Hobbies - Poetry - Anonn
back to Poems...




    The ribbons round your ankles
    red, blue, green, yellow,
    the ribbons round your wrists
    blue, red, yellow, green,
    the ribbons tying your hair into unruly bouquets
    yellow, red, green, blue, purple, turquoise, amethyst, ruby, rose, lilac, cymbals,
    the rest of you
    skin, skin, skin...

    You jumped from tile to tile
    skipping one, skipping two, skipping reclining me
    as you balanced an apple walking on your toes along the bed frame
    dropping it for an orange then for cherries hanging down your ears
    then a cork still dripping wine
    then chasing a speck of dust reflecting early rays
    which you tried to keep on the tip of your nose,
    I had problems defining you as belonging to the grasshoppers family,
    or frogs family, or gazelles, or swans, or humans of female gender
    or lovers...

    I made a mistake
    opened the window... did not think of defining you as butterfly
    when you squeezed through the thin crack
    and flew away.
    I cried.
    Donít cry, I felt the weight of a garden rest on my shoulder
    and the perfumes following
    and the rustling of beetles and the chirrup of birds and the tickle of centipedes
    and your breath smiling with a logic of its own
    as it dragged all of you back into the room.
    I rushed to close the window
    while you walked upside down on the ceiling
    humming to yourself my songs
    and your words
    and heavy drops of rain with thick honey cores.
    I brought you a present, you said, smirking.

    You undid all your ribbons
    then undid all my clothes
    then placed the drop of sun you held in a fisted hand
    between your lips
    and offered me death by fire.
    Did you fly all the way to the sun? I asked, incredulous.
    No, silly, you let the cymbals answer with your toes playing,
    I stole it from you, I just flew out to cheat some buds into opening.
    You were probably lying, your story made no sense,
    and I lay down on the floor
    watching you tie ribbons to clothes to rugs to bed sheets to the chair leg
    and sending the other end through the glass into the other sun
    then waiting for flaming marbles to roll back into the room
    and pose as falling stars... so childish of them...
    while you insisted that I join you on the ceiling
    making love upside down
    amongst buzzing flowers.




    salt saturated lakes trapped between bellies, chests, clasping palms,
    tiny rivulets staining bed sheets
    as insurgent bodies pound each other
    for the right to momentary death
    and resurgence.

    body flooding body with the strange perfumes of intimate liqueurs,
    drunken mouths invading bitter crevices
    as pieces of flesh insist on changing owner
    groping for a hold in and around and through
    slippery curves.

    decaying into the gasping finale of an orchestrated bodily debacle,
    chain links breaking away from ankles
    as nails pull back from perforated skin
    and a chunk of shared humanity threshing incoherently
    breaks apart.

    fingertips dip somnolently into wetlands liberated of susurrant fires,
    pupils regain a round innocence lost for few moments
    as welding fireworks sizzle out behind eyelids
    and wounds refuse to release their clutch on wounds
    whispering love.




    Up to my knees in rotting leaves, stank,
    mud and breaking twigs and frightened bugs crawling into boots
    with chilly rain drops trekking between collar
    and shivering shoulder blades...
    another armful of autumnal death into the plastic sack,
    bend, grab, unbend, shove, bend, grab...
    that terrible pain cutting my spineís tail end... bend, grab...
    fingernails the black of starless midnight splintering,
    unbend, shove... your hand...

    Your hand? your hand,
    what is your hand doing
    sliding there between belt and flesh
    groping for the obviously primitive side of me
    and with one mighty heave dropping me on the rot
    careless for the mud and breaking twigs and frightened bugs
    as it frees me of unnecessary modesty
    and my bare bottom half matches your bare bottom half...
    where those your skirts flying overhead?...
    who gives a damn about the sudden downpour
    soaking into garment leftovers
    and cleansing bared flesh busy with that untalented poetry
    making love in the dirt
    while the steam exploding underneath our messy entanglement
    kicks geysers up to treetopsí last hanging leaves
    turning them soggy dust?

    We lie, hugging,
    shamelessly exposing the naked paleness of after love
    and mud dresses us and breaking twigs bite us
    and frightened bugs dry fat behinds to the warmth of frolicking whiffs
    emanating from laborious breath
    and skin refusing to unweld from skin.




    the eyes of pain
    lining the insides of fingers
    pushing against chest
    looking at a heart locked in the prison of ribs
    chanting lonesomeness.

    the eyes of passion
    lining fingers twining fingers pushing against chest
    crushing breast inside a twin hold
    aiming to quash heartís chant
    and seed it shared fire.

    lining ceiling and walls and bed sheets
    watching fingers and hearts and breasts and ribs ignite
    smarting in the smothering smoke
    rising from shapeless smoldering bodies.




    You admired yourself in the full length mirror
    then sidewise,
    then... Halt!... I shouted as you were about to turn backwise
    and as you froze I picked up the scissors
    and started cutting out your silhouette in the glass.

    You cannot cut the glass with your scissors, you remarked,
    nevertheless not daring to move
    and pulling an upset mumble back from me...
    Everybody tries to tell me what I can and canít do with my fantasies...
    as I kept cutting and chopping at curves and angles.

    It was easy to follow the ankle line,
    the curve up to your thigh and waist and spine,
    it got tougher with your hair as I worked out ends and splits,
    moving on to your front... forehead, nose, a complex eyelash,
    down, neck, a nipple surrounded by tiny skin pimples took a while,
    smoothly on down your belly
    a mess of intricacies round your intimacy your knee
    toe in then toe out then toe in...

    And now if I move then all you see reflecting is chairs, walls,
    no more the softness of me and the paleness of me
    and the shivering skin of me...
    shaped glass, spiritless.

    True, I concurred,
    picking up the silhouetted mirror
    and letting it drop to the floor
    breaking into a few big shards, hundreds of small shards
    and silver dust.
    You smiled and puffed out of my existence.
    I started collecting the big shards, the small shards,
    the silver dust,
    and then painstakingly began sticking them to each other.
    This will keep me alive now
    for that little stretch of eternity
    until you puff into my life
    once again.



Your Words

    your words
    undress me,
    soak into my clothes turning them to mush
    and as the forming mud starts sliding down to my ankles
    your hands slide in its wake
    ironing my skin
    caressing intimately my flesh

    I collapse in a quivering heap
    void of collagen and keratin and dentin,
    liquid flesh enchased with shapeless crumbs of desire
    now seeping through the carpet
    into floor cracks
    flooding contorted worm canals
    to the finality of concrete cavities.

    wait... you write inside my lingering mouth
    and drag me like a limp blanket atop of your nakedness
    saving me from the cavities and the canals and the cracks
    bathing in me, wallowing in me,
    my flesh in turn cleansing you and penetrating your welcoming insides
    absorbing strength, gulping life
    as collagen and keratin and dentin and veins and tendons and muscles
    conquer my deformities
    turn me flesh turn me body turn me human-he
    until once again
    your words
    dress me
    fever devastating.




    Donít bare the flesh
    above your knee,
    sitting by my side as the one hundred fifty diesel horses between my legs
    pull us at one hundred and fifty miles an hour
    away from pieces of screaming asphalt cracking behind
    right into the tunneling air ahead
    and a dying distance
    to somewhere uncared.

    Keep your hand... in your pocket,
    if you donít have one then sew one
    and then sew it closed
    keeping that struggling hand locked inside a textile prison
    away from impulsive mischief
    and stubborn insubordination to reason.

    No, donít lean my way
    forcing my eyes into the promised valley
    and my nose into the apple of your hair
    and my mouth trying to save its tongue
    from the vise of your teeth,
    the deathly temptation of sin beating against the windshield
    ravishing your body
    through my senses.

    Sorry, I give up,
    the metallic silver spins agonizingly into a tree
    and I bare your flesh beyond your waist
    and free all hands from the tyranny of prisons
    and plough the valley
    and fist the hair
    and as my tongue loses its virginity under the guillotine of your teeth
    the shower of exploding glass and splinters and rubble severs our skin
    amidst the agony of bodies sacrificing sanity
    on the altar of exploding tires
    and shared ecstasy.



Songs Of Love

    oh, lady of alabaster breasts,
    tainting my thoughts carmine with the sin of eudialytes
    enchased in the blinding white
    pouring your dragoness blood
    into that wound of mine
    called mouth.

    donít hide your beauty
    inside the confines of smothering silk and gashing lace
    imposed upon you by a world
    ignorant to the delicacy of the art of flesh
    masterfully sculpted by a hand not mine
    for pleasures mine.

    braid yourself into sunshine fibers
    before grabbing the kite of your discarded cloth and attire
    and flying sunwards
    to dump them into the unforgiving furnace
    following your nakedness back to earth
    your hair on fire.

    your scream of abandon sings
    enveloping me inside its bell ridden gossamer-fragile thrill
    and as I gulp down your red offer
    of blood and fire and flesh
    blindfolded by your encircling thighs
    you sip my life through one limp hanging thumb.



