Hobbies - Poetry - Anonn
back to Poems...




    I wanted to write you three poems this morning,
    I hardly found one,
    and it was about your underwear
    smudged with the mud traces of my fingers
    soaking in my tangerine saliva
    and your liquid pollen
    and the shared sweat of shared bodies and moments.

    Your underwear,
    happily huddling its tattered remains
    on the third tile away from the room’s corner,
    beneath the tattered remains of my shirt
    and my trousers and my own underwear
    in this order,
    one shoe three tiles farther away
    the others unknown,
    buttons... red, white... scattered over the floor.

    You pull the shades,
    silk leftovers hanging desperately to one proud nipple,
    the sun invades the room
    after perversely passing through your body
    shadow painting the sharpness of thighs, and curls,
    and that other, hidden, nipple,
    blinding me.
    Not the sun,
    your body.

    You are dressed...
    well, kind of... I sigh relieved
    not really remembering the details,
    hating the sun for its dare
    and the rest of the world for ogling you through my eyes.
    You rummage with your toe inside the discarded clothing mound,
    picking up the piece of soggy underwear,
    Shall I wear these too?...

    I leave the shades open,
    liberating the nipple
    liberating the body
    dressing your intimacy once more
    with my skin’s flaming, corrosive brand of




    The knot
    in your throat...

    Don’t want your diamonds
    now or ever,
    I said,
    squeezing inside my fist those few you could not roll back
    and turning them proterozoic coal,
    my new pen...
    coal blue.

    The dart
    in my heart...

    I wish to circle thumb and forefinger around your waist
    and never let go,
    you said,
    compromising for your arms
    and squeezing my waist spine thin,
    my new heart...
    poppy blue.

    The love
    in that glove...

    Do we want to write our story upon the mystical plains
    of forever?
    we asked,
    squeezing our bodies through the ordeal of a thorn thin ring
    and emerging into knotted, interminable ribbons,
    our new reality...
    love blue.




    I finish packing,
    lock the suitcase,
    hours and thoughts to kill,
    numb. You are washing dishes,
    from time to time pulling away that strand from your eyes,
    drying dishes,
    storing dishes.

    Dear lover,
    I sit down to write electronically,
    wish it was paper, wish it was your flesh.

    You hear the beep above the tinkle of pans,
    rush to the keyboard
    and as detergent slides between the keys
    you push Return.

    Dear lover,
    I am about to lock door, lock heart,
    mount a flying piece of iron
    carrying me even further away from you,
    I have no poetry left in me
    I have a lot of love left in me...
    care to take my love instead of my poetry?

    Dear lover,
    I just finished drying the dishes,
    ranging them,
    my hands are swollen less than my eyes,
    my hands are red my eyes are poppy fields,
    send me your love
    it is my poetry.

    Dear lover,
    I am looking for a word
    I misplaced it,
    wait a moment...

    Dear lover,
    you did not misplace it,
    you left it here.

    I must go now,
    wait for my next letter?

    there is no need to wait.

    Good bye, my love.

    Hello, I guess time dies between your letters, my love.
    Or is it me?



I Love You Too

    the tick-tock clocklike precision of departing heels,

    he thump-thump imprecision of dropping tears
    digging craters in the wake of the tick-tock
    marble splinters ravaging nylon stockings
    and boutique windows,

    the single hush
    spreading like a plague from the thump-thump impact points
    and crawling towards the ceiling of the departure hall
    muting the fury of turbo jets
    and the impolite bark of passport controllers
    with the only sound carrying over
    to my Dumbo size stretching ears being...

    I love you too.




    I tried to hold on,
    lying to you,
    telling you this is the world, reality,
    the other is just a dream,
    a bad dream,
    a lie.

    You knew, yet... you accepted,
    lingering a few more minutes underneath my covers
    upon my pillow
    inside my clothes...
    inside my clothes?... ha, who wore any clothes?

    Finally... they were stronger.
    The rooster, the sun, the insistent monotonous ring,
    pulling you away from me into their world
    into the shower
    into the clothing
    into the make-up.

    No, they didn’t win it all,
    you winked at your reflection in the mirror
    working hard at covering that bit of torn flesh
    on your bottom lip.




    not your beauty.

    not your intelligence, smile, big heart, small breasts,
    the morning in your eyes
    the promise in your lips
    white skin, broken finger, red shirt with uncountable buttons.

    Nor, neither, not even
    that fire pouring from your loins’ inferno
    purging my thirst with red-hot mud
    and awakening suns,
    the moths circling your pen holding finger
    waiting for the moment you pour the paint on their grayness of wing
    to die knowing of being a one night’s Swallowtail,
    those sounds escaping your throat’s strings and woodwinds
    and percussion and brass and forest birds and mountain brooks
    dressing my wake-up moments with never wake-up desires.

    No, none of these.
    All and more.



Almost Like In A Fairytale

    You went to sleep
    in a thistles field –
    red, blue, yellow, wasps and beetles and scurrying mice
    and pollen lining your nostrils
    and long legged spiders dangling from flying seeds
    curiously investigating the texture of your skirt
    and eyelashes.

    I walked the cobblestoned path beyond the field,
    no shoes to my feet
    a bird on my shoulder
    a yapping puppy in my pocket,
    my little finger tied to a long string
    dragging a pink cloud behind me
    the string crawling with hopping frogs and hanging bats,
    almost like in a fairytale.

    I saw the glitter
    of petals cupping dew in your hair
    and pearl shells opening up underneath your fingernails
    and sugar crystals gathering at the corners of your lips
    ready to fall to their perdition into a sea of awaiting clattering jaws
    of ants and soldiers and hungry queens.

    I tied the string to my puppy’s tail
    let my bird chase it around the field shrieking excitement
    and as the pink cloud started dropping pink drops
    I gathered the ends of the field underneath my arm
    and pulled the ground from underneath you
    hearing the thistles tear into your cloth
    tear into your skin
    leaving you naked
    and covered in red and blue and yellow flowerheads.

    You did not object to my pulling the sharp spikes away,
    to my laying of petals and pearls and sugar crystals
    between your body and the center of the earth,
    and as boiling rocks started flowing into exploding hydrogen
    we made love inside that transparent bubble
    hosting our flesh, our fairytale,
    our pink cloud fluttering at the enthusiastic end
    of a puppy’s tail.




    my body,
    full of slots and holes and finely shaped profiles,
    like swiss-cheese out into the four dimensional world
    and then back to ours
    not before alien hands cut away indefinable slices
    and chunks
    and bits.

    you watch it,
    your puppy head turned to one side
    your cat tail painting imaginary art with its flexing end
    your nails honed, purring.

    then you start shooting words my way,
    and steel balls,
    and oddly shaped syllables and pieces of plastic
    and mashed cardboard shapes and contorted letters translating into phrases,
    finely filed, finely oiled,
    they start sinking in the slots and holes and profiles,
    the smirk on your face all knowing,
    the art at your fingertips perfect...

    the last fragments click in, like never cut out,
    like inborn,
    the vines and the veins and the texture aligning at molecular level
    of mind, of soul, of body...
    the absolute alignment,
    the only...
    you turn the key,
    I open.

    it is only then that you smile,
    knowing the difference between life and annihilation,
    finding my life.

    you enter the forbidden plains,
    bringing in your feathers, your rains, your forests,
    building your nest facing the sun
    and turning the key the other way round...
    forever locked.

    I did not know you brought in your flute as well
    until I heard your lips approaching it
    and watched my mountains and my rivers and my does
    start following you.




    as you kneeled
    on the pebbles bed
    and the pebbles turned dust
    and the dust turned thirst
    and your lips dried to cracks asking for the flood
    and for the seeds,

    I kneeled
    next to you
    kissing into your lips the seeds
    and the flood
    turning thirst into dust into pebbles
    and weeds filling the cracks and flowers covering the weeds
    and butterflies drowning the flowers,

    and we made love
    and I covered your body pebbles
    and you covered my body weeds and flowers and butterflies
    and when morning tiptoed around us
    afraid to break lovers’ spell
    it dragged pebbles and weeds and flowers and butterflies
    down desert’s valleys
    leaving us the skin to our flesh
    and the scratches to our knees
    and the seeds to tomorrow’s magic.

    and the blossoming world around us.




    lying on my back in the grass
    the ragged end of a dandelion’s broken stem
    filling my mouth with bitter milk,
    the sun burning...

    a rush in the grass
    a sudden shadow hovering over me
    I opened my eyes in fright
    catching a view of art in heavenly motion
    as a muscled pair of legs skipped over my head
    and you landed on the other side
    leaving me with memories in white, and shadow, and skin.

    “show me... again...” I begged.

    “no...” you smiled defiantly,
    lying down next to me
    and refusing me the white and the shadow...
    you did though... consent to the skin.



Your Love

    Your love
    as innocent
    as a newborn branch sprouting off a juniper tree.

    As a hummingbird
    trying to collect the nectar
    from the flowers design of your shirt?

    As a drop of honey
    failing to splash as it falls on your wrist
    and, conceding failure, slides lazily down.

    As sweet?
    and you pout then you smile...
    and you pout, not understanding.

    Your love
    as tasteless
    as fragrances permeating young juniper berries,
    as whirlwinds embracing invisible hummingbird wing tips,
    as drops of sun forever imprisoned in living pearls of honey.

    As inebriating?
    As beautiful.
    As sweet?

    You insist, I have to give you an answer,
    how can I give an answer
    to the unanswerable?

    How can I measure the immeasurable?

    The pout changes once more into smile,
    I guess I answered correctly,
    I guess that now... you know.



And When... I

    And when your robes the last have twirled
    You bare your ankles to the world,
    The scratches written on your shin
    Acquainting all with sharing sin
    On branches dry and thistles mean.

    I hide inside my pocket’s den
    A feather off that frightened wren
    Of bluish breast and wail forlorn,
    A grain of sand, a bloody thorn,
    A lock of hair in passion shorn.

    And when you run across the dell
    And skip the deep and punic well
    Imposing on the peeking sky
    A fleeting sight of muscled thigh
    I curse the vault of heaven’s sigh.

    I chase you through the depth of woods,
    Beneath the oaks’ majestic hoods,
    Awaiting sun’s deferred demise
    To feed the hunger in my eyes
    Your glints of flesh and mocking cries.

