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if I

    if I lose you
    inside that dream
    one wakes up from

    then dream
    be called nightmare
    and wakeup
    becomes necessary

    if I meet you
    down the road
    rolling its pebbles
    to sea

    then I will pour pebbles
    in your hand
    watching pearls
    roll down
    to sea.

    if I find you
    waiting in a field
    of dying flowers

    then I will wait
    until you lie on the ground
    and seeds explode around you
    growing flowers



The Delicate Task Of Kissing

    the sun rolls its lonely wheel
    up into the sky,
    the spokes unseen
    their protruding visible ends
    stretching the way rays do
    to Earth,
    touching your face.

    do you think they did all this way just for me?
    I think they did,
    look, they insist
    through clouds, and leaves
    and layers of glinting dust...

    I watch the scarlet mounting your cheeks,
    almost a natural extension of your lips,
    I touch it with my fingers
    trying to smear some on my face –
    no way,
    seems it is there just for you.

    you are beautiful, I tell you,
    kissing the tip of my finger
    and laying it on the tip of your nose
    before descending to your lips
    and then inside your blouse
    as my lips take over
    the delicate task
    of kissing.




    I saw you there
    smiling, proud,
    your letters
    so beautiful when composing your words,
    almost as beautiful as your words
    when composing your sentences,
    almost as beautiful as you.

    Nothing's as beautiful as you.
    Not even your sentences composing your stories.

    I saw the lights, then the flashes,
    reflecting in your eyes when you did not blink
    in your teeth when you smiled
    in your lips when you did not smile
    locked in that emotion tear
    falling down to the wood of the stage
    to be trampled by knowledgeless shoes,
    in your heart
    unseen to all but me.

    I could read your lips,
    no, I could not hear you, I was too far away
    but I could see your lips moving,
    I guess you were reading
    maybe you were praying
    I know you were singing,
    I wonder if they heard you singing.

    I waited until all left and the lights went off
    following you to the car
    seeing the key turn in the ignition lock...
    you froze for that one moment
    when you saw me in the crossing headlights
    and then I disappeared,
    the mirage over
    your blush pulling up your mouth into a smile
    when you turned the car around the curb
    not even aware
    you were still singing.




    mornings in lilac
    and evenings in linden
    and nights in love,

    dressing the day's perfumes
    with erotic hues of round, and soft, and warm
    as you hop from tile to tile
    paying no attention to gusts of wind
    and fluttering hems
    and the inebriating flashes of pale thighs
    telling of promises,

    you did not have to climb the trees,
    branches of lilac, and linden, and love
    bending down to your passage
    stealing your hair
    drinking your lips
    and inhaling your body,

    leaving me with nothing
    but heart.



White Lilac

    Cup your hands
    underneath the lilac bush
    wait for thousands of flowers
    to cascade, to pile, a mountain
    until you cannot carry the load anymore
    and you open your palms
    to let it rain...
    lilac on the world.

    I look upwards
    thinking it first spring snow
    the first flakes touching my eyes
    not melting
    the fragrance strangely intoxicating
    and then it hits my reason
    bathing my senses
    with perfumes of white lilac
    and your hands.

    I wade through the unending rivers
    waiting for the moment
    the tiny white drops reach over my head
    and then I hide
    sinking to the soft bottom
    looking for that one violet petal
    you sent
    just for me.

    I will find it,
    I know I will.




    land on my uprisen thumb,

    i won’t harm you,
    sink your shivering tiny claws
    till they clutch safely
    to my bone
    and trill me
    of the mountain tops you passed
    and the seas you braved
    and of her,

    i hear your heartbeat
    i can’t hear your song
    with exhaustion
    wait... here... a drop of water down your parched throat
    and your tattered wing,

    you tell me of cherries
    and stings of honey
    and seeds of sunflower...
    oh, no,
    why did you roll over into my palm
    your heat dissipating
    your eyes fading
    your song orphan
    and the end

    a kiss
    did she send me a kiss, songbird?

    and i lie between the thistles
    holding you to my heart
    hoping to break
    your eternal silence.



I Remember

    I remember your smile.

    How can I forget
    a masterpiece
    shaping itself
    only a dining table away
    from me?
    For me.

    I remember your tear.

    It never left your eye
    yet somehow
    it reached already
    the masterpiece
    placing the hue of salt
    on the red of curving lips.
    For me.

    I remember your kiss.