You Laughed

    I will hide the moon behind the sun,
    if you tell me,
    I will pull a bouquet from beyond the mirror,
    if you tell me,
    I will write poetry aligned right and rhyming left,
    if you tell me.

    You laughed, sadly.

    So easy your travails.
    I tell you
    and you paint the sun on page one and the moon on page two,
    I tell you
    and you put the mirror in front of a garden and jump over it,
    I tell you
    and you write your poetry in Aramaic.
    Will you love me,
    if I tell you?
    Yes, I answered.

    You laughed, sadly.

    Kiss me, you said,
    Caress my hair, you said,
    Make love to me, you said.
    I tried, I failed, so many the miles.
    See? you said,
    you cannot kiss me, caress my hair, make love to me.

    You laughed, sadly.

    I hate sadness,
    I pulled the moon away and hid it behind the sun
    to show off,
    crawled into the mirror's silver and gleaned a huge bouquet
    to prove it possible,
    wrote you poetry aligned right and rhyming left, in English...
              sing the nightingales with morning
                spring invades your naked breast

    ...yet it still did not seem enough.

    You still laughed, still sadly.

    I cannot kiss you, I said, true.
    I cannot caress your hair,
    cannot make love to you, true
    And yet I love you, I said,
    and you did not tell me.
    Isn't this what you asked?
    I waited.

    You laughed.




    Break your nails,
    peeling the oranges to feed me
    and the paint off enshrouding clothes to bare me
    and the bark off trees pushing against your arching back
    as I gulp those chunks of flesh cowardly deserting you
    and tie you with my clothesí tatters
    to the blazing bed of an excoriated trunk
    to paint you with lascivious eyes.

    Call in the rain,
    to extinguish the bed and the flesh and the flaming flowers field
    cleansing your body from yesterday for tomorrow
    when I will once more cup my hands
    and sweep your pouring sweat till overflow
    to drench my food in your salt
    and quench your thirst with my offer of invading ecstasy
    and carnal tenderness.

    Donít name it passion,
    name it art and mirth and abandon and majesty
    the blue trails of tongues lashing at an infinity of skin plains
    calling defiance upon a cloudless sky
    and the red of fatigue and the yellow of sleepless nights
    and the unbearable white of sunless body hideouts
    mystifying all self proclaimed connoisseurs of the perfection
    in the mastery of lust.

    Clean the tip of your pen,
    in your mouth on my cottons rip it through the bedding
    losing all those letters which would have become words to poems
    as seduction takes over your mind
    and insanity is tamed into temptation
    and as we sink into a barrel of last yearís rotten fruit and foliage
    the leftovers of our bodily secretions ferment into the liqueur
    which drove inebriated gods into that single moment of chivalrous sanity
    to create desire.



Poor Mercurius Hallucinating

    The eyelid descends
    for a microsecond
    lifting upon a you older by a microsecond
    more beautiful by centuries.

    I try it again,
    and you are older by one additional microsecond
    and millennia older is your beauty.

    I do not dare try it once more,
    lest I turn a mercury blob
    rushing my shaky self your way
    splitting into brothers and sisters
    the many times twins and triplets and sextuplets of me
    getting lost down sewers, lining bottoms of rat hideouts,
    drops of me imprisoned forever in thermometers glass and battery compounds
    and tooth fillings
    until all that is left over to reach you is insufficient to grow
    to anything bigger than a stain on your carpet
    to be chased by the cat.

    I blink.
    Better a stain on carpet
    near you
    then skin inside clothes
    away from so much beauty.



Crudely Metaphorless

    Piece for piece,
    I removed your shirt
    you removed my shirt,
    I removed your bra
    you removed my singlet,
    shoe for shoe, sock for stocking...
    I found myself naked long before you
    shivering as I continued unveiling your skinís art,
    I was cold... was this the reason?

    I reached the last piece,
    the paramount, the ultimate,
    your panties flew out the window
    and as someone three floors below started cursing
    (the idiot, cursing his bliss...)
    I cupped my hands over your breasts
    letting the nipples stiffen between thumbs and forefingers
    and allowing you to pull me over you
    loins joining over an ecstatic bed singing its monotonous creaking melody
    attuned to our harmonious undulations,
    your ankles locked around my waist
    your fingers locked into my spine
    your mouth locked upon my tongue
    ensnaring enslaving encroaching
    skins melting into each other
    dragging behind flesh, muscles, bones, reason
    until that amorphous shape once defined as us
    flowed through the bed sheet texture, mattress sponge, bed cracks
    soaking into the thick carpet
    like the syrup of roses and jasmine and flamboyant sunflower flames...

    Oh, sorry, promised no metaphors,
    guess that reality is so much stronger than me,



tableau in white

    creaking snow,
    dead leaves,
    the almost dark between almost night and almost passed day...
    a magical outline of earthly white against dying celestial fire
    and a lone wolf howling in the faraway invisible forest
    for beauty? of hunger? in search of mate
    calling me for a tumble in the snow
    before wet muzzle turns growling fangs showing off to the pack?

    your hand in my pocket, my hand in my pocket,
    my other hand blowing your red nose into the cold hankie
    afraid to fall in the spell and fire of those bright eyes
    reflecting the death of day
    and the birth of bewitchment... which one is more beautiful?
    you... I say
    closing each eye with a kiss
    and the mouth with two.

    no other shoe traces in the snow,
    just the four trailing us
    and then just two
    for as long as it takes me to carry you to the white laden bench
    where I sit with you in my lap
    and as the melting snow partly soaks into my pants chilling my flesh
    and partly drips, building tiny icicles underneath me,
    you shove cold palms inside my coat inside my shirt almost inside my skin
    testing my stony nipples
    my shivering muscles
    and that steaming locomotive continuously ramming its way out of my chest
    and straight into your cupped palm.

    you donít say Ė I love you,
    you write it right between my ribs.
    I say it for you.
    I love you.




    the beast
    bellows its violent reds down under the curving west
    imploring me to open once more the gate, way across,
    lest it dies.

    I inherit the bellow, the violent reds,
    sinking them into your curving flesh
    knowing the key to birthing east
    hides in the torn flowers of your dress
    and that of your skinís crushed pollen
    escaping my hunger.

    you will need the blue too, you remind me
    breaking the vials lining your eyes
    trusting me with the last
    of worldís liquid velvet.

    I rush eastways once more, just in time to unlock the gates
    and the beast bellows its anger anew
    watching its lover
    in my mortalís arms,
    cursed in its eternity
    and eternally dying love
    and dying lovers.

    I wonder
    who will open the gates
    after us?

    no one,
    thereís no love after us, you whisper
    once more accepting the bellow and the violent reds
    as your dressí flowers blossom into tatters between my fingers
    and the pollen tints the velvet once more
    into sun.




    when fingers touch
    before bodies
    when eyes touch
    before fingers

    when love is a word yet unborn
    budding in the shared womb of eyes which did not yet touch
    and hearts on a questing trail
    and shivering pieces of skin unfamiliar yet with shivering pieces of skin

    is when you know
    that eyes will touch
    before fingers, following,
    before bodies, following,

    and hearts flicker into the inexistence of eternity
    and skin simply... burns




    twine my fingers to your toes,
    then my toes to your toes... the other ones,
    roll your hair to the nape of my neck
    hiding us under the farrago of your tousle
    as your nose squashes into my cheek
    and our teeth twine
    and our lips knot fourteen times
    seven for each day
    and seven for each of your bodyís wonders,

    wash your soiled silks in the lakes of my mouth
    beating them against the boughs lining the insides of my chest
    and the stones cowering beneath my navel
    and the white bones carrying memories of you
    puncturing my hide and my skin and my fur
    from the inside,
    stretch them to dry
    neck to tied wrists to tied ankles
    hardly aware of burning smells in the guttural noises
    a constricted throat busy drinking you,

    twine the insides of knees to insides of elbows
    armpit to crotch to armpit to crotch
    waiting for the prison of mouth
    to release the viper of creeping tongue,
    dribbling poisons of sesame and rice and milk and water
    into the prison of mouth awaiting wide open
    with its sleeping slithering viper coiled inside
    ready to braid into one stiff carnal trunk
    with limbs and bellies
    and palms and shoulders
    and cremated seeds of orange and sunflower and apple and plum,

    wash your toes inside my cupped palms
    wash your nipples inside my cupped palms
    the memories of milk and the salt of sweat and the bleeding drops of roses
    to disturb the clarity of water
    into a bubbling mire of scrumptious wines and strawberries mush
    for you to drink
    and feed me with,
    delicious mouth sating ravenous gorge.




    I remember an airport
    a man at the airport
    a hug, a smile, I was scared, he kissed me, his hug...

