided on my far from illuminated answer.

    what matters
    is the instruments and the music in them
    what matters
    is the voice and the words in it
    what matters
    is the heart and the love in it.

    what matters
    is the hand playing the instrument
    and writing the words
    and squeezing the heart inside its fist.

    I guess there is no right or wrong answer
    as long as we are two of us.

    I know there is no right or wrong answer
    as long as we are one of us.




    I finished building a candles’ temple around you,
    my red candles district.

    “Now I will make love to you.”
    You say it as if it is the first time.
    “It is the first time.”
    Your memory betrays you.
    “My memory is perfect.
    It is the first time
    for today, this hour, this minute.”

    I finished building a candles’ temple around you,
    my blue lights district.

    “Now I will make love to you.”
    You did not ask again.

    Neither when I built my yellow candles district,
    my dry leaves district, my glass beads district,
    my one words district...

    One words?...
    your first question in twenty four hours.
    “Yes, one words...
    love love love love love...”




    when I feed you corn grains
    with my mouth
    and undo your buttons
    with my toes
    and your garter ties your thigh to my neck,

    when you steal the cherry seed
    from my mouth
    and twine your heels
    to my toes
    and we forget whose is the thigh and whose the neck,

    when your mouth
    drinks the shower water from my chin
    and your toes
    try to find if there is a bottom end to my belly
    and ripe strawberries crush between thigh and neck,

    when the wine in my mouth
    is not strawberries
    and the nectar gluing my toes to each other
    is not cherries
    and I care not for corn grains exploding between thigh and neck...




    Pulling down the veil
    thrown negligently earlier on
    over a morning which took so long to create.
    You opened your eyes,
    and your raising eyelids pulled the strings
    and the veil dropped in a heap around your bed.

    Your art is incomparable, I said,
    sitting cross legged on my pillow
    watching the event.
    You basked in the glory
    stretching a lazy hand towards your public
    and pulling lightly at the hair on my chest.
    You need a shave, you said seriously,
    moving on to my nipple.
    I did not reply,
    too busy watching art devour its creator,
    the sun sending volley after volley of investigative rays
    nosily chatting their way
    before exploding in clumps underneath your skin.

    All we need now is birds, I said,
    opening the window
    and letting in the swarms fighting for a place of honor on your flesh.
    You shooed away a few daring ones from your breast
    making place for my hand.
    Now my art is complete, you said.
    I looked at the surrealistic picture
    with tears in my eyes.
    Will you do it again tomorrow? I asked.

    You closed your eyes
    blinking this morning out of existence,
    its rays, its birds gone,
    my hand still there.
    As long as your hand is here
    I will create a morning every morning.

    I lay down alongside you
    pulling the white sheet above our heads
    and touching the tiny scratches in the spots deserted by the visiting birds.
    Tomorrow I will bring in the butterflies, you added,
    dragging my fingers through trails unknown.




    You lighted a sea of candles around you.

    Then tiptoed between them,
    the hem of your gown touching from time to time the flame
    with tiny conflagrations roaring for single moments
    into mouthfuls of fire,
    then dying as swiftly away
    leaving large, round charred marks
    like the bites of giant moths.

    It was then that it happened,
    a huge blob deserted your eyes
    exploding upon a flaming wick into a hissing cloud of vapor
    and a tiny rainbow of colors unknown
    lived its ephemeral moment of absolute glory.
    What was that? I asked, mesmerized.
    Happiness, you answered, the birth of a universe.
    Then you enveloped me inside your gown
    kissing to sleep all the candles in my heart.




    Behold the Cyclops’ rolling eye
    Invade the morning’s blushing sky
    And spin its light inside your skin
    With fingers deft and needles thin.

    A lark assails the flaming hell
    From deep within the waking dell
    Then lets its burning feather tips
    Paint scarlet sparks upon your lips.

    A poppy hangs its chilling tear
    Upon a ray’s besetting spear
    Its heart ablaze with coming death
    And petals flitting on your breath.

    A lover’s hand betrays your trust
    And seeds your flesh with sprouting lust
    Insisting on retrieving sighs
    Dispersed and lost with night’s demise.

    The shadows drift towards the east
    Afraid to chase the parting beast
    Till dusk anew besmears your white
    And suns inside your eyes ignite.



Point Of View

    the tones of a dying tree
    the cracking insides
    climbing vines tearing
    an empty mud nest dropping to the ground
    and a sun discovering shaded secrets it never knew of...
    a buzzing saw

    the tones of life

    I sit at my desk
    philosophizing about the fate of worlds and trees and us
    and trying to find links between the forces of nature
    and scientific knowledge and human beliefs
    and I am dead serious about everything
    finally ready to write my five hundred pages essay
    and save mankind from its folly...

    I never get to write even the first word.
    ...my love, what are you doing out there in the world?
    asks a languorous voice, sleepily,
    and hot red coal plants itself firmly to my left knee,
    just above it,
    mistakenly I think these are your lips.

    these are your lips.

    a languorous hand follows the languorous voice
    then a languorous foot
    then many other languorous pieces of a decidedly languorous body
    until a human octopus is all over me
    dragging me out of the world
    and back under the blanket
    my mind blanking out to the fate of anything
    except for that coal presumed to be lips
    advancing and conquering any straggling leftover of reason
    and turning me deaf to any tone
    except the tone of




    You fell asleep.
    I cut the pillow open
    and spent the rest of my night tying one feather
    to every one of your hairs.
    Exhausted, I fell asleep
    towards morning.

    When I woke up
    you were not there anymore.
    I gave you the feathers
    to fly away.

    I never went to sleep again
    waiting for the sunset.




    I refused to touch you that night
    afraid to leave the imprint of my impurity
    upon your innocence.

    You refused my refusal
    insisting on sharing impurity and innocence
    and creating a new nation.

    I wanted to refuse your refusal of my refusal
    and then you told me tales of divine impurity
    and innocence blossoming in most sinful of gardens.

    You refused any further discussion
    delighting in my innocence uncovered by an impure desire
    and imparting impurities generously apportioned by an innocent God.

    We refused the innocence
    and we refused the impurity
    and we accepted us.




    When my tree has shed its days
    Baring the cracks to worm and fungus
    You picked up your thinnest brush
    And started painting furled leaves
    And buds veiled
    Then painted yellow on your blue
    And opened your eyes upon me.

    And my cracks filled with sap
    And leaves unfurled and buds unveiled
    With the woodpeckers invading my hollow
    Sounding so much like a human heart.

    You waited patiently for my fruit to ripen
    Before plucking it
    And delightedly painting bite marks on it
    With your teeth.




    I wrote a poem.
    Read it back,
    crumpled the sheet
    and threw it to the waste basket.
    Wait!... you almost tore the hand off my shoulder
    rushing to the basket
    pulling the paper out and smoothening it on your knee.
    But it is a piece of garbage.
    Who did you write it for?

    You looked at me accusingly
    and I shrank away as you turned your back to me
    and started reading.
    Finally you turned around,
    folded it carefully,
    and put it in your pocket.
    Once it leaves your pen it is mine, you said,
    and I gasped at the sight of red traces rolling down your cheeks
    followed by yellow traces right alongside them
    then blue alongside the yellow...

    I could hardly speak...
    You are crying rainbows, I said.
    There is no rainbow without sun, you answered
    tapping lightly your breast pocket,
    was it your heart or my poem you were tapping?
    Must have been your heart,
    the poem was a piece of garbage,

    I watched carefully the flowing rainbows,
    do I love you more than I will ever know?




    I wrote it on a piece of paper.
    Then I burned it.

    The paper disintegrated into powdery ash,
    the writing... untouched,
    hanging on to the air
    like a spider’s tapestry
    then floating slowly down
    to land at your feet.
    Still legible.

    Magic? you asked,
    deciding not to wonder
    but to know.
    Magic, I answered,
    deciding not to know
    but to wonder.




    I am your sun,
    I claimed arrogantly,
    the next moment watching in distress my words assail your skin
    and waking up tear filled blisters on your face,
    shoulders, thighs...
    I am sorry,
    I apologized, too late,
    impotently trying to control the excruciating flood of fire.

    You bit your lips,
    was it a grimace or a smile
    as you donned your dark sunglasses
    smeared several layers of number 50 solar cream over your popping skin
    and removed both top and bottom of your bathing suit,
    the skin underneath the white of milk, of bridal silk.
    Then you lay down underneath me.

    Please, aren’t you going to cover your snow with solar cream as well?
    I asked, alarmed.
    This time I identified it clearly as a smile.
    First... burn me.