    I carry the masterpiece
    incrusted on my lips
    forcing their shape
    to follow
    the shape and the hue
    you created.
    For me.




    I look at a quarter of window frame
    re-framing inside it
    a world
    and a few moments
    and floods of you.

    I leave the other three quarters
    play their wishes
    and mind
    and damn reality any which way they desire
    or desire not.

    I carefully cut away
    my quarter of life,
    the whole of it
    and fold inside its scrawny blanket
    folds of your skin
    and tips of your fingers
    and so many teeth lost into biting love into me.

    There’s a hole
    in the window frame
    there were once the sky was painted
    with unicorns roaming the tops of trees
    and grasshoppers borrowed nightingale voices
    with night,
    the rain and the snow drifting inside
    and boiling to untimely death
    upon the sizzle of our sewn skins
    and fused fingers.




    my palms
    slide along the contours of your psalms,
    barely visible hooks bite into my skin
    dregs of which drag behind
    smearing the yet wet ink
    with residua of blood
    spilled earlier, almost spilling still,

    the tips of my tongues
    lick the lees from the depths of your mouths
    manducating the broiled and the brittle and the bitter brew
    into the saporous philter
    of suppurating autumnal cherries
    and congressing fairies.

    I sing my agony into the euphony of your screams
    braiding the clef of sighs
    with the clabber of burning nipples
    and fingernails turned claws
    and linen cleft to ribbons clamping onto the cleats
    of your shivering ankles,

    where is your air? I ask of you
    searching the depths of your lives
    and gulping the screaming wind cracking the enamel off your teeth
    and the vinery mud ending your thighs
    before starting my madness.

    I dress you back your skin.

    I desert the chthonian wilderness of tempests
    for the empyrean beds of flowers
    and as your head weighs heavily upon my chest bone
    slowly descending to the abysses of my exhalations
    and slower ascending to the apices of my inhalations
    I knot butterflies to the ends of your hairs
    waiting for the miracle of rain
    to bow light into colors.

    I don’t hear the music,
    I feel it landing
    between the pale hairs of the pale lashes of my pale eyes
    as the butterflies ram the rolling tears
    and break them
    into summer.




    I saw you there,
    between the folds of freshly laid out linens
    inside the unopened bottle of clear water
    behind the wardrobe door
    which I slid to the right
    to hang my clothes in
    and then slid back to the left
    letting you out

    I wanted to touch you,
    oh, so much I wanted to touch you
    but you were somehow immaterial
    squeezing easily out of my closing fists
    and groping arms
    and even the blanket
    which I tried to throw over you
    to trap you...
    it piled at my feet
    limp with no life
    and no you.

    I shaved
    watching you watching me
    even cut myself wishing to hear you gasp
    in panic,
    yet you just kept smiling back from the mirror
    not blinking even as I undressed
    and let the shower wash my sweat
    and my terrible desire for you
    and my heavy breathing
    as I finished making love to you
    making love to my body
    and falling into the pool of your inexistent hands
    and exploding foam bubbles.

    I did not dress,
    just slid wet and dripping between the covers
    hugging your dream
    and allowing the wet sheets
    drape me in like they were the skin
    of you
    and the breasts
    of you
    and the coiling hips and thighs and knees of you
    and your love making
    of me.

    I woke up
    gazing at your burning form next to me
    then dried
    and dressed
    and locked the door behind me
    not wishing to see the moment you turn ashes
    and blow out of the window
    I just opened.

    I knew,
    when I return with night
    I will find you there




    like the bed next to me
    empty of you,
    cannot be emptier.

    i try to write inside my creases
    your skin
    your warmth pressure disquiet sleep as you make love to me
    hiding behind your eyelashes
    and my inert shape...
    cannot write your skin
    without your creases.

    for a moment
    you visit me
    yet before i have the time to latch you to the bedposts
    with pieces of your underwear
    you vanish once more
    between the window pane and the night
    leaving just a smear
    where your nose squashed itself against the glass
    and your mouth left
    vapors of breath
    and vapors of kisses.

    i fall asleep
    guessing i did not sleep earlier
    and when the sun shakes my frame
    i gaze at the leftovers of vapors
    if it wasn't a visiting early squirrel.

    i know it wasn't.



Some Kind Of... Artist

    I wanted to paint
    at the corner of your mouth
    a pearl.
    I do not know to paint a pearl.