    I remember a woman
    ready to run away
    shy, turning to face me as I put my arms around her, returning my kiss, scared...

    I remember the room
    I took off her coat
    he undressed me, he touched my breasts for the first time
    I touched her breasts for the first time
    he undressed me completely, I undid his belt, I forgot his shoes
    I fell on the bed, the trousers around my ankles
    I laughed embarrassed, happy, sudden rioting in my mind
    she looked tense, she helped me out of the mess of clothes
    he touched me, my womanhood, his tongue aroused me
    I saw her, smelled her, tasted her, I raved for her, I raged for her
    we rolled under the sheets, over the sheets
    we rolled on the floor
    I screamed
    I howled
    we rested hugging the whole night, we made love again and again
    we rested hugging the whole night, we made love again and again.

    I remember a woman
    I will never forget
    giving me her innocence, her body, her love.

    I remember a man
    I will never forget
    taking my innocence, my body, giving me his love.




    no, not a rhyme I want
    but a poem,
    not drops
    but rain,
    forget the ridiculous winds
    for the hurricane
    and cataclysm
    for the chaos.

    regard me,
    as my howl works its way into nightingale
    and the thorn breaks into velvet
    the desert fills a glass of water
    and loneliness ascends into you.

    paint my lips green
    while violet shoots through my tip of tongue
    and watching the yellow of rubies ooze between my fingers
    teach me the other colors of your world.

    I walk
    wondering at the wings to my toes
    and the laughter trailing me as air invades the space of my passing...
    when did you touch your marvel into me?




    I looked at my public,
    all the one of it,
    and I asked

    ainít my inkwell summer spilling
    from the tip of angel quills
    and my fingers pearls milling
    clothing passionís roving hills,

    donít the sun immerse desires
    in those words emblazing ears
    as a flare my wrist inspires
    with its glowing souvenirs?

    you looked up at me
    from the dusk of a dim lit hall

    I have counted stars a million stumbling as I danced along
    to the sounds of dreams emerging with my waking morning song
    once I tasted of that potion steaming from your paperís crust
    with inebriating flavors born in seeds of rhyming lust.

    I turned on the lights,
    pointing to the empty rows of chairs in that huge hall,
    tens, hundreds,
    you the only spectator, first row, middle.

    you stood up, swaying provocatively to the last row, leftmost chair,
    sat in it, clapped your hands, moved to the next, sat, clapped, next, next,
    row after row after row, all the chairs,
    finally back to the first row, middle.

    I will be your choice of witness writing verses with my mouth
    as you move the northern speckle into skies descending south
    and if wayward be your poem ruffling passersí prissy glares
    I will bare your skin with sunset painting lust with dying flares.

    you closed your eyes
    all your senses reduced to nothing
    except for your hearing

    as I listen to the rustle
    time your skirts are flitting by
    and impressions stir and bustle
    creeping through my dimming eye,

    I will know to win my battle
    when your hands invade my shores
    and your mouthís oppressing rattle
    lashes fire through my pores.

    you floated over to me
    and we made love there, on the stage,
    the theatre burning around us.




    Night falls into morning.

    You pass through the flavors rituals
    skipping in your mind a few less pleasant to start with
    and focusing on mint, coffee, lipstick...
    where does the jasmine originate from this cold morning?...
    oh, a passing old lady's invasive perfume
    as you hurry towards the bus
    where you find it impossible to skip some other unpleasant favors...
    gasoline, sweat, unwashed socks and bubble gum smelling of old tires...

    You close your eyes
    hanging to the handhold and jumping a few miles, thousands of them
    finding yourself dangling from my loincloth
    as I jump from tree to tree yowling Tarzan style
    grabbing you by the hair
    (there's an alligators infested swamp underneath),
    both of us hoping that your tattered bra falls by its own accord
    saving us some unnecessary work later on.

    You smile, then wince in sudden pain as an old matron steps on your toe
    moving from the back of the bus to the front
    not even apologizing.
    No, not the one with jasmine,
    this is one with sweat and huge buttocks
    as your toe knows already.
    You bend to peep through the window,
    still some way to go, and you close your eyes
    trying to reach the mosquitoes infested jungle once more, in vain.
    You sigh, settling for a lagoon
    and a lizard creature resembling me in general lines
    and freaking the shit out of you... you laugh aloud
    startling yourself into opening your eyes
    and looking at grim faces crowding you in, surprised at your laughter
    and envious of your dreams.
    They pull a bit away, one never knows... drugs, sex maniac, foreigner?...

    Two stations to go, who will it be the one for the last stretch?...
    Superman, Spiderman, Batgirl... oops... you blush
    peeking around, hoping no one heard... no one heard...
    Batman, Flash Gordon, Woody Allen?...
    this time you don't hold it in, exploding in a tear ridden laughter,
    the widening circle around you helping you to skip off the bus,
    throwing kisses to indignant passengers carrying on.
    The day might be a nice one after all.
    You pull the collar tight around your neck
    and kiss one chosen at hazard - Superman -
    promising me that the only long johns
    you will ever be interested in investigating their content
    are mine.
    Liar! I do not wear long johns, I shout back
    letting you nevertheless investigate their contents and tell me your impressions
    long after you finish your hysterical hiccupping.



Escaping The Quiet

    I snap my fingers,
    first thumb and middle finger
    then thumb and ring finger,
    try other combinations... doesnít work,
    the sound dull, uncommitted.

    I try rapping the table top with my fingers
    better luck there,
    all five fingers
    inclusive the thumb,
    sounds good on a wooden table top,
    not perfect.

    I wish I could play guitar,
    or banjo, or violin,
    what the hell Ė even cymbals would do
    or the breaking of a window
    or the snapping of a match.
    I sneeze... thank God for little favors.
    I sneeze again, God seems to be listening today.

    I love you, I donít hear
    and I would give a full poem for hearing it now,
    even a book... well, a thin book.
    How thin? pips a voice from somewhere undefined
    and I hurry to snap and rap and sneeze
    just to wake up from the hallucination.
    How thin? pips the voice once more
    this time pip-snapping and pip-rapping and pip-sneezing as well,
    kind of telling me... what? that I am pip-sane? haha...
    How thin? and I know there will not be a fourth.
    As thin as all yesterdays tied to all tomorrows
    minus one hour for love making.
    Every day?
    Every day.
    I love you, I hear.

    I started long time ago,
    I will not finish long time ago to come
    as I pass it,
    living for the one hour a day
    when I live all that I write in all yesterdays tied to all tomorrows
    minus the one hour.



Washing Your Toes

    pour the warm water between your toes,
    think of it as rain
    feeding your toenails summer flowers
    in winter.

    do not let it reach your ankles,
    let it be my job
    to dip fingertips to the bottom of the bowl
    and drag them up till ankles are a remote memory
    and the flowers find secret ways to seed
    helped by hesitating fingers.

    open the skies
    then close them again
    after you lose your virginity to my roaming senses,
    do not insist as the sky refuses to close
    inhaling smells of you
    and perfumes of the dance
    your toes lost to the water.

    spill the bowl
    and follow the steaming trail to the sea,
    watch waves curling into fluttering sheets
    ointing your body blue
    and covering your nipples shells
    and your toenails pearls.




    Whatís more to life than flesh? I asked.
    Poetry, she said.

    Yours will be poetry, flesh, life, she added.

    I have already all these, I said.
    Mine, she said.




    past the age of love... ever?

    reaching out to it
    teenagers groping for it
    adults tasting it biting it gulping it mouthfuls
    and I.
    and I?

    I look backwards, forwards
    I was.
    I am.
    reaching, groping, tasting it biting it gulping it mouthfuls.

    I cut my flesh
    finding me
    past the age of love.
    past the age of love? maybe.
    past the rage?




    sliding from my eyes
    not tears

    they never hang long enough to my eyelash
    to reach down to you without breaking
    damn body and physics
    next design should make us sweat rubber
    or plastic
    or ridiculous stardust.

    landing to your eye corner
    sliding down your cheeks
    rejected by the soggy pillow
    to follow the sad destiny of tiles
    and splash.


    you cry, i say
    looking down at your flaming body.
    i do, you unquestioningly accept my verdict and one more drop
    as i penetrate your adytum once more
    my outsides rasping against your insides
    and the splash
    turns tide.



Telekinesis My Foot

    Do you want me to write a poem?
    One minute from now?

    Just tell me.
    All I have to do is close my eyes
    and the poem writes itself,
    the pen scratching the paper, words following
    even after the ink dries
    and the sharp end breaks.

    Ha... telekinesis my foot.

    Three mind strands braiding to one mind string
    tying knots into words
    and tangles into sentences
    and no pen out there to resist

    Do you want me to write a book?
    It will take more than a minute.
    Give me a... day?



Bottomless Cruelty

    I will not touch your nipple.