    And when you stop beneath the stream
    The nipples cut the stretching seam
    To let me drink your boiling milk
    And taste that flesh of fairy ilk
    Before I die inside your silk.

    I watch the glow beneath your lids,
    A crescent long a teardrop skids,
    As turmoil fades to peaceful rest
    Your nails escape the thudding nest
    And smiles invade my bleeding chest.



The Act

    I sink into you.

    You sink into me fangs and claws and tentacles
    the oak running through my spine cracking longwise
    as God’s hand claps in thunder
    and lightning bursts through nerve ends

    My eyes rain,
    leaves cover wounds, igniting, cauterizing, slashing,
    moon slabs crash into transparent flesh
    piercing tunnels side to side
    followed by copper lianas sewing belly to belly,
    shoulder to shoulder, thighs, brains,
    birds dive into your gaping mouth
    bringing back to mine pieces of your tongue
    still singing your sighs.

    It’s never over when it is over.

    We spit blobs of sweat into the sun
    watching transfixed erupting geysers transversing galaxies,
    we spit bits of chewed skin into the moon
    creating new craters, new mountains,
    flowers growing for seconds long
    until the fire geysers incinerate the carbon matter
    to die as glowless ash in the oxigenless waste.

    I help you pull up your underwear, hook your bra,
    kiss your foot before putting the sandal on,
    button your shirt.
    You lock my belt,
    close the last of my shirt’s buttons, kiss me.
    The act is over.
    No one believes the kid with a ten bucks telescope
    rushing in with stories of sun flares and moon exploding dust.



Milky Way

    It’s only then,
    when you think of me,
    that you... love me.

    Crawling desires conquering your loins,
    your body rolling through the cacti fields of life
    screaming happiness
    with thorns puncturing your skin
    and infesting your arteries
    and bustling through your heart’s deserted halls
    to reach your mouth
    and flood the milky way with that thick, treacly tinge of honey.

    But I think of you... all the time.
    I know.
    How do you know?

    I pull you out from beneath the covers
    from beneath the ceiling
    from beneath the roof
    dragging you beneath the blackness of the scintillating dome...
    look! I say pointing to the sky,
    your jaw sagging in wonder
    at the resplendence of the treacly tinge of honey
    flooding the milky way.

    But... it is impossible, it would take eons...
    Or a love as great as the milky way expanse.
    Do you really think I love you as much?

    I fall on top of you
    rolling through sharp stones, through broken glass,
    through detonating cacti,
    and as our bodies explode into each other
    I watch, fascinated,
    that evaporating tinge of honey
    rising from the darkness of your widely open mouth
    all the way to the milky way.

    Yes, I think you do.



Genesis Of Lark

    like the thinnest of violin’s sounds
    reverberating in a forest
    having known nothing
    but silence.

    Genesis of lark.

    And lark engendered its father, sun,
    and sun killed lark
    and sensuality died.

    Wait! shrieked she-lover
    thinner than the thinnest of violin’s sounds
    the only sound in a forest
    having known nothing
    but the thinnest of violin’s sounds
    after eternal silence.

    And she-lover crushed the fire out of sun
    her eyelashes burning
    her fingernails melting
    and kissed it into lark’s chest.


    And lark fell into sun once more
    its trill thinner than she-lover’s shriek
    sensuality floating in the eternity of unabating hell.

    I saw a flurry of feathers, and clothes, sacrifice...

    The sound inaudible anymore,
    ashes filled she-lover’s cupped palms
    as she offered me everything there ever was and ever will be,



Beyond Lust

    the velvet wrapping your bones
    between the covers, lover.

    pay care
    to that dry bark awaiting you there
    lest it pulls thin threads and mars your perfection.

    may I
    cleanse myself from lichens and lustrous snail dribble
    hoping for your nearness and warmth?

    you touch me
    and galling friction begets spark begets ignition begets blaze.

    between the white skies of my covers
    and let’s not stop counting bursting burgeons all the way back to genesis.

    ashes soft
    venture in tumbling waves between the mattress’ edges
    speckled with marbles of velvet and pebbles of bark.

    finds last night’s smoldering marrow
    barely breathing through immolated lungs and incinerated lips.




    Your nails
    diamond edged scimitars
    slashing through window panes
    and wine glasses
    and rubies set in emeralds set in sapphire ossatures,
    the glide turning sweep
    the sweep turning frenzy
    as you chopped the shapeless shards into shapely octahedrons
    and smaller tetrahedrons
    and butterfly wing dust.

    You inflated your chest and inflated your cheeks
    gulping seven measures of air
    and then with one mighty blow
    scattered the mountain skywards
    covering the dome horizon to horizon
    with billions of glimmering specks
    and roving microscopical rainbows.

    “...and this is when the dinosaurs die...”
    I commented phlegmatically
    wallowing in a sea of iridescence
    hanging fanatically to every pore of my skin.
    “No, this is when only a worthless poet can save the world,” you said,
    lying down next to me, waiting.
    I could not let the world die,
    dinosaurs, and flowers, and babies,
    I had to prove myself a worthless poet...
    “...but I don’t have so much to write...”
    I whined.
    “Oh, you do,” you answered confidently,
    leaving it up to me to ready the world for your wake-up.

    I cut away your outgrown fingernails carefully,
    then started sucking in mouthfuls of the rasping glitter
    mixing it with my saliva
    and filling to refuse inkwells,
    then barrels,
    the swimming pools.
    And every time your nails would grow a few millimeters
    I would dip my pen in the viscous mixture
    and sit down to write on the newly born crescents
    stories, and legends, and poems...
    funny, all of them ending with I love you.

    And then I would clip the horny protrusions
    carrying the recently written episode
    and throw them down the ravine
    next to our bed.
    It is not only that I wanted to save the world,
    I wanted as well to say I love you
    all those billions of times.

    Finally you woke up.
    Deciding yourself on the moment inside the time,
    your yawn turning smile
    as you heard dinosaurs growl
    and flowers open
    and babies cry,
    “...see, I told you, it is in you,” you said,
    looking at the huge mountain where once there was a ravine.
    “And all these are our love stories?” you smiled wider.
    “All these is our love story,” I responded,
    uncertain, hesitating.
    “OK, I will do it,” you beamed,
    and you took the clipper from my hand
    clipped the last nail
    and threw it all the way up to the mountain’s peak.
    I watched in fascination
    as it fluttered, rolled sideways, and finally settled down.
    I heard the rumble.


    They are still excavating that crater
    reaching down to earth’s boiling viscera,
    scientists turned poets
    and archeologists turned starry eyed
    collecting at the ends of atom-thin ceramic pincers
    miles upon thousands miles of molecule thin sentences
    written with that incredibly resistant compound
    of glass dust and ruby dust and emerald dust and sapphire dust
    and histatins and statherins and lysozymes and lactoferrins
    and darkened blobs of chitinously semblable residuals.

    They still wonder why
    the dinosaurs did not die.
    They still sing songs
    ending always with I love you.



Glass Ribbons

    leave your buttons home,

    leave your belt and your zipper and your clasps home,
    burn your panties, your stockings, your bra,
    and as you dance on the river’s deserted bank
    your skin clinging on to the insides of pouring walls of sweat
    and tiny crabs clinging on to pirouetting toes
    I will tie glass ribbons to your hips
    and glass ribbons to your wrists
    and glass ribbons to hang down between your breasts

    knowing when splinters cut my flesh and spill my blood
    amidst the crystalline tinkle of breaking glass and clacking clams
    as atrocious pleasure follows atrocious pain

    that I was the first.




    is not a gender.

    it is the safety
    taking my camels in from the desert
    before the waterskin dries
    and me,
    it is the certainty
    carrying the shadow at my side
    to hide it from the sun
    for me,
    it is the liberty
    to impart her love to a world
    and choose

    is not a gender,
    is a divine ordeal.



Pastels, Two

    I left my footprints in the mud
    To mark your waking summer,
    Asleep beneath that lonesome bud
    In wait for morning’s drummer.

    My dreams assailed with sunset’s claim
    To own my bulging rivers,
    My pains to soothe, my words to tame
    Then quash my dawning shivers.

    “Be gone, ye nightmare’s paradise!”
    I cawed into your morning,
    Into that blaze to hit my eyes
    Bereaved of heed or warning.

    I blinked away the spider’s web
    To watch the crawling blossom,
    Then smiled at graydom’s eerie ebb
    To hues absurdly awesome.

    A fairy licked my caking mud
    And covered me in summer,
    Then went to sleep inside the bud,
    “Hey, hush... you ribcage drummer!”



Immeasurable Love

    “Hug me,” she said.
    Why? I asked.
    “Kiss me,” she said.
    Why? I asked.
    “Let the seconds to my death
    Count that one and single breath
    I will seed inside your mouth
    Once your touch allays my drouth.”

    I did not ask.

    The muscle in my hug
    fragmenting her spine,
    The rove in my kiss
    incinerating her skin.

    Bones and ashes
    pouring between my fingers,
    My forehead
    digging the dirt between my knees.

    “Never will the shape of death
    Glaze a path inside your breath
    Time I feed your thirsting mouth
    Nectars brewed amidst my drouth.”

    tying our limbs
    knotting knurled arteries
    into a grotesquely writhing primordial creature
    agonizing in the steely claws
    of immeasurable



Dying Sun

    I peeled that hidden piece of sun you hid inside your shirt
    And kissed the scold inside your eye ablaze with pouting hurt,
    Then dressed the wound in fragrant mint with flakes of crumbling leaves
    And left a strip of flaming skin beneath your flitting sleeves.

    Your rolling hip, your dancing toe, your morning smile I gleaned,
    Return I will when find I do... I told the gasping wind,
    You dressed a riddle’s wasting heart in dying ocean’s blue,
    Return you will when find you not... then find you will and do...

    I gazed upon the graying sun beneath the spreading stain
    Its wafting stink invading worlds with rot’s terrific bane,
    My pocket rich with fires sane... my lover’s heart and breath,
    The half of life, the one of pair, the seed of sun or death.

    My rags I dragged between the roots of grizzled, tumbling stars,
    Beneath the rage of warring gods with comet dripping scars,
    I erred beyond eternal black’s incogitant design...
    Then eons late, or maybe days?... assailed anew your shrine.