Watching You

    and after you undressed
    you bathed your toes in doe’s milk
    and rolled ribbons around each,
    you dipped your fingers in orient’s perfumes
    and slid rings upon each,
    you washed your hair in morning’s mist
    and tied flowers to each,
    lilac, rose, tulip, freesia, daisy, jasmine, violet, pansy...
    then came to me, oh, so beautiful...

    but, lover, you must be hallucinating, I am naked, I just undressed...

    I watched you, pitying those eyes which could not see you,
    pitying you... poor girl, you have probably gone mad...
    and ran my fingers through your ribbons,
    through your rings,
    through your flowers, oh, so beautiful...



The End Of The Journey

    You were looking.
    For me?
    You did not know.
    You decided to trust fate
    closing your eyes, opening the map,
    and stabbing a spot blindly with your finger.
    The beginning of your search.
    The beginning of us.
    The beginning.
    You found a trace.
    It was going to be long, you knew it was going to be
    so you armed yourself with lots of sandwiches, coffee, patience,
    the biggest hunt in your history had just started.
    The finger made its first move.

    It was a tough beginning,
    the trace so weak that at moments you despaired at the futility,
    at the illogicality of it all,
    yet on you went, trusting, trusting, trusting...
    noting down on a piece of paper the cornerstones,
    the events, the setbacks.
    Forty years in the desert,
    forty times your finger rolled around the yellow colored piece of card
    wondering not once at your own sanity
    until finally the trace broke the pattern and moved on,
    the blare of trumpets deafening
    your patience thinning
    and the events following at a maddeningly increasing sequence
    as you squeezed years into seconds
    and millenniums into minutes...
    you traced whiffs of me under Babylon’s ruins,
    beneath Titus’ arch in Rome,
    the trace becoming harder to lose yet harder to follow as well
    as you held onto it into the dungeons of the inquisition
    then under the whips of the pogroms
    through the ovens of a civilization gone berserk
    until finally you found it holding in its hands a...
    and an orange.
    The trace turned human.
    You found me.

    And Sambatyon? you asked,
    many years later,
    now knowing of my hiding and my wounds and my poetry.
    And I fell in love with you.
    My final sanctuary, I said,
    not elucidating.
    Where? you asked,
    There, I answered,
    pointing to the left side of your chest.




    I started investigating your navel,
    its contours, its contortions, convolutions,
    its hidden niches,
    its memories...
    ...once this was your mouth, you know,
    and the one you called later mom
    served you heartbeats through it, and life,
    traces of her still living inside you.

    I took over an hour, until,
    fed up with my patience
    you rolled me impatiently on my back
    and started investigating my navel.
    ...once, this was your mouth too, you know?
    you asked-slash-stated, smacking a sucking kiss to it
    with the thing you presently called mouth.
    ...once the one you called later mom
    served you pieces of her through it,
    pieces of your today,
    pieces of me... unknown yet to me or you or anyone.

    I accepted the definition and the compliment,
    reversing our roles once more
    and rolling you on your back,
    my eyes watching intently your navel.
    ...do you think these two ‘other’ mouths should kiss as well?
    I asked sheepishly,
    reddening to heart-of-beet hue.
    ...this is what lovers’ mouths are supposed to do, isn’t it?
    you answered,
    your red not as deep as mine... deeper.

    I bit into your lip until I knew that slightly more
    and I will sever it,
    my navel landing upon yours
    and violently trying to bite its way into it as well
    raging impotently at its dry, toothless constitution,
    the slapping sounds of skin on bare skin its only consolation
    and solace.

    ...my God, what was that?
    you whimpered breathlessly into my navel, kissing it.
    ...not something your mom ever intended you to know,
    I answered smugly into your navel, licking it.
    ...nor yours,
    you snickered back,
    rolling around till we were once more mouth to mouth
    and navel to navel.
    ...shall we try double kissing again?
    you giggled further,
    forcing me to close my eyes
    so as not to see the hue resurrection in your cheeks.
    I did not have to see it,
    I felt its radiation burning through my face and charring my cheekbones.

    I did not remonstrate.
    After all
    I am a good guy.



The Short Year

    Tie my body to that tree
    Carved in summer’s raving spree
    And when autumn pours its hue
    Claiming glades inside of you
    I will crumb my potpourri
    Seeding trails with bits of me
    Till your songs explode anew
    And I fade in soft adieu.

    Hush now boy your silly say
    Born with summer’s waning day
    Let this autumn’s gaining stride
    Be for seasons one denied
    When I wear with pride my fray
    In my arms your wild bouquet
    And as leaves to wedlock glide
    Turns this girl your loving bride.



Death Of The Rainbow

    and after it rained
    i watched the sun rising west
    and windows shrinking into sand marbles
    and leaden leaves
    dripping heavily from trees
    to crush butterfly wings.

    the rainbow died.

    you fell into me
    tying grass blades to my ankles
    and ice beads to my wrists
    and rolled up pages from old books around my neck
    then told me to close my eyes.
    i wanted to cheat...
    both, please...

    i opened my eyes
    after the apocalypse
    and there was sun and windows and butterflies
    and on the brink before tomorrow and after yesterday
    the grass and the ice and the rolled up book pages.
    and the rainbow? i asked.

    you took your vanity case
    and picked the red lipstick to paint your bottom lip
    followed by the blue painting the top one
    and finally stuck out the tip your tongue
    to paint it yellow.
    so? i asked.

    then you made a headstand
    and smiled.

    i made a mess of the rainbow
    that’s all i remember.




    The wax drops.
    Freezing midair,
    never reaching your toenail
    telling us time has stopped
    somewhere between the closing of the door
    and the unbuttoning of the top button,
    gravitation undefined,
    Earth screeching to a halt,
    the flare escaping the sun just an image
    devoid of whip and fire.


    Only that tiny room holding laws of life untouched.
    Clothes heaping on the floor,
    bed springs creaking in poor imitation of bone joints
    desperate to follow muscles and ligaments
    and blood running berserk through dilating flesh channels,
    lungs propelling dust into the room’s cubic universe
    to mingle with expelled sweat
    and broken nail
    and skin follicle
    turning the air to a mass of pulsating mud.

    The wax finishes its trip to your toenail,
    the pain immense,
    the following stream of tears unable to contain your scream.

    Immotion ends.

    Gravitation redefined.
    Earth heaving its pregnant bulk into action once more
    while the sun flare finishes its immolating trip
    sending one long thin finger
    to whip away your last tear
    midway to nowhere.

    Clothes crawl up on bodies,
    candles snuff dead,
    the top button slides in its slit
    the door closes.

    Till we meet again, I sing.
    Till we never part, you sing.



Dragon's Mouth

    The smell of burning lace,
    blackened edges curling away from the flame
    as your nipple torrefied its way into my mouth
    bellicose, pretentious, arrogant.

    My lips, my tongue, my palate a wound
    bleeding through exploding blisters...
    this is the dragon’s mouth, I complained many years later
    ferociously attacking the invader again,
    my face scarred to the bone by the never ending battle,
    suckling noisily.

    You waited until I could not take it anymore
    and I had to retreat, wailing,
    then you looked at your scarred nipple
    and my shredded lips...
    which one? you asked.




    Open your mouth.
    Don’t close it
    until I finished counting your teeth
    with the tip of my tongue.

    My painful ecstasy
    is not the sun rolling off your tongue
    onto mine
    but the knowledge that tomorrow
    I will roll it back
    starting at your ankles.




    I picked my grains of sand
    rough, irregular, sharply dented,
    I laid them side by side on my outstretched hands, palms up,
    “I offer you
    hearts of pearl,”

    I said.

    You counted your grains of sand
    those that were, those that will be,
    made your selection and poured these in the empty jar
    then turned it upside down on my palm,
    “I offer you
    my heart,”

    you said.




    You are there
    your hands
    whispering sonnets they will never write
    except on my body
    and in it.

    You turn around
    breasts shy
    as the snow deserts your shoulders
    covering my toes
    with stolen warmth.

    My hands
    slide around your chest
    clasping desperately the key to your heart
    the poem
    I did not yet write.



Pillow Talk

    Your skin... rough,
    sharp needles pushing thousands of miniature hills
    away from your flesh,
    tiny salt icebergs growing along the in-between valleys
    wounding my tongue
    as I wash your body.

    Your thighs... bruised,
    back from a battle they tried so hard to lose,
    the incessant shiver of the groin muscle
    a legacy of war,
    my leg clutched inside the vise of your knees
    the only memorial to fallen heroes.