    I will watch your body thresh
    when scimitars overtake fingertips
    to cut through raw nerve ends populating the dense jungles of skull
    then chase them down the bony ridges of a disjointed spine
    as they pointlessly try to lose my sniffing hounds
    deep into that throbbing enclave
    at the crossroads of your body.

    I will invade the humidity of your mouth
    with the bite of sour cherry
    and the stank of consumed desire
    and the choking presence of burnt oxygen
    finding blessed relief from my exploding chest
    straight into your straining lungs
    as I steal
    gulps off your breath.

    I will turn your flesh screaming wound
    and your fingers groping claws
    to assail the softening tissues of my body on a momentary rampage for vengeance
    before your tattered skin yields its sob
    for soothe.

    I will.



Punctuationless Reflections

    the one behind you
    behind the mirror
    the one in front of you
    between you and the mirror and the one behind the mirror and you
    behind the mirror

    reflecting on reflections being symmetrical or asymmetrical or twins
    or mental interpretations of physical manifestations
    and why left is right yet up is not down
    when I struggle to unclasp your bra
    just watching the mirror
    and failing to the point of tearing the lace impatiently

    Iíll show you you said
    unlacing my shoesí reflections
    losing your bet
    you behind the mirror a clumsy clone of you in front of the mirror
    and failing miserably too to the point of tearing the laces impatiently too
    other laces these

    four of us making love
    I am not one for a commune style I think
    kicking the guts of the mirror with a bare heel
    despairing to see before falling on top of you on top of the bed
    a thousand meís falling on top of a thousand youís on top of a thousand beds
    all over the floor

    one advantage I did have
    thank goodness
    I was the only one bellowing



Proliferation Dementia

    after you touched
    the red spot of your finger
    spread all over my body
    like a varicella virus intent on using my body as its dance floor
    a spiked heel puncturing the delicate tissue of my skin
    through the delicate tissue of my flesh
    down to the delicate tissue of my heart
    where the heel rested
    the shoe dangling and dangling and dangling ceaselessly from it
    mocking passing time.

    before you touched
    sanity composed one character long sentences
    hesitating only between space and tab
    flowing upwards like the torrential rain of a backspace stuck key
    intent on conquering the ten thousand scribbled pages
    of the last of humanityís quotations
    saved from all the annihilated replicae of the Old Testament
    and the Magna Charta and the Declaration of Independence
    the cursor beeping and beeping and beeping first screen top left
    its conquerorís psalm.

    between you touched
    the meaninglessness of timelessness
    when Moebius makes all ends reach all beginnings
    and afterís are just a mockery of beforeís and vice versa
    and languages are but the one before the tower of Babel aimed for the sky
    with humanity restricted to one man and his extra rib
    barren of colors and of music and of never ending recurrence of blossom.

    once more you do not make much sense to anyone, she said.
    are you anyone? I asked
    I am lover, she said and I did not have to ask further.




    the moon
    deserted my face
    pulling its ships back from Ofir
    to the bay of your eye,
    leaving them prey to storms and upheavals and tears
    when afraid to drop anchor inside the blue
    they sank with chests of Coriander and Frankincense and Pomegranate...

    you batted your eyes
    and splashed my upper lip with Myrrh and Cypress and sons of Lilac,
    the leftovers of pagan rites and drunken mornings
    of fingers smearing Aloes in exchange of Cumin
    between toes
    and around dancing ankles.

    I jumped in the puddle
    pieces of moon spraying up to my knees
    and as I lost my footing sliding on my back
    you landed in a grand ťcart next to me
    offering me the only incense I did not yet own...
    your femininity.




    Cutting the tomato flesh,
    cutting the cucumber flesh,
    cutting the radish and the avocado and the eggplant
    the nick in my finger dripping red
    mixing with the oil and the vinegar and the yoghurt
    and the salt burning a blazing trail into my stream
    with onions poisoning my eyes
    and hot peppers cutting my entrails to curling ribbons.

    Miss you.

    I sink hungry teeth in the concoction
    unfamiliar with the taste of crunched olive seeds
    and stone hard rice grains mysteriously sneaking in
    as I munch mindlessly whatever hits the insides of my mouth,
    the iron of the fork screeching as it bends under the enamel battering
    with my tongue threshing around
    looking in vain for sanctum inside that insane manhole
    again and again bleeding its pain under the careless onslaught.

    Miss you.
    Anything else is... anything else.

    One more savage bite
    and half a garlic bulb joins the masticating orgy
    cloves and parchment and scape leftovers prey to human t-rex I,
    tears exploding in elysian stenches of diallyl sulfides
    while allicin joins sodium chloride and capsaicin
    to engineer the blazing trail to blazing highway
    and my entrails to molecular kites dying each in its own sun
    as the rest of my body sinks into a sea of fishing hooks
    and mermaids.

    Miss you.
    How the hell to tell you that?



The Pain Of Seasons

    In one and thousand summer trips
    I stole red roses from your lips
    And left the beds all cracked and dry
    For seeding lawns of bitter rye.

    In some and many winter calls
    Your lungs have died in sudden squalls
    When mouths unheeding reasonís mind
    The melting white with fire twined.

    In more and often autumn nights
    Your breasts alight between the bites
    I dressed your wounds sweet balsam taste
    And wrapped your chest blue sunset waste.

    In all and dead and birthing springs
    I braided sparks inside your wings
    When glowing ashes seized your down
    I heard a smile inside your frown.



Trying, Word Of Honor

    I donít write you good poetry.
    I donít write you gratifying, elevating, glorifying poetry.
    I donít write you poetry at all.
    Just words chained to each other by spaces and commas and carriage returns...
    ha, carriage returns,
    anachronistic expressions just like my words,
    just like love, glove, dove,
    words and expressions I impudently call poetry.
    And yet there is so much more I wish to say.

    I start pulling drawers,
    I check behind mirrors, beneath shaking tiles
    and inside wall cracks,
    places where I might have hidden some ideas, some flash and tremor
    and those pieces of sun I patched over with mud
    for humanity not to know of my theft and selfishness...
    where might I have stored these the many years ago
    when I burned my feathers and my eyelashes and eleven of my ten fingers
    sneaking into the garden of gods
    and filling my pockets lumps of glowing coal?
    I try to cry, maybe the sizzle will guide me...
    in vain, no trace.
    Funny, I suddenly laugh,
    imagining the mud burning away and the black holes on the sunís face
    like missing teeth,
    like runners up a nylon stocking.
    And maybe it was all just the creative throes of a sick imagination?

    I try.

    I run ahead of you,
    throwing pieces of broken biscuits in front of your shoes
    listening in satisfaction to the crunching sounds of breaking texture
    and crumbling crystals of salt and sugar and baked flour
    not unlike the sounds of feet stepping on snow, or on crystal goblets,
    or on my outstretched fingers trapped there between sole and asphalt...
    so many birds chasing your heels
    and picking the manna
    hopping around your legs and sometimes fluttering up underneath your skirt
    as you laugh and shoo them away
    and I die in envy watching blinding pieces of white flesh
    and imagining the fire burning at the crossroads... maybe a piece of sun too?

    I forget my hand on the chair, just as you sit down,
    you donít have to believe me of course
    whatever tale I tell of oops and ouch and so sorry
    as we both know I lie my life into hell
    just for the satisfaction of enduring your terrible revenge
    when you let all of your so and so many pounds of flesh and years of age
    and perfumed underwear
    crunch the joints of my bones in between the chairís slats
    rocking back and forth on two legs
    and taking into your lap a few tomes of Encyclopedia Britannica
    for added effect...
    nothing to deter me as I try to squeeze my second hand underneath as well
    and you hop delightedly up and down
    the tomes squashing my toes falling in perfect undisciplined order
    and opening at passages from the Iliad and Romeo and Juliet and Antigone
    which I read grunting drunkenly under the heavenly onslaught
    of your bouncing softness.

    I chase you down the hill way to the chilly river
    unlacing your shoes off your dancing feet and you do not tumble
    undoing your clothes while making love to you and you do not tumble
    stuffing it all in bulging pockets
    until I look like a boulder and you lithe like a withe
    bears chasing the honey in your dragging garments
    and bees the exploding seeds in your hair,
    I trip on your shadow
    I stumble into water spiced with ice needles
    marking the way for you to follow and turning iceberg while you turn torch...
    never seen water dressing foam crinolines to your hips
    and sand turning glass sandals to your ankles
    and pebble geysers dripping gilded fish to swim inside your eyes
    and your finger pitilessly penetrating my belly button
    turning me slaving flesh to your beauty
    once more.

    I tried, see?