    I failed!... I wailed, your fire’s lust inside my trembling fist,
    The sun a threshing cup of mud beneath a bloated cyst,
    I failed!... I wailed, your piece of sun between my fingers’ tips,
    The seeding pair I failed to find, now death bespeak my lips.

    Return you will... then find you do... you took the piece of hell
    And touched... my heart?... to pull the lid and sink into my well,
    Then pulled the raging piece of life and raked the mud above...
    The sun, my dear, was ever here, inside a piece of love.

    The dragon’s blink returned its shine to blind the daring fools,
    And sunrise birth through sunset mourn to forge its welkin tools,
    We sleep inside its gloating eye and share its blaze of heart,
    From time to time it whips a flare and blames us for its art.



Morning In Italics

    I hang back under the warmth of covers,
    delaying the moment I have to face the judgment of water
    and soap
    and mint flavors.

    I sense a multipede
    almost as lazy as I
    crawling upon my unresisting form
    to investigate that everything is fine,
    still in its original place and packaging,
    touching here, poking elsewhere,
    lingering a bit more than mere curiosity
    and common modesty
    would allow

    I return the favor
    finding everything organized the way I remember
    before I stopped remembering,
    even an intruder giggle
    when I touch
    Another there,

    I roll on my side
    reluctant to open my eyes... I always hated sun in the morning...
    I peek...
    thank goodness your eyes are still closed,
    yet I think that I hate this mirthful glitter
    crawling into your lips
    ...hey, keep your tentacles to yourself, I protest
    trusting your stubborn streak
    and rolling on my back
    glancing sideways.

    You (of course) insolently disregard my protest (thank God)
    pulling this, probing that, prodding the other,
    then finally heave the whole of your bulk atop of me
    letting things hanging dangerously close to my mouth...
    they look deliciously so much better
    than seen with you lying on your back.

    The multipedes are at work again,
    more of them... how many do you have?... do you have more?...
    making sure I forget of water and soap and mint flavors
    as that damn truckload of fireworks
    spills its full lading inside my belly... a bit lower actually...
    and its damn driver lights the fuse...
    where the hell did I scatter the following moment?

    I don’t think (once I finally wake up)
    I wanted that.
    I think I did.

    Good morning, my love.



the Prude, the Rude, the Lude (ie Lewd)


    the Prude

    “Turn off the light,” she said.
    “Close your eyes,” she said.
    “No!...” she screamed
    pushing my hand away from the topmost button
    and finishing the job herself.

    I heard some rustling noises, undefined.
    “OK, you can come,” she whispered.
    “Ouch...” I yelled
    hitting my head against a shelf
    which was not supposed to be there
    in a dark room with closed eyes.
    I slid under the blanket.
    “Did you shower?”

    I rushed to the bathroom,
    showered, shaved, blew my nose, brushed my teeth,
    clipped my nails, got a haircut...
    then slid under the blanket again.
    “Your hands are cold,” she said.
    “Where is your skin?” I asked,
    striking a match
    (“...you want to smoke? now?”)
    and watching the beautiful knee length bloomers,
    pink with blue flowers
    and neat calligraphic inscriptions at various angles
    I love mom.

    I dressed and ran away screaming.


    the Rude

    “Where the bleep are we?”

    She jumped a few times on the mattress,
    the sickening thud of spiked heels
    nauseatingly penetrating the styrofoam layers.
    “Great bleeping bed,” she said, “come here honey pie,”
    and she dropped the burning cigarette on the carpet
    patting motherly fashion the spot next to her.
    I snuffed out carefully the glowing stub, sitting next to her.
    “What are you, a prissy or something?
    Do you want to
    bleep or not?”

    She pulled my belt, zipper, shorts grabbing a handful of...
    “Careful...” I begged.
    “Hey, nice bleeps you have here,” she conceded,
    taking a bite, a lick... her technique wasn’t so bad,
    “...now turn around...”
    and she rolled me unceremoniously on my belly
    “...let’s see your bleep too.”

    She probably appreciated my endowment
    since she started slapping it
    then scratching it
    and when I (think) lost enough blood
    she started kissing it.
    “Are you ready, bullman?”
    Personally, I would have preferred stallion,
    or caveman, or even superman,
    but I wasn’t in a position of choosing,
    not with her on top of me rolling me on my back again
    and taking my two bleeps...
    oops, contagious this bleep business...
    in her palm and squeezing them to (small) bead size.
    I bellowed (in pain)
    “Hey, you like my bleeping treat of your bleeping bleeps,”
    she completely misinterpreted
    squeezing further to (smaller) size beads.

    When I woke up from the faint
    I asked with... was it nightingale’s?... voice
    “What are you doing?” as she was stuffing ashtrays
    and towels and bed sheets in her purse,
    it was a big purse.
    “They have bleeping enough of everything,”
    she flashed her canines at me
    dropping her purse and her pants
    and sitting across my face,
    “Ready to taste some juicy bleepy?” she roared,
    wondering at my struggling form
    as I crawled from underneath her,
    dressed and ran away screaming.

    “Where the bleeping hell are you bleeping going?”
    she screamed after me,
    stuffing in her purse the curtains, the carpet, the toilet bowl...


    the Lude

    She kept trying to sneak inside my pants,
    it would be OK
    if it wasn’t in the street,
    first trying my posterior,
    then my inferior,
    “Hey, people are looking,” I said
    locking my belt.
    “Hey, people are looking,” I said again
    locking my belt again,
    pulling up the zipper
    and putting a groceries bag over my head to hide the blush.

    She waited for the fullest elevator
    squeezing in between two matrons
    and while I kept myself busy finding air to breath
    she found a way into my pants
    and I had to stop looking for air
    and moved the groceries bag to the front of my trousers
    to hide my happiness.

    She threw me on the bed,
    pulling from her pockets whips, handcuffs, a banana,
    batteries (not for the banana), blindfolds, one chainsaw,
    an electric drill (after a slight hesitation this one went back in),
    then in one move pulled me out of my clothes,
    zipped herself out of hers
    and climbed on the wardrobe, ready to jump on top of me.

    I looked at her with eyes the softness of dawn,
    the warmth of mother’s first embrace,
    the adoration of a teenager for his rock group,
    filling the room with poetry fit for the gods...
    “I love you,” I concluded
    blowing her way a kiss with the tips of my fingers.

    She jumped down from the wardrobe
    dressed and ran away screaming.

    She returned a few days later
    to collect the whips and the rest of the stuff.
    She did not mind that meanwhile I ate the banana (I was hungry).
    When I tried to kiss her
    she threw some garlic at me
    and ran away screaming once more.



Morning Rapture

    I found your ankles on my pillow,
    A bit away I found your knees,
    And fading smells of peccadillo
    Beyond, way Northwards some degrees.

    You rolled, escaping morning’s tickle
    Then moaned when finger followed lip,
    Your leg asleep, your temper fickle
    Inside that cobra’s lashing whip.

    I guess you let a bluish crescent
    Behold the world around your nose
    When slashing teeth and cheeks rubescent
    Assailed with doom my vestal toes.

    The blanket flailed in raving fury
    And hit the floor those miles below
    Uncovering a seething houri
    Of madness wild in eyes aglow.

    I found your head upon my pillow,
    And way below I found your knees,
    And in between... that peccadillo
    And thousands Fahrenheit degrees.



Pastels, Three

    The day has set upon my toil,
    I lay upon the furrowed soil,
    The shivers of descending night
    My gate to worlds of sheer delight,
    My candle’s oil.

    I listened to the mirthful mole
    Insult once more the hungry owl,
    Then back inside its burrow’s deep
    Tell legends of a mighty ship
    To heaven’s hole.

    I let the vixen clip my ears
    And boast to sounds of barking cheers,
    Then marvel in that broken den
    To rooster’s once-upon-a-hen
    Sweet souvenirs.

    My old and faithful garden snake
    Just peeked to ask if I’m awake
    And tell me for the thousandth time
    That Eve’s account of Eden’s crime
    Was crudely fake.

    They toured all night around my bed,
    Above, beneath, inside my head,
    Some friends of old, some friends of new,
    Some bringing tunes, some berries blue,
    Some poppies red.

    I waited, patient in my crave,
    The crescent hid behind a wave,
    When spikes of bliss inside the dark
    Poured glory through my body’s bark
    And stinging rave.

    I saw you sliding down the slope
    The one beyond my earthling’s hope,
    A petal heart, a morning wine,
    A rhyme tied down a poem’s line
    With silver rope.

    You reached my crumb of silent world
    Inside my skin you softly curled
    And once again you taught me flame
    To put those vaunting suns to shame
    With wings unfurled.

    The skulking day crawls on again,
    Its bulk invades the sleeping plain,
    I watch your parting silken kites
    Encased in lovers’ flitting rites
    As perfumes wane.

    I roll anew my toil and sweat
    To pay my petty human debt,
    Beyond the day my friends await
    Then love, once more, will crash the gate
    To no regret.



Open Your Mouth

    Open your mouth,
    not to talk
    not to sing
    no, not to kiss.
    Open your mouth
    so that I can breathe-in your insides.

    I have your skin.
    Open your mouth to give me
    your life.



Dear Lover

    I feel itchy, scratchy,
    I sit to write you a love letter
    before washing my hands, or face, or neck,
    before turning off the car ignition
    and unbuckling my safety belt.
    I start,

    Dear Lover...

    I know the multiplication table by heart.
    I know the formulas of seven deoxynucleotides
    plus maybe an eighth
    and the maiden names of thirteen US presidents’ wives.
    I don’t know to write you a love letter.

    Dear Lover...

    It is midnight plus three hours,
    I am sweating again.
    I exit the room to the porch
    letting the sudden tropical outpour wash the clothes off my body
    and the ink off the crumpled piece of paper,

    Dear Lover...

    I didn’t see you arriving.
    I watched left
    you came right
    and the only sign of arrival were those two hands
    sliding underneath my t-shirt, pinching my nipples.
    I wanted to apologize for not writing you a love letter
    but you filled my mouth summer.



Love Me Tender...

    I hold the black piece of plastic between finger tips
    as if it was made of crystal, of living tissue...
    I flip it around once, twice,
    then place it gently on the heavy metal platter
    soon to start chasing the end of that fine spiral
    hugging so many tender souvenirs
    inside its rugged walls.