    Then I wanted to paint a flower,
    so much easier to paint a flower.
    But why should I,
    your mouth is already a flower
    if to judge by those insisting butterflies
    competing with me
    on its favors.
    And flavors.
    I do not mind so much butterflies,
    it is the bees which bother me
    though, until now,
    they stung me only once...
    I won’t say where, you’ll laugh
    and they’ll swoon on me en masse.
    The butterflies I mean.

    I decided to paint a sun,
    looking more like a sunflower
    or maybe even a moose head.
    How can a sun look like a moose head?
    When I paint it
    it can.
    I heard a bellow next to my ear
    and had some problems getting rid of the bull
    trying to get past me.
    I wasn’t the only one thinking so.

    I decided to rub off all paint.
    Then I kissed you.
    I did not have to paint a smile,
    it painted itself.
    So much art in you,
    all I have to do
    is uncover it.

    OK, I will start with your ankles
    and work my way up.

    No, I will NOT tell you



On The Stage

    you recite
    your nose turned up
    into the wind
    your breasts following your nose
    while your eyes close
    so as not to annihilate with fire
    the trees and the roofs and the... wind.

    they annihilated me
    that ash keeping the warmth in your pockets
    when you sink your hands
    deep inside
    and you knead my leftovers
    into momentary lumps of burning flesh.

    you undress and slide into the bed,
    pouring the ash from your pockets
    upon the linen
    and as you slowly writhe and trash and squirm inside it
    like a wisp of smoke upon smoldering coal
    ash grows skin
    and skin grows flesh and bone and muscle
    and I tear your body open once more
    sinking my desire into the heavenly adobe
    of your inviting

    you wake up,
    whisk the ash into your pockets like so many times before
    the tiny powdery layer on you nipples
    burning its way again
    to your heart.



Lover's Eye

    I’d like to scoop you
    in my arms
    and carry you
    over the Nile
    and across the Sahara
    and up the Chomolunga
    all the way to the rock called Moon
    where I would seat you on a swing
    and watch you fall asleep
    at my song.

    But, lover,
    you can’t sing,

    she said.

    Thank you,
    I said.




    cracks the path trailing me
    seeds of me falling inside the cracks
    to die
    with yesterdays fading
    and tomorrows few.

    i scream at no one hearing
    dragging my carcass further
    not willing to know
    that screams never pulled a petal
    out of a stem
    never sprouting.

    where do voices rise from
    unintelligible yet musical
    pitter pattering upon the trail
    and breaking the seeds
    and sprouting the stems
    and pulling the petals?

    purify the air
    avenging a passion never dead
    just forgotten
    inside my memories
    and forgetfulness.

    coalesce into a voice
    reminding me of swelling dough
    and bursting cocoons
    and dying clouds
    until bread and butterflies and sun
    scream my passion
    once more.

    and my love.




    Don't tell me about the dust
    settling on your breasts,
    unless you want me to brush it
    with feathers and breaths
    and the split ends of eyeblinks and eyelashes.

    Don't tell me of the girth
    of your waist,
    least I measure it
    with thumbs pacing navel to navel
    and teeth nipping hip to hip
    and ends of tongue mistakenly choosing paths
    at cross purpose to the main road.


    Tell me of the size
    of the heel
    having seen so many layers of nylon
    and silk and cotton and lace
    sliding their warmth across them
    on their way to the final destination - a floor
    laden with our dance steps of earlier
    and my impatient pacing
    of even earlier than that.

    Shall I tell you of my dreams?
    Such a ridiculous question,
    of course not.
    Read my poetry.



Tide Promises

    I watch it grow,
    the tide,
    from cracking smile until falling mountain
    thundering its way through the ripples of your flesh
    and hitting my belly with the hammer blows
    of your navel.

    You nurse my bluing patches
    with lips broken by a tongue
    smearing delicious slime into my blisters
    caring not for my screams
    and only for my agony.

    The tide died,
    your snuggle
    promising me an encore



I Don't

    When I write
    I don't.

    I drool, froth, spit,
    I let glowing cinders
    and volcanic ash
    and tar vapors burn their way
    through my lips to paper
    and then through tabletops
    through shoes
    and toes
    till back home to the cradle of burning hell
    roaring underneath me,
    no, I don't write,
    I sow.
    Before reaping fire.

    Count my heartbeats, she said
    and my hand gravitated toward her left breast
    with a force of ten g's
    squashing it flat against her rib
    and her back against the wall
    her hammer beating the nail of her nipple
    all the way through my palm,
    the only cinder
    than my slavering dribble.