    You donít see.
    You simply drag me to the bed
    making sure we reach it naked
    and teach me what fantasies are made of.
    I am not sure I will remember,
    you will have to teach me again...




    cogs, and wheels, and cogwheels,
    sliding, biting, locking into the chemical transmission belts of my brain
    the bearings struggling a bit before, finally, running smoothly
    as bone balls roll inside well oiled grooves
    moving one finger, then another, then both,
    and irepeatable icopyable imperfections start spilling whatever it is
    my brain considers

    skipping from frown to frown
    hanging on to wrinkles well anchored to my skin
    and history,
    looking for the shivers
    mistakenly identifying the needles of pleasure
    for icicles,
    lilac, oh, my famous lilac
    emanating from the holes in my heart
    and losing its war with the forest of shrubs enveloping my skull
    to finally cry flowers.

    clicks, the electronics taking over from the mechanics, yet still
    a real world competing with a chemical world
    until I snarl into the contraptionís mouthpiece irate at being disturbed
    and the suavity of familiar octaves buzzes its saw through mental shields
    shredding my ears,
    tapping a melodious code
    and sculpting with tiny air fingers another kind of art upon my eardrum
    feeding the fuel of life straight into my brains.
    I love you, says the voice
    turning my snarl whimper and my fangs wool
    and cogs and wheels and cogwheels turn liquid mush
    oozing alongside that stupid grin
    you plant on my face.



White Clover

    I pilfered from kingdoms of feather and down
    Nine fathoms of lining to cushion your gown,
    Three mountains of sand and my choler of hammer
    To clothe you in pollenís immaculate glamour,

    Three hundred then twenty the ribbons of silk
    And forty the barrels of dragoness milk
    To wrap you with layers of wild oleander
    While heralding stories of magic and candor,

    The splendor of perfume in yellow of wheat
    To gather the gale and the wind at your feet
    And whispers incrusted in butterflyís chatter
    A violinís velvet mid tresses to scatter...

    My lover, no softness will cosset my skin
    Not down and not pollen, nor sweet violin,
    You know of my healing and know my desire
    The softest of summerís resplendent attire...

    I knew of that bed in the haunt of your nights
    The longing ensnaring your heart to its rites,
    I pulled up my sleeves and I smiled, bending over,
    Uprooting the roses and planting white clover.



24 Hours

    The morning drags its weary bones through paths descending west
    In wake of fretting grains of night ascending sunsetís crest
    Themselves in chase of parting eve astride a dying day
    Rekindled into birthing light as morning slinks away.

    The circleís done
    and never breaks
    and tulips hatch on silver lakes...

    A crawling blob of primal hell infests your eastern sill
    Vaingloriously pouring in, intent on mindless kill,
    You let its tendril touch your skin beneath the linen sheet
    And beast turns helpless snuggling cub asleep against your feet.

    You pull the sheet to let the larks invade the sneezing sky
    Then hordes of giggling butterflies escape your winking eye
    The crawling blob turns mighty sun and boils away the sea
    While snowbells bloom between your toes to dance your love for me.

    The morningís done
    a stifled yawn
    crowns birthing dayís majestic dawn...

    Old lizards lose heroic tails at war over your shoe,
    The one you lost inside the muck of earth inhaling dew
    When chasing bashful daffodils in love with snapping oak
    And wedding buds to drunken shoots beneath the shadowís cloak.

    You limp your way inside the hug of carpets sprouting wheat
    As trailing sparks attack your hem, your crushing heel to greet,
    Then lie amongst the waving spikes allowing passing birds
    To pull your dress above the knee and sing you loving words.

    The day is done
    a fleeting smile
    a blushing cheek devoid of guile...

    A pod of whales, like warring gods drive sabers in the sun
    Then nail its bulk to oceanís floor until the night is done,
    My fingers reach beneath your skirts in search of blazing skin
    The orcas playing songs to love in whistles long and thin.

    I rip your silk, you rip my shirt, we rip the burning sheets
    Then pull a dragonís whiskered nose from mountainís deep retreats
    And as he bawls his way to clouds to bathe us in his breath
    We let the feral beasts of love lay claim to raving death.

    The eveningís done
    inside the flame
    lie crumbling scraps of blushing shame...

    I watch your silent form, asleep, above a heap of rags,
    And touch your swollen bottom lip as sorrow gently nags,
    Your beauty shorn to flower stains of blue and red and black
    Upon your breasts, between your thighs, around your curving back.

    I tie a ribbon to your wrist to scribe my rhyming plea
    Then dip a feather to your woundís sweet-scented potpourri...
    When fingers clamp around my neck and bear me to your smile
    And shyly ask me, once again, to raise the dragonís bile.

    The night is done
    when falling stars
    write tales of love inside the scars...

    The morning drags its weary bones through paths descending west
    In wake of fretting grains of night ascending sunsetís crest
    Themselves in chase of parting eve astride a dying day
    Rekindled into birthing light as morning slinks away.



Chili Con Carne

    I tasted your flesh
    and before biting
    my eyes ran already streams and my nose rivers and my mouth sizzled...
    then I bit,
    and then I screamed
    cremated from the inside out
    caring not for the skin peeling backwards from my flesh
    as for your flesh pouring the red pepper of your nipples down my throat.

    Tequila? you asked mischievously
    riding my neck
    and ensuring death abandons duty
    under the onslaught of that deliciously cleaving chili con carne.




    There is a candle in your chest.
    Yes, the size of a sun.
    I try to grab it, with hand, with hands, with mouth,
    all I get is burns
    third degree
    as it jokes and flickers and lashes.

    There is also love in my chest.
    The size of a sun?
    I donít know, immeasurable.
    It soothes, caresses...

    Does it heal?

    I try to reach it,
    I look up geological maps, astronomical maps, astrological maps,
    my hand, hands, mouth, burning,
    blisters exploding into water
    and blood
    and skin geysers.
    Where is it? I ask in desperation.
    Try my breast, you say
    and my hand and hands heal
    and my mouth dies...
    heaven is reached only after death, no?




    dressed in your
    nothing else.

    tried to undress you completely
    using mostly lips,

    donít pay attention, you said,
    comparing my state of undressing to yours
    and finding mascara the only difference.

    you took the pencil
    drawing two lines underneath my eyes.
    now we are equally dressed, you claimed, climbing on top of me.

    I guess I look like Rambo.
    you declined any comment
    and soon after I didnít care.

    you cheated, there is mascara on your belly
    I complained later on,

    there is mascara on your belly too, you pointed out
    reminding me things
    I didnít wish forgotten.

    letís take care of it, you offered me your tongue and fingers and breasts.
    I accepted, offering you in return
    the rest of your skin.



Love Writes

    wake up
    in softness

    the moon drags its velvet ships
    upon your cushions
    beneath your blankets

    donít shiver
    it is not my hand
    it will come
    replacing velvet with skin
    and ships with fists opening to palms

    my anchor drops into you
    at the crossroads of civilization and wilderness
    the tsunami conquering your flesh
    crushing ships and palms and anchor
    sucking my life
    while ambidextrously writing your bloodthirsty verse
    upon my shoulder blades

    until sated
    you sleep
    in softness

    nectars of creation
    dripping slowly
    inside you



Since Icarus

    I tied a ribbon to your waist,
    then ran away till it stretched tight
    and your feet left the ground
    losing your left shoe
    your skirt flapping
    losing the apple,

    you shrieked
    the first human kite
    since Icarus,

    hang on to that cloud!...
    I called out, hoping you heard me
    watching geese and cranes and storks stream past you
    crying indignation... absurd, a she-human flying?...
    damn sexist birds.

    I hesitated before...
    fly, lover, fly!...
    I called again letting go of my end of ribbon
    and running after the cloud, after you,
    until I hit a wild sow
    and fell headlong into stinking mud
    laughing my head off as the piglets started licking my face
    and the tuskless mom attacked my thick poetry tome
    grunting like a... boar.

    the heavenly view of pantiesless you
    desperately hanging on to that cloud flying to and fro above my head
    your skirt billowing
    your feet kicking
    losing your right shoe too
    larks zooming up and down
    feeding you strawberries and fermenting rotten cherries...
    I did not mind any more the piglets chewing my ears
    and it was mom now licking me again and again.

    you dropped on top of me
    the ribbon a monochromatic rainbow getting tangled amongst tree tops
    your cheeks an extension of your lipsí color
    your skirt a parachute,

    we hid underneath it
    feeding the boars green apples
    and making love.




    i paved the road to you
    each marked with a single letter
    randomly sunk into clay floating on sea floating on magma.

    i looked for those stains
    spelling desire
    right to left or left to right or at knightís jump
    dragging you from one to the other
    and making love to you
    rooting in the clay or splaying in the sea or frying in the magma.

    sometimes i looked for days
    and you would find them before me
    inventing symmetries and geometries
    forcing your ankles to my knees
    and your knees to my head
    and as our joined uncountable knees jumbled
    we misspelled every possible combination of knees and letters
    in petrifying clay and drying sea and bubbling magma.