    I watch attentively the wonders of pneumatics
    drop the diamond inside memory’s halls
    and one hundred decibels of absolute beauty
    invade thousands of empty stages
    I once readied in my chest
    for those songs he will never sing.

    “little sister don’t you do...”

    I feel like crying.
    I love his music, I say,
    almost as much as I love you, I say,
    and you know.
    You slide the record back into its sleeve
    smiling as you listen to me singing completely off key...

    “love me tender...”




    The wallpaper
    carrying yesterday’s sunshine and birds and calendar papers
    lies in tatters on the floor,
    the indomitable time machine pushing forwards
    ramming its mindless way through flesh cells
    and celestial bodies
    and eternally irretrievable reasons for I’m sorry’s.

    A new layer
    already peeling at upper edges
    the more the new day advances,
    its sun drunk-red,
    its birds tired,
    its calendar pages’ ears already between impatient fingers
    too eager to pull and tear,
    soon to join yesterday’s putrefying leftovers
    and all those other long gone long evaporated yesterdays
    red marked for the terrible sorrows of Luther King the Martin
    and Elvis the Pelvis and Teresa the Mother,
    and my mother
    The mother.

    Birth paired by death,
    the absolute irrevocable binary relationship
    ridiculously compensated with inanimate in-between souvenirs
    recorded on those man-made idolatry carriers –
    celluloid, and magnetic dust, and copier powder.

    I count the layers still to go,
    melancholic nostalgia little by little
    giving way to bubbling buds of excitement
    as I check meteorological bulletins for scheduled sunrise times
    as if they own them,
    and chase birds all over my courtyard
    to keep them away from the cat,
    and keep peeking through the following calendar pages
    till they yellow like a smoker’s finger tips...
    so many still?... and yet less than before...

    I brush my teeth and shine my shoes and wax my buckle
    waiting in restless anticipation
    for the last layer to wither away
    when beyond a new sun and new birds and a new calendar page
    you fall into my arms.
    It’s when I stop counting, scared.
    It’s when I start my life, again.



Cotton Innocence

    The mountain underneath us,
    no world,
    just air and grass
    and a broken roof between us and the immensity of blue haze,
    and that skirt immodestly sliding up muscled thighs
    to reveal a white patch modestly dressing that junction of your body
    permeating the innocence of cotton
    with invasive wine cellar fragrances
    and spreading stains.

    The growling rumble... not a tiger... you assured me
    sliding backwards on top of the moss covered wooden tabletop
    and dragging me on top of you
    unbuckling, unzipping, unlacing, liberating me in one fluent motion
    and guiding my mouth into your fangs
    and the rest of me inside you.

    I should have brought another pair of panties, you giggled
    after having dropped environmental-conscientiously
    the tormented, drenched cotton leftovers
    in a public garbage bin.
    Hey, it has no bottom, I laughed hysterically
    seeing them float to the ground,
    enjoying the secrecy of knowing you naked
    underneath the knee length skirt.

    That’s funny, I thought,
    those tens of butterflies fluttering around your ankles,
    finally hanging upside down to the skirt’s hem
    spinning several times on spidery legs and pinhead indecision
    which flower to choose.
    Don’t ask me, I told them,
    knowing what my choice would have been.

    We reached the hotel room late at night.
    Careful... you whispered,
    as I pulled the skirt over your head and away from your body,
    the inner lining crawling with sleepy butterflies
    angrily fluttering their indignation at the invasion of privacy.
    Ha, I commented, they are the indignant ones...
    hanging the skirt from the overhead lamp.
    What do we do with these? I asked,
    pointing to the few that still clung to my territories on your skin.
    I guess you will have to work your way around them,
    you grinned mischievously
    dragging me on top of you
    unbuckling, unzipping, unlacing, liberating me in one fluent motion
    and guiding my mouth into your fangs
    and the rest of me inside you.
    Hey, gently... I muttered, before forgetting.

    I woke up in the morning, yawning lazily...
    then suddenly jumped in fright
    tearing my head away from your belly.
    There was no reason,
    we’ve probably been extremely gentle last night,
    not even one wing lay crushed to your thigh
    yet the commotion against the glass was unbearable...
    Wait, wait, you light cannibals... I shouted
    and rushed to the window pushing it open
    to screams and squeals in the street beneath
    as a glinting cloud in thousands of fluttering colors
    burst out of the room
    and streaked like a kite’s multiple tail
    up the mountain.
    Hey, you too... I nudged the little fellow
    still cluttering your cotton innocence with his impertinent colors,
    reluctant in his own little way to leave.
    He yawned, poorly emulating my earlier gesture,
    stretched a pair of wings the size of a baby dragon’s
    and in a gesture covering the sun for moments few
    squeezed through the window and zoomed out following the swarm,
    dropping a rain of glittery confetti taking ages to reach the ground.

    Love, sorry, I think you’ll have to change panties again, I said,
    terribly embarrassed,
    pointing to the wet spot the last butterfly left behind.
    It was the first time I saw this kind of ripe-watermelon red
    mount so rapidly to your cheeks.
    I got the point, when I saw the spot spread slowly wider...
    There was no drag, unbuckle, unzip, unlace and liberate this time,
    though the thing with fangs and the rest of me inside you stayed the same.
    And the bin did have a bottom this time.
    Poor innocent cotton.



Dear Lover, Two

    Rigid, numb,
    like a concrete pillar,
    watching you turn, wave once, disappear,
    waiting for infiltrating rust to turn invasion
    then turn my iron skeleton red dust
    settling down into my feet
    leaving me hollow,

    I waited for butterfly messengers... yet none came,
    I waited for a sneaking rainbow to lace my shoes,
    a kite to crawl along the ceiling dripping pink dew,
    a phosphorescent snake, a singing snail, a field of blue clover...
    yet none came,
    you left.

    The miracle turned itself off
    like a light bulb,
    like a match,
    like a departing airplane.

    Dear lover...
    I started
    falling asleep inside a pool of blue ink and transparent tear.
    I refused to wake up
    letting butterflies lace my shoes with sneaking rainbows
    and phosphorescent snakes drag kites dripping pink dew
    and snails chewing on blue clover sing me your voice
    Dear lover...
    you started
    and I knew you left the miracle with me
    so that you will have good reason to return.

    I don’t need a miracle to return, you said.
    I need a miracle to live, I said.




    You counted your blessings.
    Then you counted your scratches,
    your blueing spots... some out of eye’s reach,
    your bite marks,
    your missing heartbeats.

    You filled a thick notebook
    tiny vertical marks,
    crossing horizontally the tens
    in black pencil,
    crossing diagonally the hundreds
    in brown pencil,
    boxing the thousands
    in green pencil...

    What are you doing? I asked
    spotting by your side wasted blue’s, and red’s, and violet’s...
    Counting my happiness, you answered
    picking a brand new orange pencil
    and marking a small sun
    top right of the cover of the first notebook,
    then picking the next notebook,
    then the next...

    I peeked in the other rooms
    careful not to be buried under cascading paper,
    then in the cellar... there is the attic too... you remarked,
    never stopping your branding flow
    except for sharpening the pencil from time to time.
    Do you have enough pencils? I asked.
    I emptied the swimming pool, you answered,
    your forehead wrinkled in concentration.

    I called for a pizza and beer,
    I estimated I would have to wait...
    a few years.




    You look up at the shower,
    asking forgiveness
    before you turn the tap two full turns left
    allowing thousands of needle thin water soldiers
    invade your body with demented loving fury
    the lucky few clinging despairingly to every single hair,
    every goosebump and freckle and skin cut,
    and after the infinitesimal moment of adulating caress
    slide exhausted down invisible drain lines
    running along breasts,
    along arms and belly and thighs
    to finally drop to stinking sewage death
    from cliff hard nipples, and fingertips, and toes.

    Paying a hard price for ephemeral moments of glory, I remark,
    soaking the last infiltrators into the thick towel,
    all your folds and crevices desert dry,
    these water soldiers must be loving you desperately.
    They love everybody, you laugh at my naiveté,
    indenting the white linen with your weight.
    Not as much as they love you, I insist
    shaking my wet mane above you
    and watching a small army of drops
    form thankful smiley’s beneath your breasts,
    before joining in a thin trickle
    to disappear inside that tropical forest I deserted just minutes ago.

    See, I told you, I remark knowingly.
    Poor soldiers,
    are you going to leave them alone in that awful darkness?

    you ask smugly,
    shrewdly brushing en passant against my paternal instincts.
    I cannot, oh, I cannot, I admit to myself,
    my conscience will chase me for a lifetime...
    and doggedly I follow the trickle
    inside that tropical forest I deserted just minutes ago.



Perfumes Of You

    The power of that hand clasp
    squashing the steel ball between our palms to coin,
    then to tin,
    then watching it gathering its robes into a drop shape
    and flowing down
    enveloped in a bluish flame
    to meet a boiling mother
    howling for her son all those thousands of miles down there,
    beneath the rocky headstone.

    It hurts... so much, you said,
    and I added fire to the wound
    kissing the raw flesh of your palm.
    Not there... you said
    and pointing to that rib hidden beneath the left breast
    I did not dare kiss,
    afraid I will not separate
    before a mouthful of flesh will rest imprisoned
    behind my ravenous teeth.
    My mouth sating its hunger spasms
    biting away the nacre of your shirt's buttons
    chewing them to glossy dust
    and swallowing them down
    along interminable paths of protesting, bleeding entrails.

    The last touch, fingertips,
    the last touch, eyelashes,
    the cold room with its blaring loudspeakers
    swallowed you.

    You looked ridiculous
    holding your shirt closed with the left hand,
    holding your bag with the right,
    and tears exploding in your wake all the way to the airplane.
    I saw the rainbows in the salt
    crunched indifferently by so many following feet.

    I looked ridiculous
    spitting traces of blood all the way to my car
    before falling asleep on the rear bench,
    my head wrapped in that jacket
    you blissfully forgot behind.

    Perfumes of you.



The Dog Of Earth

    You decided to test it,
    the theory of flight.

    You clambered up the window ledge
    let your nightgown drop down your ankles
    and dived into the void.

    It wasn’t happening,
    the air streaming around you with a deafening shriek,
    your flapping hands useless,
    your groping fingers useless...
    and then you remembered what it was all about...
    and you smiled.