    “Making love is not making war,” you sigh,
    turning the vise half a turn tighter,
    implying eternity.
    “War is a word much abused by humanity.
    Making love is the ultimate war of the senses,
    a singularity of will and of purpose
    defying rules of life
    and rules of combat,
    reversing genesis into that one single creature
    sublimating into that one single sensation we,
    call love.”

    The vise unscrews two full turns,
    the memorial to fallen heroes
    about to fall heroically.
    “Yes, mistakenly.”
    I cannot lie to you,
    even at the cost of falling.
    “The right word was not invented yet,
    could be anything between togetherness or oneness or sublimeness...”
    “How about... un-birthness?”

    I look at you,
    the suns reflecting from your sweat blobs
    creating thousands of colorful prisms,
    when all senses crawl and twine and ascend
    towards that invisible summit
    where they melt into one flash of eternity
    and for a timeless single moment
    genesis is inversed...
    when nothing pervades,
    not even music,
    because nothing is yet defined
    the moment... before.

    I fall into the abysses of abstract thought
    absentmindedly running fingertips down your upper arm
    gleaning salt flowers underneath my fingernails.
    Yes, un-birth is the word,
    the one moment, one sensation,
    with only before and after
    and nothing during.

    “You are right,” I admit,
    and the vise claims immediately its two turns back
    and then another full turn,
    squashing my leg into one piece of flesh with your knees,
    thighs, bones.

    I accept making love,
    proving you right
    once more.



The Moment

    I slid
    inside your arms
    like a gust of fire
    materializing into flesh
    and solid pieces of tornado.

    You embraced me
    like a desert’s raging sands
    suckling the thick sap of my mouth
    into its granular interstices
    before blossom.

    We crashed
    into each other’s skin
    missing terminus ad quem we should have stopped
    and ending at each other’s back.

    We made no love.
    We built a world.




    I wish
    I could bury all my poems
    in the fertile lands of
    and watch them sprout
    and grow and blossom
    into the life of

    and the beauty
    and the tenderness
    and the dreams hanging on to scattering dandelion seeds

    ...and what will the dreams grow into? you asked.

    trees, trees of an impenetrable forest
    supporting the canopy of the fluttering sky
    above of us
    and shedding the foliage of the abysmal carpet
    beneath of us
    and cupping the embracing warmth of home
    around of us.

    ...oh, I also want to contribute something to our world, you giggled
    streaking naked across the room
    to your suitcase
    and bringing back with you
    the rainbow
    ...our rainbow, you said
    allowing me to tie the violet and the green and the orange
    to your ankles
    and to your wrists
    and to your forehead.
    then I poured the red across the sky
    and let the yellow stream into the carpet
    and tied the indigo around our home
    elegantly knotting the ends
    fifty five times.

    and the blue? where is the blue? I asked.

    ...they had no blue in the shop, you pouted,
    letting me pick violets from your iris’ corona
    and watching me weave
    necklace to your neck
    and ring to your finger.



The Kiss

    You attacked the dark cavern of my mouth
    like a newborn ferociously attacking the nipple of its birthing mother,
    looking for hidden pockets of nectar I never knew to possess
    behind the folds of my lips,
    underneath the slippery dome of my awakening palate,
    along gums shying away from daylight
    to drip their innermost secrets
    on the tip of your invading tongue...

    I did not see, blind,
    only hearing your appreciative smacking of lips
    before your attacking again, and again...

    How did you transform it into honey?
    I asked myself
    opening eyes
    and watching liquefied sugar crawling its way down your mouth,
    chest, legs,
    now being it my turn to scoop mouthfuls of it
    mingled with your sweat,
    and runaway hair strands,
    and that unmistakable
    of rum and womanhood...




    I close my eyes
    to sink inside that hollow
    which, moments ago,
    embosomed your warm pale
    inside its linen white.

    I open my eyes,
    the other end of the journey
    my pitifully barren castle
    insentiently enwrapping me
    with passing days.

    I close my eyes once more,
    effulgent skin
    sheds drops of water
    upon my prostrated form,
    calling me... lover...



That One Word

    I saw the red between the lines,
    the red of lipstick, of lips,
    the romantic wantonness cutting slices of sky
    and throwing them my way,
    a thick finger dipped in the paint of your awakening heart
    tagging messages upon the impenetrable walls of my brain’s fortress
    and screaming for attention.

    I saw, I looked the other way.

    The walls crumbled,
    and the messages washed away uncared for
    and the only flowers left
    the blue of the wild hyssop
    pushing in between the mud ridden cracks.

    You pulled my carcass from underneath the rubble
    and fed me your warmth,
    and your breast,
    and the red insides of your mouth...
    live!... you said...
    and I gasped, I breathed, I blinked,
    I got to my knees.

    Your hand waited,
    sliding around my chest
    and with teeth biting into lips
    your knees started unbending dragging mine next to yours,
    I wobbled...
    here, lean on me, lover... you said
    and nothing at that moment could have sounded more emboldening
    than that one word,




    I wake up to the morning’s rain
    And let it dress my skin
    Its pouring coat and flapping mane,
    Its rivers long and thin.

    Beneath my thumb a parting tear
    Explodes upon my toes
    While thunder far and heartbeat near
    Bemoan a lover’s woes.

    Among the trees a waning shape
    Invades my frozen glare,
    An apple’s glint, a dripping grape,
    An ankle round and bare.

    Hey, wait!... I chase the splashing sound
    To rip the miles apart,
    When... apples, grapes, and ankles round
    Assail my mouth, my heart.



The Night Before The Day

    washed through my body
    forgetting there shyly flickering stars.

    followed trail
    blowing gently into the flames.

    cupping palms
    you started drinking the fire.

    an emaciated twig
    turning a mighty blossoming bough.

    exploded out of my body
    carrying on whiffs of your birthing fragrance.




    Down the road from me
    I found a few miles,
    the last unexplored stretch of land
    in the world
    of my life.

    I look left and right
    watching the dense circulation
    crossing the path to them,
    close my eyes... advance...
    all those cars and carriages and airplanes
    passing through me
    and all I feel is gusts of wind,
    my body intact,
    my mind intact
    as I advance toward the song.

    Will I crash against the shores
    waking up with uncountable layers of ocean
    above me,
    or will it be a bed of feathers
    and cherries ripe
    and a mouth telling me the story of the future of me
    between kisses?

    I reach the uncharted wilderness
    ready to crumble under the ferocious fangs of unknown monsters
    or sink into the lulling wonders of a new world.
    You wait for me there.
    You, why do I say you?
    Who are, were... you?

    Is it paradise? I ask.
    No, you answer,
    taking my hand and helping me pass the invisible barrier
    separating now from forever.
    I pass.
    Now it is, you add
    picking up the song from the note I interrupted you from.

    We start walking,
    counting the miles
    and finding the count always reaching one.
    Are we turning in circles? I ask
    wondering at flowers I never saw
    and birds I never heard of
    and perfumes I knew not to exist.
    No, you answer,
    the miles follow the beauty,
    always the same
    for as long as you wish it to last.

    I dare...
    Are you a siren?
    You laugh like a siren.
    Do I smell like chicken?
    You smell like woman, I say,
    where do you take me?
    You turn around to face me,
    for the first time.
    Home, you say
    never letting go of my hand
    and laying it on your left breast.

    I leave my shoes outside.
    I leave my clothes outside.
    I leave my reality outside
    as the door closes behind me.




    My lips,
    of the virginal wilderness
    between your flesh and your skin
    looking for that elusive philter
    of intemperate

    you guide my fingers
    on the trail of lips,
    ...none has found it
    before of you.

    I follow lips and fingers
    my whole body sinking into the marsh,
    the bubbles above my head
    bursting with the wet thunder
    of an alligator’s roar.
    Why me? I ask,
    appreciating, wondering, burning.

    You lick the philter’s residue
    from my exploded lips
    before indulging in a whispered answer...
    Because you are the first
    to write love.

    But, I protest, others wrote love on your body
    as well,
    before me.

    You lick the last drop
    and gather my head between your breasts.
    On my body.
    Never inside of it.




    I closed my eyes
    ancient fragrances
    of biblical times and immeasurable value...
    nard, kyphi, olibanum...
    of mystical power and melodious sound...
    asphodel, amaranth, nenuphar...

    I opened my eyes
    unable to imagine



Annabel Lee

    How will we call her?
    Her who?
    Our daughter,
    the one we never had fifteen years ago.

    Oh... I see...
    Annabel Lee?...
    Annabel Lee? Why Annabel Lee?
    Because of Poe.
    Oh... the fame...
    still, such a beautiful name.
    Will you write a poem about her?