    we looked behind us
    those desert spots in that endless oasis
    or the other way around
    where letters chased lizards chasing flies chasing letters
    and the memory of our riotous passage
    was magnificent clay pearls inside sparkling sea pearls inside exploding magma pearls.

    shall we do it again? i asked
    and you just clammed up
    dragging me wordlessly backwards
    and failing to spell it all in reverse
    as our shivering carcasses illiterately knocked every single cobblestone
    out of its clay socket and sea grave and magma gurgling pit.




    you sloshed in the mud
    and a thousand moons jumped to life
    to die a crawling death
    from boot
    to sole

    i tried to catch the one on the tip of your tongue
    yet it retreated hastily
    inside your mouth
    with tongue
    and summer

    open your eyes i commanded demanded begged
    but you refused
    knowing it to be
    moonís last sanctuary

    i drew lines down your face
    with bitten orange and squashed cherry and crushed watermelon
    and slurped drunkenly those thousands of moons
    unable to hide
    from the ogre
    inhabiting my mouth

    before i undressed you
    i locked the forest and bolted the clearing and latched the burrows
    then laid your nakedness on the grass
    lone spectator
    to the shyness of that moon
    peeking from the depths
    of nightís blossoming pit




    inside my shirt
    the whole of you,

    Wrap yourself around my torso
    a female ribbon snake
    pinching my nipple
    and yanking the hair on my chest
    and sinking tiny fangs
    between my ribs,

    Make love to me
    before undressing me
    foraging for clusters of grapes
    and odors of bitter cherries
    and deserted beehives still dripping the lives of long dead flowers,

    Undress me now
    letting mortality settle the hollow of your bite
    and spread its seed
    as I unwrap your coils
    and tie knots into your spine
    counting the days left
    of us,

    Donít forget
    you carry
    my unborn love.



Nature Bride

    A sun is hanging to your mouth by spider crafted threads,
    A swallowsí flight besieges crumbs amongst your morningís shreds,
    And while your fingers dance the light
    Dispelling shrieks of crude delight
    A wayward wind bestrews its gusts upon your blooming beds.

    The clods of earth assail your toes with mud bequeathed tongues
    And climb toward your anklesí pride upon bedraggled rungs,
    You laugh away the sleazy kiss
    Then reach inside your heartís abyss
    Extorting words youíll later paint inside your bursting lungs.

    You chase the erring golden moths beyond the shroud of night
    To touch inside the flimsy wings a dragonís dreadful might
    And lay it over with your breath
    Before the coming trice of death
    Bestrides the little beasts with peace to glow inside your plight.

    You calm a mournful score of waves adrift upon a shore,
    You guide a bead of melting wax beyond a burning floor,
    And when the autumn creeps around
    You sit upon the rotting mound
    And try to cry your life anew inside that yellow gore.

    At peace, at last, the clothing dusk lays velvet to your skin,
    The grapes beneath your sleeping cheek allaying your chagrin,
    Inside your night you smell the oak,
    The stone, the root, the whiffs of smoke,
    Your lips bestowing on the world one tuneful violin.



Cotton Killers

    dress your cottons
    the snow before touching ground
    the ire of magnesium flaring
    the blinding glare of a sun vainly trying to pierce the burnished face of silver,

    dress your cottons,
    from toes to ankle
    cup your breasts
    hug your essence
    drop from shoulders down to knees
    tie your hair
    circle your ring finger three times,

    I look at the pack of lupine cotton killers straining against their fetters,
    little finger to thumb, thumb to little finger,
    the mightiest army facing your cotton since the day you were born
    ravenous in their adulation
    and worship
    and insatiable hunger
    for you,
    I unlock the seal
    pull the chain from the hoops...

    ten ogres attack your cotton
    fangs reaving and talons ripping and bills rending
    the toes to ankle
    and the cupping from breasts
    and the hugging from essence
    and the drapes and the ribbons and the rings baring to my eyes
    the white of your beauty
    and the tapestry of your uncovered skin
    and the blandishment of your hidden flesh,
    my pabulum.

    you killed my cotton, will you kill me as well? you ask
    and as I take over from the monsters still growling over the leftovers
    I shroud your toes to ankles in breath
    and wed your breasts to kisses
    and touch your essence with the magic wand of emboldened desire
    leaving your shoulders to knees inside my skin
    as your hair
    and your finger
    lash my chest
    with the white thread
    of cotton




    water birds dragging long liquid tails
    between our chests
    and loins
    and thighs
    your wet hair sticking to my scalp
    while my eyelashes cut trails from the top to the bottom
    of your nipples.

    let us twine fingers
    as we light a holocaust under the water
    and our shared skin boils away
    and our twined toes



Car Love Story

    a deep indent on your back
    shaped after my steering wheel.

    I saw it when you removed your shirt
    and I removed my trousers
    and we removed everything else

    we were mindless before after
    to smells, stains, inconvenience,
    then looked for the discomfort of the back couch
    to snuggle into each other
    and sleep.

    next, the round indent will be across your breasts...
    I whispered into your hair
    temporarily leaving there
    the indent of five fingers

    the rain lulled us to sleep
    I first
    since, once I woke up,
    I found the indent of five fingers



Double Parentheses

    I watch
    waves of sweat washing your body from the inside
    infiltrating my world through dilated pores
    and aroused skin bumps
    and swollen areolas
    from drop to blob to liquid bead
    flowing through the shallow gullies lining your sides
    and soaking till refuse into the drenched bedding.

    I pull the thick linen from underneath you
    and wring it above your sapless figure
    washing salt with salt
    until textile turns steel and sleep turns thresh
    when I crouch at your side
    waiting for the typhoon escaping my lungs
    to dry away the water
    and the honey
    and the milk.

    I regard limpid crystals form on your skin
    adhering into sparkling worms
    on their way to become monster clusters
    when your body turns into a wondrous work of moaning art
    chastening into submission the shamefully exposed loins
    of Lotís wife
    and the drying Dead Sea.

    I watch
    the violently dying glimmers of blinding white
    when I crush each and every lump
    in total disorder
    and my mind enjoys the sound of crunch
    seeding lurid blue roses inside your flesh
    as my thumb
    makes love to your skin.




in the series: guitar - in exactly 100 words

    I tap lightly on your ribs.

    Guitar, not xylophone,
    you laugh my gaucherie away
    forcing my talons out and in and down
    to draw five irregular strings
    across belly,

    A five stringíed one?
    I ask in wonder
    as my teeth start plucking the strings
    and your gaping mouth reverberates through all possible octaves
    from whisper
    to scream.

    I suggest you sally forth
    beyond hearing limit
    watching the impregnated sun crack
    before glowing coal scraps
    our shared loins.

    The ten contorted strings down my back
    only once I desert the linen
    and the awning
    of your body.




in the series: guitar - in exactly 50 words

    before the door
    clicks out the world

    the ivory would have carved already its due
    and grapples dug culverts spine to rib
    and the nacre of buttons and the beads of necklace and the seam of cotton

    your body the wailing fragility of guitar
    the irreverent stomping boot




in the series: guitar - in exactly 25 words

    smashed it,
    to braid strings
    to your flailing hair
    and burn lacquered splinters
    incense to your altar
    and liberate my fingers
    to play your nipples



when the guitar...

in the series: guitar - in exactly 12.5 words

    i bury my sob
    in your belly.

    oh, those delightful,
    ascending perfumes...



orchestrating the Heavenly Cacophony, Allegro

in the series: guitar - in exactly 6.25 words


    intimately playing... ahmmm...




    I sneaked in through the grill
    digging under tombstones to steal death its prey
    ripping thousands of strings
    from the eternally silenced mouths of smashed guitars
    and orphaned violins
    and pregnant cellos
    dead long before finishing birthing their grave oceans of beautiful sorrow
    and banjoes and harps and sitars and...

    I ran away
    losing part of my calf to the graveyard dog
    and my ear to silenceís swishing scythe,
    barely missing my artery
    and life.

    I hung them all in my forest
    from branches, and clouds, and birds
    then opened the door to your cage... run! I said
    and watched your savage shape run amongst the raining strings
    pieces of your skin tearing into the metal
    and pieces of your music tearing the metal back into vibrating life.




    ten eyes
    five times two
    starting life when they rise upon me
    and ending it with their setting,
    the long sleep between life and life
    filled with the temerity of abducting my body
    and turning it into quivering beast
    and burning hell
    and so many moments of death.

    between beast and beast and hell and hell and death and death
    lost in those gardens chasing you
    and forests uprooting themselves ahead of you
    to suckle straight into roots the estranged morsels of skin
    in the wake of your passing.

    and after ten
    the nothingness
    of wait.




    I dressed myself twenty nakedness layers
    to lure you into undressing me
    the ink of grapes
    and the lipstick of oranges
    and the incense of apples.

    This makes three,
    there are seventeen to go.