    The asphalt pulled back in haste,
    the rocky crust underneath cracked into a craggy crevasse
    all the way down to the fire
    scared for a moment to have touched you...
    but you sank beneath then soared above
    rolling and fluttering like a ribbon in the wind,
    passing underneath my nose and tickling it
    laughing away as I snarled and sneezed
    and bit a piece of skin off your departing toe,
    stretching impotently against the chains
    tying the dog of earth to the four ends of that giant, rolling ball of clay
    underneath me.

    I waited,
    for those single moments of sunset
    when you would close your struggling wings
    to alight next to my bulk,
    to catch your breath,
    to allow old mongrel me
    suckle the breast of young baby you.




    liquefied nonsense
    asking no permission to pour through me
    wasting irretrievable moments
    when I could think of
    and write about
    and glorify

    painting itself like lipstick inside my eyes
    telling it is time to accept nonsense
    and try that other venue
    of closing eyelids
    and let you

    my swords, my scimitars, my sabers
    cutting paths through the fields leading to you
    and wide channels through my flesh
    denying the inevitable nonsense
    its right of wasteful passage
    letting us meet midway
    with blazing words
    consuming us

    finally wins its battle
    knowing damn well it lost the war
    as my kisses graze your eyes
    and your beautiful blue
    delightfully corrupts
    this merchant
    of dreams.




    The time you would have called...

    like a junkie
    I squirm inside the flesh container
    hosting me,
    waiting for the phonetic needle to puncture my auditive system,
    for its plunger to feed my flesh with the daily ration
    of melodic whispers
    and sighs
    and frolicking smiles.

    The time has passed...

    I can hear your need on the other side of the inexistent wire
    tuning into mine
    resonating towards explosion
    demanding deliverance,
    until we erupt into a lovers’ duet
    written to two screams
    and several octaves apart
    and one thousand miles away
    and no orchestra.

    The time has passed long ago...

    I gather the pieces of glass and bone
    and mail them to your address
    wishing you to know
    that it wasn’t a coyote’s shadow reflecting on the moon earlier on
    but the one human who can sing
    or scream
    at the cue of your voice
    or your silence.



Escape Chute

    I take a step in
    to escape
    those ogres out there...
    spiraling butterflies
    and flirting birds
    and blossoming orchards
    and no you...

    I close my senses
    and open the chute
    letting me flee the inferno
    into memories of your lap
    where I lay parts of my body,
    all other curling around and around and around your waist
    while fragrances of you
    spiral and flirt and blossom for me.




    Tell me lover, may I borrow
    Your today and your tomorrow,
    And that lonesome yesterday
    One delightful day of May
    Tainted clover's wilting sorrow?

    As your spirit gaily races
    Dropping pansies in its traces
    May I crowd your body's lay
    Perfumes, gems, then kisses stray
    And my dreams in wooden cases?

    When the sleek, impudent Amor
    Lays his trap of chinking glamour
    Reaching for your mortal clay,
    May I chance your erring way
    Pouring songs inside the clamor?

    May I feed your hungry quiet
    My caress abounding diet,
    Seeding blue inside your gray
    And my heart in your bouquet
    Whetting in your chest the riot?

    Lover, oh, my sweet enslaver,
    Artless boy and guileless raver,
    Do and give and take you may
    Long as rhymes my pain allay
    And we share this kiss’s flavor.




    Lean against that groaning tree
    Dying in a sea of clover
    Letting cheeky sparrows rover
    As your skirt glides up your knee.

    Watch the last of curling leaves
    Spiral down to touch your finger,
    In your palm to hide and linger
    From oblivion's scouting thieves.

    Smile, when squirrels bite your toes
    Then your ankles hug, adoring,
    Finding though your manner boring
    With those glasses on your nose.

    Do you feel my sneaking hand
    Sliding there beneath your laces
    Dropping shivers long its traces
    With its delicate demand?

    Flies your pen and flows your rhyme,
    Thoughts of me your chest invading,
    Crystal stains your lashes raiding
    As your sighs turn lark sublime.

    Guards the tree your sleeping form,
    Knotted roots above you hover
    Envying the lucky lover
    Seeding dreams with grains of storm.




    drowning in the river,
    liquid bodies joining in a thundering spasm of love
    chaperoned by lustful old willows
    washing their heads
    in the foam.

    impotently watching lightning fairies
    skipping from cloud to cloud in a frenzy of carousal lechery,
    waiting to die in the unforgiving fire
    of their treacherous

    resting head on her shoulder,
    roving hand tracing his magnificent sculpt of unshameful desire,
    rolling down the blazing mountain to die
    in the boiling river's




    When you blink away in embarrassment
    the hesitation you professed,
    that first time,

    When you clamp the rebellious mop of hair
    with a plastic crocodile, out of the way,
    to allow you see better
    my shameless nakedness,

    When you run in the rain
    wet to your skin
    worrying through your shivers
    at my wearing a sweater,

    When you sit up all night
    for the dubious pleasure
    of watching the dark grey of my body
    lying inert on the lighter grey of the bedding,

    Such innocent declarations of love.



...and I Will

    Lie by me
    and I will count your ribs
    as you sleep

    and I will follow your munching jaws
    collecting the falling crumbs
    into my mouth,

    and I will cover my face
    to protect it
    from the flare,

    and I will know
    that my touch cut through your flesh
    straight into your dream,

    Arch your belly
    and I will paint it
    painful colors
    and singing souvenirs,

    and I will lie at your feet
    your traces.



From A to N

    As I watch your figure
    rolling those designer hips
    mythical eyes
    abstractly bouncing breasts,
    giggling insanity pouring from a mind
    evading the earth
    dancing the dust
    devouring the day
    offering me
    nipple's nectar and nopher's resplendence,

    I punch holes through walls
    and rip away hinges
    and steal reflections off lake's disquiet mirror
    impatient in my delirium
    to make room for your rollicking gait and invading desire
    and paint flittering frames to your seditious canvas
    coloring it lust's blindness
    and crave's bitterness.

    You stomp the trees
    and mill the mountains
    the detritus between your teeth sounding like hail beaten tin
    as you approach me
    and rivers of grit escape the corners of your mouth
    building deserts in your wake
    and wings to falling condors
    and rolling pearls choking the seas,

    Until we meet on the virginal white
    of madness
    letting stars die between our ribs
    and anthracite crush into diamond into dust
    as our fingers claw their path in ecstasy
    the ominous advent
    of linen’s Armageddon.




    unbend your pain,
    unfurl your banners,
    uncurl your curled curled curled spine,
    let the wind billow your skirts
    and as it picks you up
    pulling and tugging at the wool thread in my hand
    I let go
    regarding you aim for the sun...
    how the hell did the wind reach that high?...

    my eyes burn,
    images of you slaying my eyesight
    as I watch you raise your hands above your head
    and plunge into the boiling swamp
    a flaming arrow emerging on the other side
    rolling and rolling and rolling
    with the wind still chasing you, screaming love in its agony
    and guiding you back to earth,
    to me...

    fire dripping from your skin caresses my blind eyes
    and all I can sense
    is you bending and furling and curling into my lap
    smoldering your contentment.



Piebald Eagle

    hovering above your valleys and mountains and stretches of water
    my universe trapped
    the reach of your voice my tether's end
    the depth of your skin my bottomless abyss,
    my plight hanging to ends of blunted talons
    waiting for you to open the gates to your dungeons
    and allow me encounter those hungry demons hiding inside the light
    to be eaten alive into ecstasy.




    I found a scrap of paper.
    I wrote you a poem.

    Driven by demons
    I turned it over... sinking to my chest in a black and white image,
    deserted sand framed by deserted grey sucking me in
    while a lost gull entering the frame from nowhere on the right
    limped its lonesomeness to the left
    to leave for the same nowhere, or another,
    its claw ripping through indents of pen.

    I turned the scrap of paper once more
    adding a few words...
    you entered my life from nowhere,
    you will never leave
    my poem.




    the pillow you squeeze
    shaping it to my size
    and my forms
    and not my heartbeat
    and not my warmth.

    softer than my ribcage
    and my bony elbow
    never scrapping your cheek with unshaven stubble
    or stealing your blanket
    or kissing you good night.

    undemanding of fresh shirts
    unexpecting of compliments
    unreplacing the burnt lamp high on the ceiling
    unloving back.

    You hug your green pillow...
    it absorbs your tears
    better than I do.




    Laying claim to expression,
    molding it the way of a master blacksmith,
    rolling curls at hot red ends
    and twists at groaning middles
    and hammering flowers inside iron hearts
    alive for the mere moments of torturing blows.

    Expression takes shape,
    first in black and white,
    then in tricolor,
    then in omnicolor from the scathing depths of infra red
    up into the annihilating fangs of ultra violet,
    arrogant splashes of phosphor
    deserting suicidal moths’ tips of wings
    to find sanctuary
    inside your pen.

    I wrote you a poem, you said,
    remembering your working clothes
    and deciding you needed no clothes.
    I read your poem, deciding the same.
    You lay down next to me,
    cinnamon seeping into our bodies
    as we hugged, waiting for the drops of fire to flutter down
    and turn expression to birthing phoenix
    and bodies to burning ashes.




    you will find the dust on my shoulders
    waiting for you to brush away,
    the nails to my fingers reaching down to my knees
    waiting for you to snap and polish,
    my hair invaded by old cormorants
    having nowhere else to go in their hunger
    and waiting avidly for your hand to feed
    and caress,

    you will find sand in my eyes
    and trees between my toes
    and beneath each leaf a sleeping mockingbird
    hanging to departing green by tiny, shivering claws,

    you will find my skin hanging inside the cupboard
    dripping the swarms of sweat you once dressed me in,
    my teeth beneath the sleeping grey mouse
    the ferocious guard to ivory and pieces of flesh once belonging to you,
    my heart splashed on the cold tiles
    looking for the departed warmth of your soles,
    my flesh... gone...
    questing for yours.

    don’t cry, only love me,
    and my body parts will find their way back home
    and my friends will find their way back home,
    and you... found home.




    When sometimes
    turns to many times
    and many times turns to always
    and always is the end of the road
    as meaningless as infinity being the end of the count,
    linguistical aberrations
    going the way of mathematical aberrations
    trying to define the abstract notion of love
    in terms too simple to comprehend.