    No, this will be plagiarizing.
    No, this will not be, there are many Annabel Lee’s.
    True, but there is one poem only.
    True, but this is our one daughter only.
    The one we never had.
    It is our daughter, you insisted,
    thinking you could buy my mind with ten kisses,
    knowing you could buy my mind and soul and body with one.
    Begging me for words.

    I gave you words.


    The summer, asleep in an old candies jar
    With smoldering raisins and speckles of star,
    The winter in mornings, the autumn in sighs
    And strawberry liqueur from spring’s flirting skies,

    The meadows emerging from wandering does
    And pink tinted ribbons in triple knot bows,
    The scarlet of fire, the murmur of flame,
    A golden desire in sandalwood frame,

    The graceful intention in pelican’s flight
    Unburdened with evening’s ascending delight,
    The ages forgotten in clambering dawn,
    The king in the frog and the queen in the swan,

    Volcano and sparrow and beauty and guilt,
    The moments of passion, the moments of wilt,
    Of lucence, of fulgor, of glistering smiles,
    The questions in never’s, in ever’s, in while’s...


    But... perplexed... this poem tells of me...
    you blushed into crimson shadows,
    having told you so many times.
    Of course it tells of you,
    you are the mother she never had,
    she being so much like you...
    Do you love her?
    Do I love you?
    Like the mountain
    rushing up alongside the sparkling stream,
    Like the song
    running away from the chasing morning bird,
    Like the winter
    reveling in the art of snowflakes melting on blushed cheeks.
    Like the art of word?
    No. Like art. Word. Love. Art.
    You love her.
    I love you.




    You saw it first.
    Snatched it,
    the blaze spreading from the broken stem
    down the roots
    over the glade...
    fire... burning... I stumbled backwards,
    fire... burning... you echoed
    following me to the ground
    letting flames roll around us,
    inside us,
    crashing timber exploding in apocalyptic sparks of blue,
    green, yellow, and the color of your lips.

    I exhaled your boiling vapors,
    finally back from oblivion,
    the chill of evening infesting my wounds.
    May I now have it? I begged.
    You may, you hushed,
    packing into a bag your heart, your lungs, your skin
    and tying it tight with the clover’s long stem.
    I smelled the four leaves, again and again,
    the unmistakable redolence of charred fingertips
    and raspberry wine and impregnated silk
    the only reality in that singular moment of insanity.

    I love you, I said.
    No, you don’t, you said back,
    smearing the last of the lipstick over my chest.
    I opened the bag throwing inside my heart, my lungs, my skin.
    Now you do, you said back,
    smearing the last of the lips over my mouth.

    The blaze went on unabated,
    birds leaping from crest of flame to crest of flame
    singing the morning.



Nightingale Sob

    I saw you in the garden,
    stealing wine from berries
    and honey from cherries
    and shivers from stone-hard green apples.

    You smiled mischievously,
    the smudges of dirt
    the stains on your shirt
    your fingers sticky with the sugar drooling on your collar.

    Hey, come to me, you said,
    baring your chest
    and offering me your breast
    crunching the wheat grains to flour inside your fists.

    I stepped into your garden,
    the wind stuttering
    your skirt fluttering
    and started washing your toes in my mouth.

    I laid the pebbles and the dust in my souvenirs album
    then I lined the bed
    with ribbons blue and red
    and covered you with shameless fingertip fairytales.

    You tried to say I love you,
    yet the knot
    in your throat
    turned your voice nightingale sob.




    The head upon your shoulder, left,
    The flowing flesh of bones bereft,
    The eyes behind the fallen veil
    through raining tears and clumps of hail...
    You dance.

    I see your feet above the ground,
    Above the pools of trailing sound,
    Your toes, alive with purging tunes
    and cheeks alight with glowing dunes...
    You dance.

    I clutch your waist inside my fist
    And sink inside your glinting mist,
    Your fingers dive, you cleave my chest
    to put my storm and heart to rest...
    We dance.




    You climbed,
    branch after branch,
    the miracle of the tree registering dully on your mind
    as you picked along the way clumps of hanging fruits
    and shoved them greedily into your mouth
    cherries, pears, pineapples,
    even one coconut,
    seeds and stems and peel and thorns and all,
    your eyes fixed
    your hands stained
    your crave ravenous...

    You reached it, my hideout
    built of mud and pebbles
    and the wilted richness of dead roses,
    you asked for forgiveness as sticky fingers encircled my chest
    and you made me know
    of the insides of your mouth
    the muscled tongue
    the grinding molars
    the apricot liqueur salivating glands
    the biting lips...

    Took you long to reach me, I complained
    turning mush, sliding down your throat
    and settling somewhere between your heart and ribs and spine.
    There were many temptations along the way, you countered.
    There are many temptations further up, I answered back
    pointing upwards to the endless stretch of tree
    and the awaiting bunches of fruits.

    You entered your mouth
    letting your tongue, molars, glands do their job,
    then your mush slid down your throat
    until it reached that newly created haven
    between your heart and ribs and spine,
    and settled comfortably inside me.
    All this is impossible, I continued my rambling
    smug, content, happy.
    Like our love, you responded
    pouring into me the syrupy elixir of fruits overripe.
    But... I tried...
    But you talk too much... and you pulled the paper from under my pen
    leaving a long trailing line
    (all this was written later)
    and lighting frangipani perfumed candles
    all the way to your gaping mouth.
    Hey, you are a carnivorous flower... I tried to say,
    hearing my broken senses
    clunk their way down your bottomless Elysium.




    you gave me what you held dearest,

    your four leaf clover
    your cold drink on a hot afternoon
    your face on a piece of cardboard called photo,

    my skin underneath your left hand’s fingernails
    my hour on your garden’s bench
    my neck’s cramp twisting after your departing figure,

    my lips?...
    sewn with seven days
    my eyes?...
    punctured with seven stars
    my heart?...
    bow tied with seven ribbons,

    your freedom...
    if you wish,
    your love...




    I saw God’s light
    lining a cloud
    with pieces of sun
    sailing gloriously into burning west.

    I saw you
    wearing your strapless sandals
    and red blouse
    reading a book in that dormant garden down east.

    I took off my shoes
    and started walking



The Kiss I Sent You...

    the kiss I sent you...
    a firefly intent on dying upon your body
    and leave a minuscule scar
    you will never know of.

    the night has rolled around my wrist
    and clad my ankles evenings long,
    my toes assail the hugging mist
    and dance inside the humming song.

    the kiss I sent you...
    a Trojan horse infiltrating your heart
    to burn upon its invaders
    before you realize the breach.

    along the empty garden’s path
    I count the leaves I’ll never see
    and sink in twilight’s cleansing bath
    with fingers knotting words in plea.

    the kiss I sent you...
    a thought melting inside your mouth
    and when you lick your lips
    you don’t know of the taste you lost.

    I sit upon a broken stone
    before it falls into the sky,
    my skin with kisses thousand sown...
    I wonder why... I wonder why...




    I watched the glow
    under your skin
    how did it get to become

    You moved
    and I wondered further
    about the glide of albatross
    and the tumble of leaf
    and the flow of dune crests.

    You smiled
    and I stopped wondering
    knowing at that moment of God’s secret
    on that sixth day.



Hair Wash

    My fingers in your hair...
    do you feel them?
    Rubbing in ever so gently
    the apple scented shampoo
    and the chill scented water
    and the warmth captured in the valleys
    between my fingerprints...

    Distance? What is distance
    and continents
    when measured in gliding drops
    and alighting pollen dust
    and bees buzzing around that hive
    which is your wet mouth?

    You close the tap
    leaning against the cold tiles
    minding not the shivers
    and knowing that outside your closed eyes
    there is a curtain
    and a towel
    and plain humid emptiness.

    I grab the comb
    at the other end of my miles long hand
    and gently, timidly,
    I separate the flowers
    from the sunshine
    from the glinting bugs.

    The door opens
    the world accepting your body once more,
    your mind lost on the faraway plains
    where my hands
    still comb your hair.



Unpainting The Butterfly

    I unpainted your wings,
    the circles and the waves and the ribbons,
    the reds and the yellows, the phosphors,
    I unpainted the powdery softness
    and the redolent pollen
    and the shivering veins carrying the filigree,
    the curl in your antennae,
    the floating in your breeze,
    I unpainted you... white.

    you will never fly again.

    And then
    with fingertips stained with your life
    I started writing my senses into you...
    whispers... the pastels of sound,
    leaves... the bearers of rebirth,
    runes and rhymes and poems... the essence of love.
    And I begged for forgiveness.