    You count?
    I undress.

    I went on,
    reaching eight, then eleven
    then thirteen, fourteen...
    try as I may I couldnít get past sixteen.

    You jeered and you taunted and you fleered and you mocked
    cutting my socks to ribbons
    and filling my shoes overcooked pasta...
    nothing helped, I was stuck.

    And yet
    it is so easy,

    you finally relented
    undressing me
    the last layer,



Woman In Pain

    of so many tears
    like you had none,
    your eyes dry
    your smile sunny
    your knees... breaking,
    a steely mix of muscle and will
    the mortar
    keeping together your crumbling insides.

    Woman in pain.

    You walked away
    lithe, proud,
    leaving me with the tears
    and the twitching lip
    and the petrified regard into the imminence of nowhere,
    yet I knew
    once that motorized sliding gate into hell
    cuts you away from my world
    your knees will give
    and your sun cloud
    and your eyes flood the city
    in vain wait for those swans
    you were so desperate
    to make me see.

    Hey, just a moment, don't open your eyes... look!
    those reflections swimming underneath your lake's surface,
    aren't they
    your tomorrow's swans?




    and after you raised your arms
    to the sides of your body
    and snapped your fingers
    alongside eyelashes falling down over eyes
    and the pendulum of earrings...

    and after you started undulating, flowing,
    and streaming and slithering and slinking and sliding
    your body boneless
    your bones jointless
    your joints gristleless
    one with the light running away and the sound pouring in...

    and after you let straps off shoulders
    and shoes off toes
    followed by stockings off thighs
    unable to let skin off flesh
    and into my groping hands...

    and before you allowed the linen
    taste your sweats
    and lick your nectars
    and substitute its skin for that of yours which I robbed...

    you danced
    then danced again
    then danced once more.



Milk or Sun?

    my top lip
    still white of your milk,
    the one you bathed in
    the one you fed me with
    as your breast hung above my face
    missing my mouth
    and compensating for the shameful mistake
    with another try
    and another... how many
    before I emptied you
    of life?

    the dead sun
    looking for a place to be buried
    and finding it among the roots of your hair
    certain to resurrect
    once you decide it is morning
    and time for life once more
    when you lick away
    that thin film of milk
    asking if I want more of it,
    or sun? you ask.

    milk, I say, saving yet again the world
    allowing the sun unlimited freedom
    to explode outwards of your room
    and while it burns drapes
    and clouds
    and the eyes of the valiant
    the dew hanging on to your nipple
    turns milk drop
    missing my mouth again,
    on purpose? I ask
    knowing the answer
    and waiting for the dead sun
    to visit once more our dead bodies.



Under The Snowbells

    trying to hide
    underneath the snowbells
    looking up at the divinity of white smell
    and the unending line of your calf.

    you find me
    putting an end to my invasion into your momentous glory
    when your toes fail to open my buttons
    and your teeth take over snapping the thread
    at times deeper than cloth
    at times deeper than skin
    finally standing up again to admire your deed.

    I grab your knee
    to pull you down faster than your clothes can follow
    and as your nakedness covers mine
    fluttering garments finally reach down covering us both
    and the crushed snowbells between our bodies
    tell me
    the real fragrance of intimate you.




    I kissed you on the forehead.
    I hated it.
    A fatherly, brotherly, motherly kiss,
    a papal kiss,
    a butterfly could have done the same
    though it would have probably gone up in flames.
    You hated it too, I know.
    I felt you almost grabbing my lips with yours
    then saw you forcing your neck muscles to contract
    and the forehead to come in the way
    before turning

    I kissed you on the forehead.
    While all I wanted was just a tiny peck on your lips
    just a tiny flame to invade my mouth
    just a tiny rip of your cloth
    and a claw and a scream and a rage and a bath of sweat and the joined bellow
    on the cold tiles
    in front of everyone.

    I spit the pearl in my palm
    the one I collected from your forehead
    hung it around my neck
    until next time.
    I promise to spit it back into your mouth
    and then burn those bodies inside our clothes
    until all which is left of us is a pile of ashes
    and the pearl rolling inside of it.




    the world
    passes to my left,
    i look, not comprehending,
    doors open
    windows close
    cars pass... cars... strange word
    rhyming with wheels
    in another language.

    status quo... the rock group, not the status,
    beats its drums into my skull
    through ears
    and memories
    and feet
    tapping the sequence into the rest of my bones.
    i shatter
    into particles of i miss you.

    if i could love
    as much as i can
    i would probably die inside one day, even maybe one hour,
    or less.
    i love
    as much as i can,
    insufficient to die inside one hour or less.
    linguistic knots
    if whoever can

    i wonder
    how it would feel
    to love you in your language.
    i know how it feels
    in mine.



Almost Reality

    I live inside
    visions of you
    splashed upon the walls
    crawling in a spectrum of colors and shapes
    eternally changing,
    like a drop of kerosene finding home
    upon a freshly accumulated puddle of rain
    chasing a child breeze
    into never reaching exhaustion.

    I drop a thought, a pebble,
    and the visions ebb into tri-dimensional tides
    sliding to the floor by sheer weight
    drowning my ankles,
    then my knees,
    before they reach my mouth I still have time to miss you
    and then they start pouring down my throat
    feeding me an almost reality.

    I wake up,
    wet and thirsty
    for reality.




    your talents
    so many
    your lust for life
    so deep

    I think and wonder
    then think and stop wondering
    just admiring

    the saber forests you passed through
    and the sharp pebbles always carrying in your shoes
    and that ship you drag behind
    on dry sand
    your past

    and still
    when the sun hits your opening mouth
    it splashes luxuriously inside
    finding there the music
    and the color
    to carry back out
    before your mouth closes again
    to form the definition
    of smile



Wet Memories

    when was it
    that I counted the wet hairs
    stuck to your scalp
    yet hanging with impunity and impossibility to reach lower down
    to hide those dangling visions
    from another world
    and passion?

    was it when
    I busted down the glass door
    forcing my naked presence
    in the same one tile sized cell
    on the same one wet tile
    and as toes were dancing their slippery balancing act
    I forced the foam
    down your roots
    and my lips down your throat?

    was it when
    you opened the glass door
    inviting just my rubbing fingers in
    not counting on the rest of the hands following
    and then the rest of body and attachments
    the end result being a fire
    the hot shower
    could not extinguish?

    or, was it when
    I lay you on the dry linen
    watching the stain spread around you
    and when I finished two thick towels on your body
    and one on your hair
    the following events
    allowed us no choice
    but to start it all over
    once more?

    we had to use hankies on each other
    as the towels were all gone,
    just keep wondering
    who of us two had more fun.

    I donít remember though
    what we did the third time around.




    As if the sun
    broke down into billions of liquid prisms
    the world drowning under a rainbows' deluge
    cracked windows
    and flushed faces
    and panicking owls looking for relief
    down fox burrows...

    I rush out
    running counter current to the torrent of humanity
    careful not to be crushed
    by the stampeding wave
    and the blind adulation
    of reflection.

    They all look up
    open mouthed
    close brained
    taking in the power of the pouring skies
    while I kneel down
    next to the one
    the source of all this wonder.

    How did you know? she asks
    her eyelids tied to the colors.
    I watched you blink
    and the colors dying
    the same instant, I answer.
    Is this all? she asks.
    No, I answer,
    looking at the flowers
    cascading from her mouth.




    fall asleep
    upon my back,
    let me wander across hills
    and down gullies
    and up ragged rocks vertiginously steep...

    be safe, smile,
    because once you wake up
    you might see my bleeding soles
    and my torn clothes
    yet the lilac
    will still bloom between my fingers
    and the titmouse
    nestle our tangled hair
    and mouths.

    once I let your lip escape my teeth
    which might be...
    a long time




    I pulled my fingers down your shoulder,
    the left of your back,
    your hip, your thigh...
    thin, sticky whiteness dragging along leaving pink traces...

    ďYour skin, it is covered with cobwebs,Ē I said.
    ďMy skin, it is cobwebs,Ē you answered
    and I gasped, trying to cover my traces,
    ďI am sorry,Ē I apologized,
    imagining the pain.
    ďDonít,Ē you said, ďjust do it once more."

    I pulled my fingers down your shoulder,
    the left of your back,
    your hip, your thigh...
    the white falling back into its traces, your skin intact...

    ďYou can hurt,
    you can mend,Ē
    you said,
    ďmy skin the raw matter,
    your fingers the tools,
    our mindsÖ the artists.Ē

    I pulled my fingers down your shoulder,
    the left of your back,
    your hip, your thigh...
    blossoming flowers invading the traces down your skin.