    My moment of morning philosophy,
    as regular as my fake Breitling.
    I smell your coffee.
    I hate coffee...
    orange juice?...
    you sip a mouthful
    and pour it down my throat
    generously allowing me to lick the last drops off your tongue...
    it tickles...
    not my tongue, my unshaven cheek
    eternally challenging the supremacy of dissimilar unshaven parts
    decorating your body,
    losing, as always,
    and settling for the crumbs of broken suns
    writhing in liquid death
    between collapsing life support systems
    and momentarily atrophying reason, muscles, and linen hearts.

    When somewhere
    turns to many wheres
    and many wheres turn to alwhere
    and my English aberrations are words lost to poetry
    never to be incepted in the almighty sea of uninvention,
    and my almost resurgence of philosophy dies a final death
    (for today)
    when I smell your coffee anew
    and you sip a mouthful of juice anew
    and we move once more into the blossoming nowhere
    of atrophying reason, and muscles, and linen hearts.



Shine Of Silver

    Don’t let the tresses,
    those you never had,
    fall into your eyes,

    Don’t let the poems,
    those I never wrote,
    cloud your heart,

    Do let me
    lace in those tresses those poems
    and if ever someone tells you
    you never had, he never wrote,
    just let the mirror turn its shine of silver upon you
    and watch there, in the depths of that wall of glass
    words fluttering away from you
    and poems never written
    hanging on to tresses you never had
    chasing you like kites abandoning the call of the sun
    for the embrace of earth.



Something To Do With Much And The How Of It

    I am out of words,
    I am out of love, of numbers,
    arid, a desert. I counted first the letters,
    all of them, in all the languages,
    then the words, then the words written, said, sung,
    all of them too, in all the languages too,
    then the words unwritten, mine.

    I moved on to deserts.
    Started with the Sahara, moved on to Kalahari, to Sinai,
    the sea shores
    counting first the grains of yellow sand
    then the grains of white sand, then the wet...
    it was windy, I may have missed a grain or two.

    I did not count the seeds,
    there were too many
    and birds of unknown call
    and rich of glamour
    kept attacking my left ear,
    don’t know why.
    Looking for echoes of your music?
    Or for grape seeds about to become wine?...

    I tried to count the numbers,
    I gave up.
    No, it was not the birds,
    they nested inside my shirt
    first picking at my few, orphan freckles
    then at my nipple
    then falling asleep, head in feather,
    still singing.
    They were countless,
    the numbers,
    and the seconds and raindrops and stars.
    It would have taken me too long,
    At least one more day.

    I could not let one more day pass
    without telling you
    I love you.
    I just had a problem telling you how much.



Linguistically Spoken

    Because else the earth is a cube
    and the sun is blue
    and dogs meow...


    Because else Aussies fall out
    and flowers close with sunrise
    and Beethoven’s Fifth is never written...

    Oh, you mean...

    And butterflies walk
    and women have no breasts
    and there are only two vowels to our voice.

    Oh, you mean this will happen when you will stop loving me?
    I mean this is when I will stop loving you.

    A pondering moment.
    She suffered from those horrible moments of lucidity.
    You know, then... ahmm,
    linguistically spoken,
    you should say it differently. Instead of...

    They should know when... ahmm,
    linguistically spoken,
    it is time to shut up.
    Instead of telling her
    I kissed her.

    By the time she caught her breath
    her teeth had fallen out
    and I had lost my hearing.
    So it didn’t matter so much anymore.

    aaa wooof ooo...

    It might have been what she said,
    yet it might have been only what I heard.
    linguistically spoken,
    I know it to have been perfectly expressed.



The Last Layer

    Look, she said,
    opening the top button
    and letting a Giant Swallowtail fly away.

    When I looked back
    she had opened the rest of the buttons
    and started disintegrating into Leopard Lacewings
    and Common Jays and Blue Tigers and Striped Blue Crows...
    Stop, I yelled,
    chasing the flitter of color with my butterfly net
    never catching even one
    before they rolled into porcelain marbles
    and started flowing down to the sea.

    Make love to me, she said, before I melt away,
    and she let the wind catch the rest of her laces and silks
    to pursue them barking with infantine gusts between the bark’s cracks.

    I embraced her
    the swarms fluttering away from between our bodies
    as she emaciated into deeper, sharper colors,
    layer after layer of beauty escaping into the light
    and inviting me to make love again and again
    to layer after layer of warmth
    and velvet
    and caress...
    No! I gasped
    knowing it when I almost reached that end
    before nothing.

    This is my skin, she said,
    and I knew this was the last layer
    before eternity.

    I carried her to the sea of porcelain marbles
    and we sank to the bottom
    before I dared make love to her one last time
    I am afraid... I said,
    and the skin stayed
    and we never stopped making love
    knowing that the moment we stop
    she turns butterfly
    and I die inside her sea.



Kitchen Story, And Love

    I found you among the pots
    and the pans and the potato masher and the pestle and mortar
    and wire sieves and teflon baking forms and nylon pastry brushes
    the white scarf around your brow drenched
    your cheeks red
    your arms flour-white wrist to elbow
    a bunch of left toes scratching the back of a right shin
    the forgotten shoe on the floor bursting in tears at momentary abandon
    and fears of an unknown future.

    I love you, I said,
    disregarding incredulity of potatoes and aloofness of tomatoes
    joining forces with fried onions and pieces of meat
    simmering together into a goulash pulling at my stomach’s strings
    but never at my heart’s... though they tried.

    You dumped the scarf in the sink
    and the apron on the back of a chair
    the second shoe screaming indignation and intolerance and infidelity
    as it rolled over to join its blubbering mate
    and finishing its way upside down in noble protest.

    We didn’t make it to the bedroom, it was too far away,
    we barely made it underneath the table
    crawling between a forest of chair legs
    overturning and crashing as we tried to dump the rest of our rags
    and in the cacophony of cold tiles cracking underneath your bare back
    spice jars started to explode in two’s and three’s on the shelves
    covering us with volcano ash
    and the sharp aroma of oregano and mint and love making.



Art Nouveau

    pull your pennons up the pole
    with morning,

    the art of holes
    gaping at knees and toes of fluttering stockings,
    a brassiere missing clasp and ring
    one strap dangling uselessly,
    swarming with buzzing beasts
    fighting for ambrosia flavors... bees and wasps and hornets
    and desperate hummingbirds
    and my mouth,

    sing the morning
    with screaking spine and throbbing vein and constricted throat,

    the art of bones
    looking to escape the prison of sockets,
    red drops
    eagerly following fingernails into hell or heaven
    or short flashes of nothingness,
    gurgling sounds
    reminiscent of smothered pine trees
    ablaze with exploding resin pockets and sputtering needles
    refusing the soothe
    of enshrouding dew,

    leave traces
    across poppy invaded wheat fields,

    the art of crushed spikes
    in the wake of tangled bodies grinding grains to flour
    between chests locked in an interminable spasmodic grip,
    petals drying on skins
    alight with the fever of a dying eruption feeding departing suns,
    skipping across a flesh hugging flesh continuum
    huddled amorphously mid of hurricane’s dead eye
    in wait for




    a handful of spikes
    one millstone to your back
    a mouthful of leaven

    my hand
    my mouth lips teeth tongue
    my legs and beyond

    a cartful of silk ribbons and porcelain marbles and kites
    wheels plowing to axle in mud
    your muscle a bow’s string about to rupture

    the raspberry wine
    and the charcoal pen
    and the vellum

    drop it all
    and pull the curtain to the world
    and there wherever you did – love me before bread

    before dress and decant and drink
    before slivers of razor sharp sighs abandon the safe haven of your chest
    to lancinate that of my nipples hoarding the caress of your staves



Of Four, Screams

    on the other side of glass
    is the open mouth
    of lipstick
    the rest of you gone long before
    your scream died

    I see dogs bark and girls bark and flowers bark
    remembering dogs barked and girls caressed and flowers smelled
    once upon a time when you sang me your breast’s ambrosia
    and combed my skin with razor studded screams
    and bathed me in the heavenly stank of your loins’ afterlust.

    Dinosaur seed, I,
    oozing layers of falling days cocoon me into immotion
    and I do not hear the scream that should be there
    as the thick amber slides down my throat
    embracing the harpsichord you loved

    And my eyes fixedly
    unsee untaste unfeel the other side of glass
    waiting for the mouth
    to join the lipstick once again
    and the scream to break the amber.



Kirsch-Kitsch Interlude I

    I spit the seeds sideways,
    stalks tumbling awkwardly upwardways,
    then the cherry flesh bucketways
    and when the bucket started oveflowing downways
    I clamped your lips between my teeth
    and spilled the bubbling liquour over your head, drenching your pale

    I hated that artistic tri-dimensional rendition
    of fermenting acridity
    foaming at the interstices of your shirt’s warps and wefts
    and those damn nipple stubs
    waving their swarthy red of insolence inside the sodden red of stains
    like puppies’ tails looking for fingertips’

    I bit
    barely missing the stiff lumps of flesh
    clammy pieces of cotton and satin and nylon sticking between my teeth
    as your craving pride offered my mouth

    I wondered whose hands were ripping whose clothes into whiping flagella
    my foot stuck inside the greedy bucket
    and you
    giving up the fastidiousness of a buckle
    dragging my tatters and my body and my sizzling liquour all the way into you.



canvas duality

    i tried the quill,
    dipping it in poppy ink
    and running it around the tips of your breasts,
    lips, fingernails.

    i gave up the pedantic approach
    picked the inkwell and spilled it in one go over your skin
    shaking it for last ink drops
    wringing it broken
    cutting in my palm
    a second lifeline,

    i started grabbing swath after swath of begging flowers
    munching their flesh
    and letting bitter red ooze between my teeth
    together with broken stems and chewed leaves and ripped roots
    in the artist’s insane fervor
    to beat the beauty
    of canvas.

    you waited patiently.

    i gave up.

    i swept you clean
    then wiped you clean
    then licked you clean
    then decided that no art could beat your beauty.
    you forgave me for trying so hard, after all you were an artist yourself
    painting my heart’s irregular beats
    and my garden’s crawling beetles
    and those eye sparks singing fringed freckle-like stars on your skin.

    let’s make love, you proposed as a way to make up
    turning from canvas to artist
    and showing me your ways of using poppies ink.
    i’ve never been a canvas myself, before,
    never knew how hard it was
    not to go up in smoke.