    My ink white
    like your wings,
    like your skin,
    like the linen which first enwrapped our bodies.

    “Your colors, where are they?” I asked
    shameful in my knowledge
    of truth.
    “My colors, is you,” you answered
    prideful in your abandon
    of flight.




    Your eyes closed.
    And night ensued,
    the world of one legged geese
    and streaking meteorites
    and dew growing wild beneath wild berries.

    Your eyes opened.
    And day ensued,
    the rattling woodpeckers
    and hungry grass blades
    and gyrating shadows beneath gyrating sunflowers
    demanding the rights to the world.

    Please, do not blink,
    lest worlds will shear
    and the sun will fall into the moon.




    As if thousands of minuscule electric bulbs
    were streaming inside your veins,
    braided along your hairs,
    scintillating underneath your fingernails,
    and even hanging down from your ears
    dripping pearls of light into a shapeless luminescent puddle.

    What is this? I asked,
    perturbed, worried, curious.

    Remember those kisses you sent my way? you answered,
    snatching... something?... out of thin air
    and touching it to your lips.
    I watched the tiny explosion
    and the glowing dot flying away
    to settle on your eyelash.



White Sound

    “Birds, sing!”
    I commanded.
    And the quiet lay down
    like a thick snow blanket.
    Like a hesitating intergalactic

    “Birds, sing!”
    I begged.
    And a sopranos swarm assailed the kaleidoscopes in my ears,
    the prismatic explosions
    redefining divinity.


    I learned my lesson.
    “Love me!”
    I begged.




    I fell asleep,
    watching you
    watch me.

    I woke up,
    seeing you
    watch me,
    your head at the same angle,
    the heel of your palm white,
    your eyes red.
    Yesterday, still, they were blue.

    You did not sleep all this night,
    I felt like remonstrating
    before you lifted your head
    for as long as it took to put your finger
    to my lips,
    and then resuming its original posture.

    You kept looking at the same spot
    until long after I left,
    until long after the plane took off,
    until long after, when I returned.

    You did not sleep all this life,
    I felt like remonstrating
    before you lifted your head
    for as long as it took to put your finger
    to my lips,
    and then resuming its original posture.
    Your eyes blue.




    I watch the drops of rain
    crawling up on my windshield,
    the power of wind
    stronger than the power of gravitation.
    I play with the accelerator
    trying to find the balance between the two,
    I fail
    waking up to the cacophony of angry honks
    of following cars,
    calling me back to the convenience of compliance,
    rules, rigidity, regulations... hey, rebellion also starts with an r...

    I laugh,
    pulling to the right lane
    and allowing all those hard pressed BMW’s and Mercedes’s
    overtake me.
    The wind stopped.
    This fraction of reality is over.
    I love you.
    It did not stop.
    This fraction of reality is not over,
    nor will it ever be.

    I start counting my friends the light poles,
    asking for their forgiveness and understanding,
    apologizing for not calling in socially
    and not meeting them earlier on,
    or having any intention of meeting them later on.
    After all, it might not be such a good idea
    to meet in a mix of mutually contorted iron
    and burning gasoline
    and popping airbags.
    They turn their lights on for a few seconds
    saluting my decision,
    one of them continuously blinking at me in the rear mirror.
    I guess some dust got into its light.
    I love you.
    I keep sending kisses to your face,
    as it keeps snatching out mischievously
    from behind traffic panels.
    I would not mind meeting socially with you right now,
    in the car,
    and leave the steering wheel find its own way
    in a world nevertheless ruled by members of its clan,
    while we make love
    on the rear bench
    squirming to fit our flesh in the confines of textile and leather
    and each other,
    paying no attention to the scream of stinking rubber
    as our fire pours over the contorted iron
    and burning gasoline
    and popping airbags.

    I lock the cruise control to a speed much below legal limit,
    now those overtaking me are Fiats, and Fords and Volkswagens,
    the F world...
    hey, of course Volkswagen belongs to the F world,
    after all they are called Folkswagens...
    a screaming Ferrari cuts me off bragging ape red hindquarters
    and blowing to smithereens my F cars theory,
    no chance to catch it
    though I push the accelerator down to asphalt level.
    I guess he’s gonna meet one of my friends, the light poles,
    much before me.
    I don’t envy him.
    I love you.

    Bifurcation. I take left.
    Damn bifurcation,
    means I am close to the office
    and I will have to finish my poem.
    Or is it rant?
    Or is it just another occasion for me to say
    I love you...
    Here I am.
    I made it again
    still in one piece.

    I ease my way on the bridge,
    take the exit, making a two hundred seventy degrees turn
    and start rolling north,
    the last stretch.
    I turn on the radio
    listening to you sing songs of love for me
    with all kinds of voices,
    even male voices.
    I love you.
    I write it once more
    knowing of the sadness to come
    once I write these last lines
    and range my pen and piece of paper.
    Until we meet again.

    The stinging fumes of steaming tar
    Beline my cheeks with gliding shades,
    I close my eyes,
    and there,
    We dance in twilight’s clover glades.



Don't Cross Your Eyes

    Don’t cross your eyes,
    close them
    as my finger approaches your nose
    then searches the insides of your mouth
    and finishes its travel dripping burnt sugar
    down the abysses of mine.

    I know the taste, the smell...
    of caramel
    and of smoke rising out of smoldering wet wood
    and dragonflies diving into the sun reflection on the swamp...
    “...and dragonflies diving into the sun,” you correct me,
    insisting on crossing your eyes
    as my finger is about to start a second round
    and you guard it in your mouth
    nailed to your palate with incisors and canines and molars
    time your tongue makes clucking sounds
    delectating in caramel
    and smoke
    and in that voracious sun.




    does it matter
    the time?
    the time that passed since?

    a few more ripples around your eyes
    some clothing replaced
    a few supernovas you will never be aware of...
    the time
    before we met.

    we met.

    an army of ripples dancing inside your eyes
    clothing discarded ahead of advancing flesh onslaught
    thousands of supernovas exploding inside your sweat drops...
    so short
    the time
    after we met.

    we plant our seeds,
    the febrility of lips outmatched by the febrility of hands
    multiplying time by words, touches, silences,
    shoving forests into garden
    and rains into drop
    and lifetimes into lifetime.

    do you have time to love me? I ask.
    no... you answer,
    and before I burst into sobs you add
    not enough to contain all this love...
    and you open your arms
    allowing me to fall inside your heart.



Bottomless, Two

    Dropping a coin
    down the unfathomable depth
    of you.
    For that clink meaning an end of passion
    the bottom of patience
    a roof to desire...
    the swish of the rolling piece of metal
    cutting through ever thicker layers of air
    and ancient humanity,
    ripping through barriers of reflex
    and instinct
    falling on, falling on...

    You are inhuman, I said
    never for a moment taking my ear off
    listening to hours, days, years.
    Is your love as deep? I asked.
    You didn’t even smile.
    Deeper, you said,
    my vertigo unbearable
    if it wasn’t for the knowledge
    that once I follow the coin
    I will never hit bottom.




    tie a knot in your rainbow just to left of the middle,
    find a second solution to your one answer riddle,
    charm the liquor to grapes as it pours on your belly
    and distill drops of sun from your persimmon jelly...

    you’re so silly...

    in the cold of the winter I propound you blue roses
    and a sunset’s red nose glinting diamonds proposes
    then a powerful sneeze seals the fate of the auction
    and your tongue sticks to mine in an icy concoction...

    this is so silly...

    when the ducks tell it’s morning quaking sounds of desire
    and my neighbor’s old goat chews my stylish attire
    I will braid through your lips my delight with those fingers
    aching hard to recount where your aftertaste lingers.

    love you so silly much...



Allegories Of Misery

    The horrible vacuum
    absorbing itself into my morning
    reinventing patterns of destruction
    in the barely conceived cornfields
    of my wakefulness.

    Frozen rain
    tiny round bullets of ice
    implanting momentary winter inside my flesh
    before boiling in a patter of ravaging explosions
    scarring my dusty surface
    into a poor imitation of moon’s pockmarked face.

    The insistent uniformity of rumble
    rising from the motorized tin can acting as my second skin
    and shattering the fragile balance
    between flexibility of tissue and rigidity of bone
    shearing the last nodes of communication
    linking nothing-based cognition to carbon-based hosting vessel.

    Allegories of misery.

    You stretch next to me, yawning,
    your knee climbing up on my hip
    in the innocence of wake-up abandon,
    pastel irises scurrying after escaping tails of dreams
    before unlocking the bolts to swollen eyelids
    and guiding a naked arm
    around my naked chest.