    I woke up
    for your warmth,

    to slide underneath that blanket
    hosting your skin,

    not to disturb your slumber,
    forgetting those invasive hands of yours
    living their separate life
    and trying to turn me into a four armed

    Which are mine? I ask
    clearly disturbed
    as the octopus next to me adds two legs to the melee
    then a torso, and fangs,
    and the blanket's innocence is cruelly shattered
    by the interminable sounds of munching
    and crunching and grunting,
    Morpheus kicked out of his kingdom by an Eros
    gone berserk.

    I fall asleep
    the emptiness
    slowly filling up with pieces of you.




    me and the motor.

    Last time it was me
    and the motor
    and your hand.
    With you attached at the other end.

    almost deadly,
    so beautiful, intense.

    I listen to the hum,
    frowning impatiently at the mechanical imperfection
    somethingís wrong
    the motor needs tuning.
    Your tune.




    I swallow the highway,
    swallow a rain
    squished to molecular thickness
    underneath the wiperís crushing rubber...
    imperialist! I shout
    watching it kill even the most innocent of droplets
    and for a second I cut its life too... so it learns the lesson
    and I almost learn the lesson myself
    barely missing the oncoming tail end
    of an eighteen wheeler.

    I touch the pedal
    suicide at the tip of my toes
    the artificial beast underneath me screeching wildly
    through its tin and plastic and leather mouths
    as it lurches between another eighteen wheeler
    and an ambulance
    dandling someone to certain death...
    damn driver, move your ass! I feel like screaming his way
    my tail lamps wagging

    I hit the puddle
    same moment as my eyes hit the aquaplaning warning
    donít know if it is my skill
    or the manufacturerís design
    that carries me past the third eighteen wheeler
    this one sliding sideways
    more or less aiming my way
    leaving me with wonder in my heart
    at the sensation of metal
    crunching all around you.

    I sail past three cars
    camping mid of the road
    in ridiculous sexual juxtapositions
    people gesticulating under an artificial aura
    of a rotating blue light,
    I wonder if they are dancing in the rain
    or merely writing poetry.

    Luckily I find the break in time
    having entered an area too dark
    and too narrow and too hostile to my speed,
    the dog dragging the old lady behind him
    barking happily my way
    while she threatens me with her umbrella
    getting wet in the process.

    I turn off the motor
    turn off the lights
    turn off my mind and lean my forehead against the steering wheel
    unwilling to give up my freedom
    and enter that huge prison beyond the door
    empty of you.




    our shoes
    touching from time to time,
    the left side of your left shoe
    touching the right side of my right shoe,
    from time to time,
    the rest of the time it is your left thigh
    rubbing against my right thigh
    your hip against mine
    our fingers clenched,
    the dust behind us mingling into one cloud
    setting slowly inside the memory
    of our footsteps.

    our upper arms
    pressing underneath shoulders pressing
    our elbows pressing
    all of your left to all of my right
    even ears
    even ankles
    after undefined parts of me
    blended into undefined parts of you
    and vice versa
    when left and right and top and bottom and above and under
    lost all meaning
    now glistening
    as we finally lie side by side.

    our toes
    touching, twining, squeezing,
    your left toes between my right toes
    my left toes between your right toes
    knees to knees
    thighs to thighs and belly to belly and small nipples to big nipples
    as the water envelopes us
    gluing our skin to skin
    and our hair to hair
    and nothing passes between our mouths
    except for those tongues
    we barter.



of color

    linger not
    in the world between worlds

    where greys are masters
    and colors are not invented
    same as the poets

    blink into your dream
    and pull up the corner of the curtain
    and allow yourself the gasp

    watching gazelles leap the ocean
    and snow flakes pile cobweb thin
    and snakes swallow rainbows
    to crawl elegantly between children and lovers and puppies

    let the corner of the curtain fall
    in the back of you
    as your voice finds the wonder
    of color




    Carrying the basket of fruits
    to my mouth
    the splendor of your nakedness
    hidden by a mountain of pineapples
    and grapes and cherries and plums and hazelnuts...

    hazelnuts? you arch eyebrows
    laying down the basket
    to rummage inside it,

    I smile shrewdly,
    feeding my eyes to never reaching satiety
    on those apples
    dangling majestically from your chest.
    And whoever designed the lonesome strawberries
    sprouting downwards in innocent puzzlement
    was probably a God.



telling of beauty

    there is something
    outrageously beautiful about you

    canít define
    ask me and i will be tongue tied
    trying to find that which is obvious
    yet which i lack the words
    to paint

    i tried to read it back
    in my old poems
    in my new ones
    in those i did not yet write
    and even in those which others wrote...
    couldnít find it

    maybe it cannot be written
    in any words
    except those you do not hear
    sliding down my heart chambers
    and marking traces
    of flying suns
    and passing dragons

    i look at you
    and the only way to tell you
    of your beauty
    is just shut up
    and enjoy




    the tiny whispers
    between our toes
    yours, sleepy,
    mine, freshly sliding under the blanket, cold,
    bringing snowless winter to your legs
    and sunless summer to your heart...
    whose were the shivers
    mine or yours?

    i tried to listen,
    what do toes talk about
    in that frightening darkness
    between the airless dome of wool
    and the waveless sea of linen
    when knees steal front stage
    and thighs take over from knees
    and hips
    and chests
    and everybody forgets toes-talk
    between the grunts and the sighs and the moans
    of all others.


    i hear strange sounds
    somewhere, far below
    and i beg you to hush for a moment
    listening... sobs, tiny, like the sound of buds
    and squirrels blinking.

    we pull the blanket away
    and we see buds opening
    and squirrels blinking
    and toes
    making love.



Remembering The Chocolate

    Did I write you a poem about the first time?
    Frightened as I was
    and you even more
    I probably didn't.

    I know you wanted to run away from the airport.
    Did you also think about jumping off the train?

    Took a long time to kiss,
    the bus, the train, the train,
    luckily we had to wait in that deserted train station
    when we decided the only risk
    was not to kiss.
    Remember? The hug? The kiss?
    The first time I touched your breast?

    It was summer.
    No, it wasn't cold,
    there was sun and birds and flowers...
    no, not clouds, don't remember any,
    do you remember the carnival?
    What do you mean which carnival?
    people dancing in the streets, carousels, clowns,
    flame swallowers...
    Your memory fails you, my lady,
    you do at least remember the music, do you?
    Which music?
    The one in the room
    when you lay my head on your knees
    and you sang me something I did not understand a word of.
    Oh, you remember the music.
    Thank God, for a moment you got me worried there.

    I also remember the chocolate.
    The one pouring down from your eyes
    when I left
    and I couldn't help myself
    but gulp it down.
    Funny thing, chocolate,
    so bitter...



Rain Mirrors

    I cup my palms
    under the rain
    the outpour
    rivaling the one Noah saved the beasts
    and his skin and kin

    My hands fill
    and I bend over
    to protect the gathered puddle
    from the ongoing slaughter
    and allow it to become

    The rain beats my skull
    my neck
    drowns my wear and underwear and body
    yet I remain bent
    till seeing in the mirror

    I drink it
    till all of you is inside me
    and I sit in the mud




    First I tried Times New Roman,
    played with bold, italics...
    hmmm... maybe Arial
    or Arial Narrow,
    didn't quite like it,
    hey, this one sounds good,
    LuzSans MediumItalic... nah, nothing special
    and colors help neither,
    maybe I should try exotic paper instead of exotic fonts
    and some perfume spray
    a few drops of colorful wax
    (I wish I was a woman,
    lipstick smears would help)
    maybe my thumb's fingerprints
    stained with the blood of this morning's shaving
    and some drops from the tap,
    I could always claim these were tears...

    What are you doing my love? she asked
    climbing her skin all over me
    (all she had on was skin and hair...
    no, I won't tell)
    and preventing me from reaching the printer
    and seeing the screen
    (her skin opaque
    as there was flesh inside of it).

    I am trying to tell you "I love you"
    in some original font and way,
    I answered
    unable to concentrate any longer
    as she finally decided to settle astride of my thighs
    a very compromising proposition
    for any act of creativity
    (NO! creativity and NOT creation)
    seen that I was wearing just my skin as well.

    Don't work so hard, she smiled,
    touching me in various places with various places
    and finally placing her index to my lips
    then looking at it closely,
    not yet cross-eyed
    but brow-wrinkled...
    there is something written here, don't recognize the font,
    she tried again
    better now, she claimed,
    lying (since it was good all along)
    I recognize the I, the l-o-v-e...
    I have a problem with the last word...

    (lying, told you).

    I placed my right index finger
    on her left index nipple
    pushing until it was flat with her areola
    and she gave in wincing...
    Me? she asked smart-alecky way,
    and I did no push any further
    afraid to hurt my finger.
    No! You! I snarled
    immediately sorry
    as she lost all tension in her legs
    and fell all the way down between my thighs...
    well, all the way down is a manner of speaking,
    there wasn't so much to fall down
    as she nicely settled around...

    ...oops, I think I talk too much.