October Butterfly

    Parts of words
    ending in letters, even in parts of letters,

    It started with an l... was it supposed to be love? lust?
    the connection bad
    the meaning tainted by noise, by a need
    blinding the senses and occulting the mind,
    was it patience you said, or passion?...
    maybe even parliament
    though what the hell has parliament to do with love
    unless if they decided to outlaw fire
    in favor of blandness and routine and indifference
    and define burning hearts as arson,
    a criminal act of insanity punishable with extinction.

    I close my eyes, trying to focus,
    not with the October butterfly crossing my path
    and dropping flakes of white in its raggedy wake
    as it searches for your nectar...
    of course I know, it flies in the scattered shape of your name,
    all I have to do is connect the dots of its random breaks
    and I get all of the last letters
    and strange punctuation,
    the way of butterflies.

    I open my eyes again,
    the butterfly flying from my dark to my light
    through a curtain of rising eyelids and sizzling eyelashes
    and before I have the time to shout a warning
    it plunges into a broken jar
    slashing its wings
    and my heart.
    I found it, I guess at its antennae’s wriggling write,
    out of my time and species,
    and I do not know what it means
    and if it means.

    I love you, I hear you finally saying,
    as clear as white and silence,
    and I burry the butterfly beneath a flower
    knowing I will never understand beauty
    but I will live it
    as long as I can close eyes
    and hear parts of letters
    and only from time to time
    understand words and butterflies.



Some Kind Of Forest, I Think

    Lay your head against my heart,
    the other side... are you confused with emotion
    and fright?...
    no need, just listen -
    no pounding waves,
    no shrieks, no orchestral intermezzo’s and finale’s and andante’s,
    no whirring motors,
    just the sound of broken glass
    colorless shards crashing atop of each other
    in a universe of flesh
    and memories.

    I hear a forest, you say,
    probably mistaken.

    I try to listen myself,
    my ear too small my neck too short
    my chest hidden underneath a sea of waving hair,
    your left ear there, somewhere,
    still attached to the visible side of my skin.

    I try a headstand
    losing you along the way,
    same kind of sound... my mistake?...
    It still sounds a forest to me, you claim
    and the sea of hair rematerializes out of nowhere
    once again attaching itself to my chest
    with your voice there, somewhere.

    I never heard a forest.
    I once saw an owl on my balcony,
    this was the closest.

    You trick me into removing my clothes,
    shoes too,
    guiling me into believing you are looking for proof
    then into making love to me
    then into sharing one pot of yoghurt
    and the same bathtub, the same toothbrush,
    you even write a poem called My toothbrush in Your forest
    claiming I inspired you, inclusive the use of capitals.
    You trickster!

    Told you that you sound like a forest, you say,
    shaking the bed and me with it
    and watching first the leaves fall to my feet,
    then clouds gathering above me to pour buckets of rain,
    and finally opening all doors and windows and even the chimney
    and letting in birds and frogs and rabbits
    one limping snake coiling shyly inside my shoe
    and even several bears... they could not all fit in
    so they slept on the threshold,

    You may have been right
    but I still refuse to admit
    preferring to let you dress me in order to undress me again
    and keep whatever dignity I still harbor
    suffering those other indignities you so excel in delivering
    with your hands and your fingertips and other parts.

    Hey, now I hear the glass, you finally admit
    and just as I am about to scream Victory!
    you guide my ear to your chest and shake it.
    I hear it, the glass,
    keeping another sense concentrated on the twin pendulum of your breasts
    tinkling against each other
    Does it hurt? I ask,
    meaning both.
    No, you answer,
    not for as long as I can listen to your forest
    and you watch my breasts,

    and you squeeze tighter into me
    making place for one insisting bear.
    I guess one of us is crazy, I think,
    and this one is certainly not me, I think further
    laughing loudly.

    I could have done without the giraffe
    but, hey, it brought me an apple
    and it wasn’t apple season.
    It is always apple season, you say
    biting off half of it and handing the other half back to the giraffe.
    Yes, definitely crazy, I reach a final decision
    then fall in love with you.




    When I put my hand on your shoulder
    playing my magician’s trick
    making the shoulder strap disintegrate
    into fire descending long your arm
    to burn underneath your fingernails,

    When I touched your knee with mine
    and the violins asleep inside the tree’s trunk
    materialized into their cordless nakedness
    stealing strands of your hair to cover the shame
    and voices from your chest to play our dance music,

    When I bit your ear lobe
    fitting a pearl descending my eye’s sanctuary
    to hang by the silk of your shoelace
    and swing in your head’s rolling wake
    as you watched me trying to steal your heart,

    When your waist squeezed in between my thumb and forefinger
    and all your dresses slid down your hips
    drawing patterns of closing flowers on bare skin
    invading the evening night with fragrances
    forgotten out of petals’ prisons,

    Is when I knew that my magic was mortal
    and your love eternal
    and the real illusion
    my reality.



Fires In The Rain

    I see your fingers,
    I read on the ground the words written by last night’s rain
    running through the same fingers
    and clinging to tips of green blades
    before chiseling their message through colonies of rushing ants
    and hurrying centipedes
    carrying pieces of my skin and snips of my chest’s hair.

    I look up,
    my back reading those earlier written words,
    sharp grains of sand clinging to bone ends
    protruding through layers of ligaments and muscles and blood vessels
    and copying the message
    into spots laid bare of skin
    exposing nerve ends to soothing drops of salt and penetrating thorns.

    I don’t remember,
    did you always hover there above me
    tasting northern winds and feeding diving birds
    the thin garment ingesting your skin through thousands of suckling cups
    telling me those of your flesh secrets
    I did not know before
    and will forget after?

    I try to get up on my feet,
    the warm mud clucks delighted
    allowing its next of kin hordes dress my nakedness
    and bury the words I read
    beneath thick layers of decomposing leaves
    and dead petals
    and barely smoldering stardust.

    You decide it is time once again,
    and you invoke gravitation to drop your pale amorphousness atop of me
    to smother me
    your crawling weight demanding unconditional capitulation
    peeling the mud
    rewriting the poem
    and inviting me inside that wet garment
    lonely witness to fires crying life inside the rain.




    efflorescing off your earlobe’s tiny puncture
    down to your hips
    on to your ankles
    to drag, tumbling, behind you
    and shed buds and bees and birds...

    braided with your apple soaked hair and orange curled eyelashes
    sending ribbons beneath shy breasts
    to tie across gaping ribs,
    round and round thighs,
    measuring the infinity of sleeping fires...

    milk flowers and honey butterflies
    pouring along sweat trails marking your love exhausted body
    and sowing grain sized mountains
    underneath skin parcels
    parched by the hollow of my hand...

    Take it all, you say.
    I fall asleep on a bed of garlands and anadems and bouquets
    and you sing.




    I heard the noise,
    I saw the black cloud rising above the horizon
    driven by lashing red whips cutting it end to no end,
    darkness rushing ahead of it like a rolling wave
    slashing thousand years old trees
    like hollow stems,
    I heard the wail...

    I ran, crying for you,
    buried my head under your body
    waiting for your warmth to protect my scales,
    to replace the sun,
    to dandle me to sleep...

    “Wake up, my love, wake up...”
    I opened my eyes to a finger sweeping ashes from my eyeglasses
    and after doing it twice
    a pair of lips bending above me to kiss my gasping mouth.
    “You are dreaming, my love, you are dreaming...”
    No, I am not, I knew
    and buried my head under you body
    waiting for your warmth to protect my skin,
    to replace the sun,
    to dandle me to sleep...




    Miaow, she made, feline to the marrow.
    Moooh, I responded, trying to sound toro
    yet sounding cow.
    I tried meeeh too,
    hoping she didn’t know of its gloryless bleat origins.
    She knew, but did not laugh (yet)
    and decided to shoot my way a few other m words
    getting out of onomatopoeia and straight into dictionary,
    having fun...
    Mustang, mule, mongoose, she chipped.
    Mycelium, myocardium, myelin, I retorted, all knowing.
    Magination, I added, biting my tongue immediately after...
    too late, she was laughing already,
    so I corrected my aim with molybdenum
    followed by a mischievously intended mast... hey!... erpiece... ohh!...
    Hmm... mama, she said, kissing me.

    Too bad love doesn’t start with an m, I said.
    But it does, she corrected me – magic, miracle, magnificence...
    Mud, mistake, mediocrity, I countered, going for the kill.
    Muse, music, melody, she pulled from thin air
    leaving me hanging on a thread above a mean murderous mob.

    Mentally insane, I tried weakly.
    My love, she smiled, happily.
    Mmm... I tried and she spanked me...
    you did already write an mmm poem.
    Yes, but it was not with capital m, I countered, rubbing my ass,
    this is different.
    Don’t argue, she spanked me again seeing that I actually enjoyed it,
    and you even wrote a similar story, it was about d.

    I gave up.
    After all, all I wanted was to lose
    and she made sure I was losing in style.
    I wonder if she knows what merde stays for, I silently wondered.
    I know what merveille stays for, she silently whispered.

    My god...



You Wait

    You wait.

    You smile, hearing the door open.
    Bang your head, twist your ankle, break a nail rushing to kiss me...
    kiss me...
    kiss me...
    summer heartbeats and paper butterflies and peeled oranges
    and your bottom lip swollen,
    did I do that last night?
    No, this morning.

    We limp to the bed...
    you, your twisted ankle,
    I, you hanging on to my neck,
    I touch your heartbeats watching the butterflies float down on the oranges
    as we turn a perfectly solid bed into a perfect wreck
    and your smiles and laughter and moans soothe creaking joints
    (mine, not the bed’s)
    and complaining ligaments
    (the bed’s, not mine).

    I finish dressing.
    Bang my head, twist my ankle, don’t break a nail rushing to kiss you...
    kiss you...
    kiss you...
    you trap me into looking for those heartbeats and butterflies and oranges
    and one hour later I have to dress again,
    I touch your swollen lips, both now, apologizing.
    You’ll pay for it, this evening.

    You wait.



Like Telling Of Love

    I love you.

    The words beneath your fingers’ tips
    Take early morning prying trips
    Invading paths my mind forgot
    And cutting lanes through loves-me-not
    With fire dotted nips.

    Look, a falling star.