    The reality of happiness.




    Ribbons of rain
    hanging on to invisible hooks
    to clutter the flat opulence
    of slithering clouds,
    colorful ribbons of cotton, of linen, of silk
    hanging down from exploding ribbon seeds
    spawned between the rain seeds
    seasons ago,
    a euphony of beauty pouring down
    waiting for my army of dulled pens
    to knit pastel forests
    around you.


    Black stains gape down like decayed teeth
    from a sky losing chunks of blue
    ripped off by the long fingers of desire
    to be minced into the pellets of dawn
    filling up your pillow
    and your mattress
    and that undefined exotic garden
    padding the space between the night of your pupil
    and the milk of your eye.

    I watch the ravine
    cleaving its ragged way down to the tiny sun
    ferociously raging mid your mother Earth’s belly,
    the liberated liquid rock
    splashing joyously upon my half written pages
    burning a path through the paper
    and into my flesh
    to build those memories I never possessed
    of your birth
    and your blossom
    and your loss of innocence.

    The miracle ends.

    The ribbons sink into the sea,
    clouds enshroud the celestial caverns,
    and the rock flows reluctantly back
    to the bubbling hell of its bed.

    I open the door.
    A ribbon to your hair,
    a blob of salt beneath your blue,
    the fire which colored your cheeks just snuffed out
    by that trail of steam greeting the chill of the morning
    as you sing...

    The miracle begins.



Remember My Memories?...

    That winter, remember
    The howling December,
    The sorrowful snowing,
    The frozen feet plowing
    With innocent lightness
    Through virginal whiteness?...


    The spring galley rowing
    With icicles thawing,
    And bees reprimanding,
    And snowbells demanding,
    My snowman denying
    The onset of dying?...

    As my...

    Awakening summer
    Invoking its drummer
    The copper to polish
    And greydom abolish
    The meadows to nourish
    While violets flourish?...

    As my mindsight...

    When autumn invaded,
    Its drying boughs braided
    With moments forgotten
    And dreams misbegotten
    And spiraling glimmer
    As daylights turn dimmer?...

    As my mindsight slowly savors
    All your seasons’ passing flavors
    And my heart assails your craving
    Letting lips inhale your raving,
    Sprout your seeds, inside me sprawling,
    Hailing morning’s gallant crawling.



Moon Fires

    moon rays
    penetrate the red layer of cotton
    burning the shape of my fingers
    in your breast

    the horses
    drop bite and spur
    and start galloping upwards along the invisible silver
    fire burning through hoof and hide
    until sweat soaked ashes
    and shriveled mane fibers
    cover us
    with perishing softness



Love Story

    I tugged gently,
    pulling at a bare upper arm
    joined to a bare round shoulder
    until the whole of a bare you rolled onto a bare back,
    your hair lying in diagonal disarray across your face
    some curled ends trailing back
    stuck into wet traces of lipstick and mascara,
    the spots
    where the portals to your beauty enriched the pillow moments ago
    with the colors of memories.

    I removed the hair from your face,
    the blackbirds and the swallowtails and the tulips from your mouth
    and then I kissed you.

    You were still drowsy,
    so I abused the rest of the body too
    guided by the guttural utterances of a tongueless throat
    translating into do’s and don’ts,
    slightly wondering at the advanced stage of morning analphabetism
    limiting your vocabulary to do’s only.
    Was it because you did not yet turn on the sun?

    I kept swatting wildly
    at blackbirds and swallowtails and tulips... tulips flying?...
    buzzing in my ears
    and demanding to get back inside the dell of your mouth and eyes,
    and finally I gave in
    apologizing insincerely
    all the while still keeping a subterfugal presence around your knees,
    and waist, and neck, and ears...
    ...ok, breasts too, you’ll get me blushing... I complained
    (insincerely again, though the blush was sincere).

    You yawned, satisfied,
    a few moths sneaking rapidly in,
    the others content to settle on your body
    clinging in adulation to your skin
    and dressing it in several layers of fluttering iridescence.
    I must go...
    you whispered to the figure
    hiding in roiling agony underneath the bed sheet
    and opening the window.
    You patted gently my behind
    kissing it through the linen,
    then opened wide your arms
    spread your fingers
    and flew into the east
    tailed by that endless swarm of blackbirds and swallowtails and tulips
    which could not find a place in your body
    and decided to fall in the sun.

    I spent the rest of my life
    sitting naked on a chaise-longue on my porch,
    a glass of beer in my hand,
    waiting for the morning hours
    when you would appear low on the horizon
    dragging the sun behind you.
    A few blackbirds and swallowtails and tulips took refuge in my mouth,
    joining in my drunkenness and in my knowledge...
    you said you will come back.
    You will come back.




    Nobody writes like you.
    Is it a good thing or a bad thing?
    It is a no thing.
    No thing like no body
    or nothing like nobody?
    None, like no one.
    What about no on?
    What about noon?
    What about now?

    We shredded the dictionaries and the thesauri to pieces
    as ecstasy rode our bodies into incoherent’s land
    and our threshing limbs undressed carpets from floors
    and paint layers from walls
    and skins from bodies.




    I want to tell you something soft
    Like I have done of late so oft,
    Just one more time and then... again,
    An echoes necklace, a refrain,
    a chain.

    When abyss spits its flaming beast
    And down your window pours the east,
    To dress your body velvet red,
    To ask my flesh your morning’s bed
    to wed.

    Upon your foot to paint a shoe
    Bespeckled drops of honey dew
    And while the comb invades your hair
    To fill with scents of flowers rare
    the air.

    To wash your body summer’s milk
    Then drape around it autumn’s silk,
    When winter weaves its cotton white
    To smuggle spring’s enchanting night
    and light.

    I want to tell you something soft,
    I don’t know if I’ve done so oft,
    So touch your finger to my mouth
    To drench in verse your north, your south,
    your drouth.



Something To Do With Rhyme

    I was typing on my computer.
    You passed in front of me
    dressed in your red robe and red shoes,
    right side to left side.
    I was still typing.
    You passed left to right this time,
    one shoe less, limping.
    I was a bit bothered
    when you did it again
    right to left, barefoot,
    walking on your hands
    the red robe fallen way below... above?... your waist line.
    Were you trying to pull my attention?
    I wondered,
    working on my fifth stanza, a complex one.

    I guess you walked back behind me
    parading in front of me right to left once more
    probably getting ready for the day’s laundry
    since you stopped for a moment
    taking off your bra and throwing it by mistake over my screen,
    covering a few lines...
    how did you expect me to rhyme, blindly?
    Your panties followed, covering some more lines,
    my goodness, I hate laundry time.

    I removed both, looking at you accusingly,
    then folded them neatly on the table for you to take.
    You probably got lost on the way to the washing machine
    (it was a big apartment)
    since suddenly I felt you crawling on my knees,
    a lost... was it hurt?... look on your face
    as your arms rose
    locking my neck in the inner hook of your elbows
    and you started licking the side of my neck...
    oh, no, I thought ashamed,
    feeling guilty for that spot of dirt you found,
    I did not wash my face and neck this morning.

    I tried to mumble an apology
    same time as explaining once more the way to the laundry room,
    same time as doing a desperate effort to stretch my neck
    and peek at the screen over your shoulder,
    what the hell rhymes with iconoclasm?...

    You peeked as well...
    phantasm?... you volunteered
    taking the nicely folded panties and pulling them over my head,
    my eyes looking out each through a leg opening
    and my nose and my mouth ending against...
    hmm, I know this smell, it reminds me of something.
    I had a bit of a problem locating the something
    when you pulled the bit of silk from in front of my mouth
    and the sudden fury of your kiss
    made me almost choke on my own saliva, and yours.
    Hey... I wanted to yell though I couldn’t, as you well imagine,
    hey... I thought, silently (of course silently, I thought I said),
    feeling your tongue searching for food leftovers in my mouth
    and finally giving up its search for the benefit of my own tongue...
    ouch... I didn’t expect your teeth to follow.
    I was even more puzzled by your hand looking for my zipper,
    those trousers just came back from the cleaners...
    and what were you doing inside the zipper?