    I lost count
    once the wall caved out
    and we started falling through the density of rock
    clothes flaring into dying sparks
    while the melting stratums of millennia old stone
    sucked us in
    the way my mouth did hers
    and her body did mine.

    I wondered
    if anyone would ever explain the bubble
    reaching out from the crater
    and exploding into billions
    of tiny fire butterflies.




    your first step
    touching the ground
    your second step
    touching nothing
    and the first following the second
    dangling freely
    as I take you in my arms
    and carry you...
    hey, I am heavy...
    ...to the car
    to the room
    to the bed
    your feet never touching the ground
    or the floor
    or the car upholstery
    even once...
    except for that (forgive me?) first step...

    and how will you drive?
    with me on your lap
    biting your nose
    and obstructing your view
    and sliding my hands into your... ahm... pockets?

    hey, I do not complain
    that I have to drive with your body squeezed into mine
    and my chest hardly breathing
    and your weight nailing me to the chair
    and my feet glued to the floor - break or accelerator
    which I have to decide when I start the drive
    and not change to the end of it,
    and my hands slid into your... ahm... pockets...
    that's the easy part.

    that's the pleasant part.

    that was the theoretical part.
    something happened to our clothes
    so any reference to pockets
    stays, well, theoretical as well.



Momentary Glory

    I take it as given
    to feel nakedness against me
    all night
    to hear it sliding against the linen
    and against my skin
    as if in mistaken proximity,
    those treacherous pores turning needle bumps
    telling the truth.

    Sometimes, only sometimes,
    you are really asleep
    and I know it from the rhythm of your breath
    and that of your heart
    as it does not change pace
    when I push against it my palm,
    so unlike when you shudder into sudden wakefulness
    and your heart thumps the walls away...
    not my hand though.

    I know that I will know
    when an irrelevant after will replace a relevant today
    that some of the greatest moments of my life
    were there
    in that nakedness
    and that wakefulness
    and the knowledge that this was just a drop
    in a sea to come.




    It's only after
    that I allowed the tears,
    after you turned after you passed after you disappeared
    the only visible you
    just the palm print
    on the other side of the glass.

    I tried to retrieve our steps
    walking backwards
    first hitting a wall then a cop
    and finally gave up
    renewing my effort to get other glimpses of you
    after an overzealous cleaning lady
    cleaned every trace of your prints
    with an ammonia stinking sponge.
    No, I did not smell it,
    I saw her rubicund, enraged face
    at being unable to clean the other side of glass,
    my side.

    I kissed the elevator button,
    hurrying - before the cleaning lady got at me,
    there was a smudged print of your finger there.
    Then the car-door handle outside,
    then the car-door handle inside,
    the coke bottle, the coke bottle's cap,
    the sandwich plastic wrapping,
    the parking ticket...
    Waiting impatiently to get home
    and undress,
    so many fingerprints there underneath...

    ...got home safely stop... she wrote,
    ...hey stop did you see the crazy cleaning lady stop
    why did you keep kissing the floor stop
    I love you stop

    Did I? Don't remember.
    Probably the ammonia did get to me.
    See, I do remember the tears.



Calculs? Well, Kind Of

    you were thirteen.
    i was... a bit older, just a little bit. did i write you a poem
    or was i so old at the time
    that you would have called me... daddy?
    everyone fourteen and up
    you would have called daddy, no?
    no. ok, then... big brother? friend? neighbor?

    you were thirty.
    i was... a bit older, just a little bit.

    did i write you a poem
    or was i so young at the time
    that you would have called me... sonny?
    everyone forty and down
    you would have called sonny, no?
    no. ok, then... little brother? friend? neighbor?

    you are whatever.
    i am... a bit older, just a little bit.

    i write you poems,
    those i missed first time around... daddy, remember?
    those i missed second time around... sonny, remember?
    those you will never miss again
    be you even eighty
    and i be already a flower, or at least whatever makes a flower beautiful.

    see? count your years
    then add mine, or subtract, or whatever
    and remember
    that no math in this world
    equals your love for me.

    oh, this is not what i wanted to say...
    and remember
    that no math in this world
    equals my love for you.



For The Dance

    you dressed festively,

    long robe-de soirée, black,
    golden earrings
    a gypsy’s triple circle,
    three rows of pearls
    not necessarily in the million dollars range
    prettier than,
    silk undergarments... I guessed,
    silk stockings... gartered? I hoped,
    black shoes
    high heels
    one zirconium, so much prettier than a diamond,
    a smile... oh... a smile
    and a potency in those fingers
    closing around my upper arm.