    I watch the paper butterflies
    Reflect inside your questing eyes
    And as you blink away the rain
    I read there rhymes of gist arcane
    Yet innocent of guise.

    Please, tell me a love story.

    I ain’t got gift to tell of tales
    Which countless scores of nightingales
    Have died in vain attempt to praise
    Before the feather set ablaze
    To paint my mornings’ sails.

    The call of blood I savvy not
    Beyond a mindless crooning trot
    Besmearing pages’ pallid hearts
    With brash affronts to sacred arts
    And cants abrim with rot.

    My trailing bag is flapping bare,
    When dreams assail my human lair
    And swathe my flesh with epodes new
    I plod my way through turbid brew
    To wake in gloom’s despair.

    Please, tell me a love story.

    The woman breathing in your skin
    Through saline glints and smiles unseen
    Bestrides my wish with nimble feet
    To seed her rose inside my sleet
    And dye my desert green.

    Look, a falling star.

    You trek through waving clover fields,
    A dying sun its color wields
    And yields the rule for moments few
    To scatter grains of love-you-too
    In budding sunrise shields.

    I love you.




    Lean into the sweeping gale
    Letting time’s departing whale
    Leave its song on staves unseen
    Longing for that might have been
    ever more.

    Open doors in fragile stems
    Oozing streams of tiny gems
    Only dressing gliding sands
    Out of reach to groping hands’
    vain demands.

    Vow a word inside the stone,
    Vulcan’s ribcage blazing bone,
    Virgin of deception’s gown
    Vie for sunset’s tender frown
    old of crown.

    Ease my way your guiding sail,
    Enter worlds behind the veil
    Erring in your questing spree
    Echoes rich and anguish free,
    loving me.




    Don’t let blisters gain your lips
    Running errands down my hips
    When the moment of emotion
    Ties the garlands to your neck
    Dripping crave’s infesting potion
    Round my body’s gasping wreck
    And your scream belies my ears
    Hiding suns inside the tears.

    Smiles confess while words deny
    Flirting cherubs in your eye,
    Imps uncovered by the splendor
    Of that moment raw and mean
    Royal in its sweet surrender
    To the afterglow of sin
    As your lashes flitter on
    Lost in worlds of times foregone.

    Where is gone your human shield?
    Is this whirlwind in the field
    Running wild with flowers’ plunder
    Sowing petals in its wake
    And as forests rage and sunder
    Gleaning ebbs from sunset’s lake
    To adorn your body’s dew,
    Was this... is this human you?

    There’s a soft, insistent drone...
    I awake to scents unknown
    And to touches long forgotten
    Born of dreams in lands beyond
    Rich of senses misbegotten
    Time abandoned Eden spawned...
    Then you don again your self
    While I ponder - human? elf?



The Wonder Of Moths

    Your steps die.
    The echo dies.
    Silence plows reality into my brains,
    cutting furrows across those contorted decorations
    laden with all I ever was less what I ever wasn’t,
    irrigating it the knowledge of despair
    twined into the knowledge of happiness.

    I have seen butterflies out the window, you said earlier on
    and I believed you,
    sleet, night, ten stories high walls...
    I believed you.
    You saw them.
    It was my turn now
    as the technological monster took to the sky
    expelling hordes of paper butterflies from its engines.
    This was not the wonder.
    The wonder was that one, lonesome, colorless moth
    escaping the swarm’s grip
    and penetrating the numberless layers of glass and brick and plaster
    to fly my way
    and settle at the corner of my eye,
    its invisible claws cutting tunnels into my tear ducts
    to bathe tiny feet
    into the mud of memories.

    Are you my friend? I asked it
    ranging my pen
    until writing the answer much later.
    I wouldn’t have been surprised to have found I was crazy,
    after all, I know moths cannot speak.


    Much later. Now.
    I took out the pen before daring risk to forget,
    remembering its words before its ashes sank underneath my skin
    leaving a colorful scar,
    so much unlike its colorlessness.
    No, it said, I am a moth.
    And the swarm? I asked.
    Just paper butterflies, it answered.
    Moths don’t talk, I refused to give in to my senses,
    hoping to be shown wrong.
    Are you in love? it asked,
    wrong question from a moth, what do moths know about love?
    What do moths know about love? I asked,
    certain it was a statistical aberration, ha... a lepidoptera talking
    and then about love of all things.
    I saw the swarm descending from a blinding sun,
    the tiny flame they carried annihilating butterfly after butterfly after butterfly
    and on they came
    passing the torch wing to wing mindlessly, carelessly,
    until the last one floated down, a mass of burning cinders shriveling at my feet...
    That’s insane, I shrieked in horror, what for?
    For love, the moth answered, fluttering away from my hand.
    Love, what love, what do you know about love? I repeated myself.
    You’ll never know, unless you believe, it answered
    diving into the snuffing flame and turning a tiny falling star,
    a spark tumbling and tumbling to fiery death.

    I waited till the blaze spread through fields,
    then through forests,
    then through oceans
    and finally I dared lay my hand into the fire
    to such atrocious pain, such great love.
    I think
    I finally understood.

    I buried its ashes underneath my skin
    close to my eye,
    never to ask what I fail to comprehend.
    And to accept
    the wonder of moths.




    I opened the poetry book,
    your present,
    reading for the n-th time the dedication
    then once more.
    Time to move on, I finally decided
    going to the list of poets,
    none I’ve known, anonymous all.
    Well, I exaggerate a bit,
    there was Bill, and there was Robert,
    oh... Edgar Allan too.

    I started reading,
    back to front,
    looking for the love, the passion, finding the love, the passion,
    no, not as good as mine, I know,
    no one wrote their life,
    I did.

    Oh, so much beauty...

    A wild impulse... I turned the book upside down,
    opened it at page three
    and watched it sliding out and floating down...
    the paper cut-out,
    the butterfly printed in glorious offset on the waxed paper
    which packed the orange before we ate it.
    I picked it up,
    you have carefully cut out even the thin antennae,
    a masterpiece.
    Finally, I found it,
    a poem even more beautiful than mine,
    what a challenge to face up to
    and fail.

    I love you.



Mood, Maybe

    Not yet writing,
    thinking of what to write later on
    when I write,
    inclusive this prelude
    telling you of intent, and maybe execution,
    probably already writing
    in my mind
    but not yet writing.

    the first word which pops to mind.
    Have written so much already about beauty...
    about butterflies, and rainbows, and stars, and dragons, and lovemaking,
    breaking the scales
    opening the interspecies barriers
    purging myself of hideous monsters roaming my bowels
    and letting them metamorphose into the absolute truths of love
    and loving
    and being loved.

    was this one maybe the first?
    See, this is what happens when I try to mind write rather than finger write
    but tenderness wouldn’t mind being second
    as long as it stays first
    and I plagiarize the classics and dissect the moderns and enter my own version
    with the result barely tangible
    yet incomparable
    to classic and modern and my yesterday self.

    Hmm... warmth, softness, innocence... no, wrong direction, too many of them.
    This will probably not be my night for the best poem ever
    so I better stop before I start writing
    and regret it later on when it is too late for both.

    I close my physical eyes, temples on knuckles,
    I feel your breath on the nape of my neck
    then it is gone.
    So beautiful, and tender, and warm, soft, innocent.
    And you are not even here.
    And this is not even a poem.
    This is all I wanted to tell you.




    a fist
    bursting oak
    laying rails
    digging coal
    black soot its blood and choleric its temper
    and down its touch on your cheek
    before holding the fork
    and sharing the one piece of dried meat... you, first.

    a fist
    scrubbing floors
    picking cotton
    laundering carpets
    biting chemicals its blood and impatient its temper
    and silk its touch on my freshly washed brow
    before holding the fork
    and sharing the one piece of slightly molding cheese... you, first.

    seeing each other for the first time
    each time
    and sharing all the pains
    all the time
    and, oh, so much more of the beauty.



With Morning

    You watch for those quarrelsome billowing winds
    To burden your mornings with whispering babble
    As sunrise persistently shadows rescinds
    Unleashing the chords of its chattering rabble,

    The ear-scratching dogs,
    And pond leaping frogs,
    The sniveling grunts of the rummaging hogs,
    Sad quavering cars
    And smoldering stars
    Through hammering sounds of parading red clogs.

    Your skin is assailed by an impudent stream
    Intent on denying a dream’s call for glory
    By battering eyelid’s invincible seam
    And turning your flesh into blistering quarry,

    The white that you wore,
    The shells to your shore,
    That smiling denial in beauty of yore,
    A shivering toe
    A toenail aglow
    And drops turning snowbells of countless the score.

    Your heartbeat imparts its magnificent croon
    To stairs pouring downwards beneath rushing ankles,
    Your smile feeds its blush to a vanishing moon
    Which constantly whines and eternally rankles,

    The music in sigh,
    The kite roaming high,
    An innocent quest roaming patches of sky
    When hand touches hand
    And gold tinted sand
    Writes stories of love in a famished blue eye.



Dressing For The Day

    White on skin
    then red on white
    then the warmth of woolen brown,
    drops enchasing crumbs of rainbow to your forehead’s morning crown,

    Mesh on toe
    then shoe on mesh
    then the butterflies in knots,
    long kaleidoscopic laces kissing tender ankle spots,

    Smile on lips
    then sun on smile
    then the smirk in biting flint,
    flakes of snow invading gardens with perfumes of sprouting mint.

    Is it me?
    bats your eye,
    proud yet meek,
    bold yet shy.

    And as heavens pull the shutters waiting for your whirlwind pass
    And the billow of your dresses burns a path of burnished brass,
    As your shins cut dreams in crystal and your fingers touch the east
    Cries the day its waking glory pouring from your twirling wrist.




    fingers frozen
    frozen leaves
    leaves lying dead underneath my feet crumbling to dust.

    biting sun
    sun uncovered
    uncovered my sweating brow to the chill of northern winds.

    torn glove
    glove wet
    wet to the bone I peel off my overwear and my wear and my underwear.

    shivering flesh
    flesh burning
    burning pain infests the links of bones and muscles and bleeding lungs.

    wait lover
    lover wait
    wait for my skin to dress you warmth of summer in obstinating winter.

    shamelessly naked
    naked body
    body singing your enveloping art of life giving love.

    day ending
    ending travails
    travails shared in a mind smiling with the beauty of my protecting lover.