    You have to admit, I am not dense, I am rather bright, thank you.
    I know immediately when a woman is looking for sex.
    I will not tell you the rest of that morning’s events
    but I will let you (you the readers, not you my woman) into a secret...
    it was not phantasm which I was looking for, it was orgasm.




blinded by my night

    rise up from my sea
    onto my pillow
    the first to all
    and last after all
    primordial to my awakening
    to my inception of my world
    singing to my falling asleep after
    to not wake up again

    leave your indent
    in the plumage
    in the linen
    in the floor there where four bedposts screech and groan
    this night
    every night
    all nights

    make love to me
    like berserk dogs
    like numb dew in the dense of the foliage
    like that night blinding me with absolute beauty
    after suns after moons after stars
    before me
    after you

    don’t be sorry
    of time inexisting
    when you sink into me
    and you measure ecstasy
    with ribbons
    hanging down from buzzards
    gently gliding overhead

    my flesh tumbles away from yours
    remembering none of before the after
    my eyes still tearing
    with the burn
    and unknowledge
    of our going




    rush under the cover
    hide from me
    there where I will find you
    for certain.

    tens of layers
    challenging me into counting them
    without removing them
    knowing I will refuse.
    counting them
    as I remove them...
    sorry, I did not mean to tear the last ones.

    this is my... finger you bite
    is this what you meant?

    don’t blush
    more than I do
    your deep red
    blinding me
    as I fall into you
    listening to that depraved call
    lovers sing before a night deeper than night
    envelopes shreds of senses
    and immorality cuddles them into each other.

    let the cover fall
    I found you
    curl your petals for the night
    and let me inhale that departing perfume
    of mortal weakness

    I won’t complain
    when you wake up shivering middle of the night
    asking for the pity
    of my arms.
    do you hear
    my arms
    asking for the pity
    of your body?



The Love Letter

    I sat down
    ready to write you the love letter you always dreamt to get
    twenty three pages long.
    Of course you did not get it
    You will
    once I write it.

    Sit down
    and write the love letter you always dreamt to get,
    twenty three pages long.
    Be generous, wild, majestic.
    Send it to me.

    I will copy it
    and send it back to you
    in my handwriting,
    I will tell you
    that I wrote you the love letter you always dreamt to get
    twenty three pages long.
    Hoping you get it
    Meaning every word of it.

    Is this how much you love me? you asked.
    This is how much you love me... I answered,
    hearing the puzzled frown before finishing the sentence
    ...and I love you.




    I was searching for rain
    white like your milk
    like the comforting insides of your flesh
    sour sweet
    like the sour sweet cherries pie I licked off your fingers.

    I did not find the rain,
    you feared my distress, my sob.

    You leaned above me
    feeding my desert, feeding my arid mind
    sweat drops
    hanging on to your nipples
    before burning a blistering path down my throat.




    he created swan.
    Then he created grace.
    Then, many years later
    he dropped by one morning
    and created you beneath my covers.

    The chilling smell of mint in the bathroom,
    the seducing smell of baked bread in the kitchen,
    the inebriating smell of undressing woman in the bedroom.

    Visiting zephyrs
    chasing grasshoppers underneath furniture and between door cracks,
    a cat... maybe a dog... barking...
    probably a dog... at mouse shaped grey clouds
    carrying cheese shaped white clouds in muzzle shaped black clouds,
    swan’s grace’s your bare back
    ironing the curled hair on my chest
    between two pale layers of panting skin,
    both yours, both mine.

    I counted shrieking bats between kisses,
    maybe they were owls,
    maybe pocket dragons piping allegiance in bamboo flutes,
    my life a miracle
    and my palms unpretentiously searching for reasons within the softness
    of your breasts.




    Someone’s unknown voice
    on the radio,
    you sing along
    my left hand’s fingers light on the steering wheel
    my head in your lap,
    almost imaginary... almost?... almost...
    your voice doubling the voice emanating from the doors
    then taking over
    your fingertips soft on my eyelids
    guiding me,
    I feel like closing eyes
    if it wasn’t for that driver in front of me
    pissing me off with his drunken serpentines...

    Don’t... don’t go away, please...
    I promise to be careful, see?
    I even dropped the speed and put on the safety belt...
    sing on?... please?...

    Your voice changes, the pace changes,
    the slow pours on the floor
    sweeping us along,
    one tile all to ourselves
    a kingdom,
    your body rubbing against mine
    thighs hammering into groins
    transpiring nipples hard,
    my right hand nervously changing gears twice
    before returning to your hip
    and forcing its way inside the elastic band
    separating dream from reality,
    the flesh beneath your hip turning a garden of thorns
    just set on fire...

    An indifferent voice cuts through
    telling of an accident somewhere on another highway,
    our bodies frozen mid way to the floor
    I start hitting the stations buttons in frenzy
    they are all locked to that stupid accident message,
    reality soaks insistently in
    you fade
    and for a moment, just a moment,
    my eyes leave the road
    as I desperately reach for your image
    and just when you are about to dissipates into molecules
    and flickering dust
    I grab the front of your shirt
    caring not for the protesting sounds of tearing cloth
    and rape your lips like a savage swamp reptile.

    Your image coalesces back
    into skin, and eyes, and voice,
    and while I ease the car into the parking lot
    I watch you cuddle to sleep in the chair next me,
    knowing you will be there when I return.

    I turn the radio off.
    You are still there.
    I wonder if you dream.



Hmm... Strange Story

    It was too late.
    I wanted to reach your mouth,
    I had to make an effort
    stretching to the tips of my toes and then
    it flashed through my mind -
    I was losing you,
    each kiss inflating your lungs with air, pride, desire...
    suddenly your feet disconnected from the ground
    and you floated away.

    I tried to jump, to hold on to your shoe,
    I missed my hold
    and now I hang on to the shoe
    hoping some miracle of gravitation will pull you back into it
    But there are no miracles of gravitation.
    Same like no single shoed lovers.
    My last memory of you that of glimpsing underneath your skirt
    and recognizing the color of your new underwear,
    the one you pulled to your hips this morning
    after thrashing the old one in that terrible battle
    opposing our bodies
    and leading to our perdition... and of our underwear.
    I was wearing new shorts as well,
    had to buy them in the shop across from the hotel.

    I should not have kissed you so many times,
    or maybe I should have stepped on your foot
    even though it might have hurt.
    Now I cry into the shoe,
    sitting on a bench in the park
    my tears dropping to ground through the big toe hole,
    at least if it would have been a closed shoe...

    Lover, lover...
    my heart jumps as a pigeon dumps the other shoe on my head
    then he poops and I hardly have the time to eschew the missile
    and I hear the tiny bells of your laughter somewhere above me...
    where are you woman,
    to skin you of your robes and deprive you of your lungs?...

    I see your huge bosom slowly floating down...
    hold me... you pant,
    and I hardly have time to catch your elbows
    that you open your shirt and hundreds of pecans cover our feet
    ankle deep, knee deep, thigh deep...
    let’s run away before we are buried mouth deep...
    and I start running,
    dragging your floating shape at the end of my outstretched hand
    your billowing skirt a colored balloon,
    your hysterical laughter a nightingale’s crystal nightmare,
    the damn pigeon going along for the ride on your big toe.

    Wait a moment... you shriek as we reach the hotel
    and I leave you dangling upside down
    holding on to the flag pole
    your skirt tucked modestly between your thighs
    (the pigeon still attached to your toe... what the hell?...)
    and I rush across to the shop buying two pairs of shorts
    and two pairs of panties (transparent of course) just in case
    then I drag you down next to me
    the pigeon fighting me like a falcon but I win,
    through the revolving doors
    up the stairs
    the room door... sorry, should not have let go of your hand,
    I apologize kissing the bump on your head
    then letting you ravish my body and ravage my mind
    disregarding pigeons thumping down the windows
    and neighboring guests thumping down the walls.

    I knew it. I should have bought more than two pairs.



Of Sanity And In

    You lost the pajama top.
    I lost the pajama bottom.
    There was nothing else to lose,
    they were both the same pajama, mine.

    Of course, there was still sanity.

    It took time to find all of them back.
    First sanity,
    patched, frayed,
    parts of it plastering the walls
    crudely splashed out of our exploding bodies
    and imploding reason,
    parts carried away by the bed bugs
    to their caverns...
    who needs to be sane, anyway?

    Took some more time to find the pajama,
    we found the sleeve after a short search,
    then the rest of the top
    stashed between the bed head and the wall...
    how the hell did it land there?...
    This time I wore it,
    modestly ensuring you wore the bottom part.

    I guess modesty was the weak factor in the equation
    as soon enough we mourned a second sleeve
    losing it to dirgeful sounds of ripping cloth,
    and not long after our bodies locked anew
    in that terrible undulating battle
    ending in muscles’ rigor mortis
    and tar boiling away layer after layer of lung tissue
    flowing noisily through miles long bronchiole channels.

    ...the walls... look different...
    you panted your way back to life hours later
    squashed under my dead body,
    your teeth deserting for a moment their clamp on my shoulder
    then sinking hungrily back in.
    ...so do the bed bugs...
    I answered
    returning the favor and releasing your bottom lip
    then grabbing it between my canines once more.

    We gave up the pajamas completely,
    the dark side of the moon seeping into our wounds
    and lulling us over to dreamless lands.



Tox Duality

    Your palm
    gliding, hovering
    at half hair height along the hairy patches of my body
    ...how does it maintain this alternating altitude?...
    never once touching my skin
    its sole messengers the hair roots
    sending intoxicating messages to a brain
    inundated by a desire to roar
    and finding itself inexplicably...
    can a male human purr?

    Close your eyes tight.
    Wear your lead eyeglasses
    before your thumbs force my eyelids open
    lest the swarming stars roaming the hollows of my body
    will burn your retinae
    blinding you, blinding your breath,
    blinding the skin of your palm
    and burning the hungering roots to my hair.

    Night. Naked.
    Your head on my chest,
    your breath irregular
    dreaming of knights out of their steel armor
    maybe even of me out of my considerably less impressive
    cotton underwear.
    I remove my lead eyeglasses
    and slowly force your eyelids open.
    The swarm invades me
    burning my retinae
    blinding me, blinding my breath,
    blinding the skin of my palm,
    blinding the roots to my hair
    as a bluish glow takes over from the overbearing blackness of walls
    and I burn.




    bits of speeches and broken letters
    lying sideways and cluttering your mind, eyes,
    phrases chained into pretentious gibberish
    I pompously declare to be poetry
    which I unleash upon you
    like a rain of sticky cobweb nodes
    infiltrating your blood stream
    while hungering vise jaws
    sink claw and tooth and hook
    into your flesh,
    deeming myself a giant leech
    thirsty for that nectar
    bubbling upwards from your pulsating pathways
    to your shivering skin plains.

    kite tails fluttering in your breeze
    like unrhymed ends of lines
    carrying your unwhispered melodies
    at the high ends of endlessly rolling strings
    all the way to the sun
    where they splash into the liquid hydrogen and helium and hell,
    devastating spatter drops crawling back
    mistaken for falling stars
    mistaken for dying comets
    ending breathlessly at ends of hairs dangling down my neck
    fizzling into offertories I declare to be poems
    and tales of inane beauty
    and crushed pearls
    before soaking through my shivering skin plains
    downwards to my pulsating pathways.

    questions so many,
    an army of buzzing gnats
    filling your mind.

    knowledge embracing,
    a swan’s glide serenity
    sinking between my bones.

    You love me
    I think.

    I love you
    I know.




    in collaboration with Sonja Smolec

    You drag me up the crumbling slope with promises of dawn,
    The clover clinging to your heels with mettle’s wayward brawn,
    You slip and almost feed your flesh down mountain’s deep ravine
    To pick a beetle’s heedless shape asleep inside the green
    While I just bask in graceful thighs and lust of times foregone...

    our fingers knotted, like the sprouting roots of young oak
    suckling mother soil’s moisture,
    your eyes... birds finding refuge in the nest of mine, chirping,
    the green of forest whispering, telling us tales of a sun
    fallen asleep upon the wide glade and burning in its own warmth.

    Your fingers dress my aching wrist in petals freshly born
    And pollen culled at tip of nose from morning-glory’s horn,
    A swiping move, the blanket floats at home with summer’s weeds
    The basket rolls and cherries squash amongst the raining seeds,
    Your eyes for moments tensely long regard the sun with scorn...

    my whisper slides down your chest,
    a deep sigh of joy flutters away as I embrace your waist,
    my skin brittle like an egg's shell
    and my bones soft like spring’s soil soaked a chilly brook’s life
    and washed clean with the sweet smell of grass.

    You shriek entranced into my ears and roll inside the cloth
    To muffled sounds of popping fruit along your body’s swath,
    The splashing stains of seeping red infest your linen’s white
    Your peeling skirts bedash my eye a virgin’s night delight
    And flames escape your flaring nose to die in bubbling froth...

    lips hungrily engorge the wells’ boiling magma
    collected from your reluctant mouth and cupped palms
    and I feel the soggy blanket pouring its unfermented wine
    deep inside my body’s creases and crevices
    as drunken birds drop and fall all around us.

    A vixen’s sudden raging fit assails your thrusting hips,
    Your fingers curl to sickle’s blade and flail in roving sweeps
    To shear your whites and shear my skins and grope for fire’s trail
    Then guide my lust inside your lust and set a burning sail
    As cherries bellow in the storm devouring our lips...

    a mouths’ symphony of exploding seeds and sputtering juice
    as hungry teeth slash through hungry tongues
    and your hand, that silent vagabond,
    finds shelter in the shade of my awakened bosom
    while furious bush fires desecrate my love enflamed valley.

    You lie asleep inside my arms, imprisoning my waist,
    The liquid drops of early sun inside your eyes encased,
    I braid the cherries’ broken stems with strands of sizzling hair
    And write my mind beneath your skin with finger’s stinging flare
    While love’s perfumes bestride the breeze and wane in wistful haste...

    as the tips of your fingers swathe my tender patches of flesh
    I sink my head in your stomach’s folds looking there for fragments
    of the earlier ferocious me,
    and of hunting you,
    and of sun.



Flow Into My Valley, Lover

    Flow into my valley, lover,
    roll the pebbles, roll the boulders,
    carry the twigs and feed the roots
    and the doe and the wolf.

    Dig up the mud
    and lay it on your shores
    to home birds and seeds
    and morning’s bashful rays.

    Touch my broken rocks, lover,
    smoothen my crags
    and sculpt into my mossy face
    your memories.

    Allay the pain of trees breaking
    and butterflies crashing into cobwebs,
    when the lark plummets into the sun
    mourn it.

    Don’t leave my soggy bed, lover,
    to fall into the lake
    and into the sleep
    of chilly depths.

    Find your way back to the top
    carrying my memories
    inside yours
    before you flow into my valley, lover.



Seventy Seven

    “This is the Eiffel tower, to your left.”
    You looked at me, fixedly.
    “The Eiffel tower... your left,” I repeated, feeling uneasy.
    You kept looking at me, not moving,
    if it wasn’t for your eyelids
    I would have thought we were at Madame Tussaud’s.
    “You are in front of me,” you finally reacted.
    “The Eiffel tower, proposed as one of the new seven wonders...” I insisted.
    “It did not win.”
    “And if the others were there, those that did win?”
    “To my left?”
    “To your left.”
    “A joke... elections, statistics, propaganda, nationalism and national pride,
    lobbying... modern world choice tools, not heart, mind.”
    You kept staring at me,
    as if left was a rude or an abstract word, inexistent.
    “I am also modern world,” I said.
    “You, I chose,” and the grip on my knee started to hurt.

    “And if all seven old wonders were there?” I continued obstinately
    looking for the breaking point, for the equilibrium
    beyond which Archimedes said ...give me a place to stand on and...
    “They don’t exist.”
    “The pyramids, they exist. They are to your left.”
    Your stare almost physically solid, penetrating,
    was there determination, hesitation, mockery?...
    I saw the commands start moving through your nerve strings,
    muscles stretching, skin creasing,
    the cogwheels rolling... your head moved slowly to the left...
    I wanted to scream victory!
    though I feared it would have been a bit too rush...
    “There should be seven...”
    “There are seven!...” I insisted, getting on my knees in front of you,
    “...there are seventy seven,
    all of old worlds miracles of human imagination, creation,
    all there in front of you,
    all in perfect condition and flowers and lights and flags...”

    I was losing, clearly I was losing,
    I saw the commands moving again,
    muscles relaxing, skin smoothening,
    the miraculous workings of your body’s cogwheels moving in reverse
    until you looked at me once more, kissing the top of my head, smiling,
    and I knew I have already lost.
    “Only seventy seven?
    There is one of you...”

    We made love in the cheap, yet clean Parisian hotel.
    “You are crazy,” I told you, counting your fingers.
    “So were the pyramid architects.
    So were the sculptor of Venus and the painter of La Gioconda
    and the composer of the Fifth...”
    “He was deaf...”
    “...and the teller of Annabel Lee...”
    “He was...” was I going to end the sentence or did I end it?
    I would never know, as you placed your palm over my mouth
    and leaned close to my ear, whispering so softly
    that I wasn’t sure you said it at all.
    “I love you.”

    I guess... I finally understood what you meant.