    I dressed too, my underwear,

    why work so hard in donning
    what would be undonned
    and you did not mind
    thought you tested the reality
    of the single layer...
    it was a single layer, even... there.

    you chose the music
    and while you pirouetted
    I cha-cha-cha’d
    and while you tango’d
    I charleston’d
    and when I finally caught up with you
    or you caught up with me
    or we caught up with us
    you pulled eastwise
    and I pulled bedwise
    and you did not scream when I trod on you twice
    yet I screamed when you trod on me thrice (it hurt like hell)
    and none of us screamed in relief
    when the music ended
    though we felt relieved.

    “I told you, it was unnecessary to dress,” I told you,
    watching my finger through the hole in your stocking
    and your hanging nipple above the tip of my nose
    and hesitating
    which was the more hilarious view
    before deciding which one
    is the one I should laugh at.

    “you said nothing of the sort,” you said,
    “thank you,” you added
    adding your finger to mine
    yet keeping the nipple at exactly the same elevation...
    did you possess a gyro system or something?
    “why?” I asked.
    “for the dance,” you said.
    “no, why the nipple?” I clarified my question
    trying several positions of the nose
    with the nipple always following.
    “for the dance,” you repeated yourself
    and I blessed the species gap
    for misunderstandings.

    we danced, naked,
    making an effort to keep our toes twined,
    the rest of us twined




    I found a weed, begin of May,
    Amongst the tulip studded clay
    Beneath the big and shiny rose
    Where lilac sleeps and jasmine grows
    and daisies play.

    I guessed desire in her stance
    And dreams of color in her dance
    Yet there, inside the shadow’s deep
    I heard her petals softly weep
    for sweet romance.

    I kneeled beside the wilting stem
    And touched her petal’s tearing hem
    To whisper water in her ear
    And seed inside her drying tear
    a summer’s gem.

    I woke up with the end of night
    And in her eyes I found the light
    To melt my evenings into hues
    Of burning reds and glinting blues
    and sheer delight.




    I let my watercolors drift and spot the skies with grey
    I picked the pink of lilac shoots inside the heart of May
    And when the innocence of white
    Embraced your sweet bouquet
    I let your eyes embrace my night
    And guide my heart astray.

    Before I wake to find myself alone upon that isle
    Surrounded by that endless sea of one and thousand mile
    I hope to know the grey of bliss
    When winters start to rile
    And lose my heart inside a kiss
    Devoid of summer’s guile.

    I see the swan inside the bird, inside the seed – the rose,
    Upon each fingertip a sun and birds between your toes,
    And there, where larks demand to die
    And butterflies repose
    I see the grey inside your eye,
    The rhyme... inside your prose.



the other season

    when desire
    liberates rapacious fingers
    and then strikes, strikes, strikes...

    and then we wake up
    and the turmoil has left our bodies exhausted
    the desire gone to its winter lair
    and our torn carcasses lie on the torn grounds
    of linen
    and soaked sweat.

    short was the winter
    and desire rages once more and again
    gigantic hunger acerbated by puny sleep
    its temper short
    mauls heavy when jaws part wide
    and it gulps us whole
    cleaving our bodies between munching maxillae
    and turning us desire fodder
    the mush of our mangled flesh
    broiling in its own heat
    and secretions.

    desire goes to sleep again
    for another short winter,
    and we wonder – how shall we call the other season,




    the moon you were talking about?

    the morning tooth paste
    and coffee
    and shower before and after
    and sometimes during?

    the black hole
    swallowing you whole
    and spitting you pieces
    to be reborn once more
    in between my arms,
    those being... pieces too?


    ice butterflies
    asking to die
    with the moon’s last rays
    and the sun’s first
    as teardrop enigmas sliding
    from your left eye to your right
    whence a quadrupled winged steaming pair
    would further slide
    into the linen’s interstices?

    the knock on the door
    gone unanswered
    as we, kids,
    under the blanket, whispering and giggling?

    remember the mouthful of wine
    with no glass interposed
    and no air
    and only flesh?




    your eyes
    at the right elevation for my mouth,
    my chest
    at the right elevation for your breasts,
    naked, both,
    our toes
    at the same elevation
    except when you start crawling over me
    and around me
    and inside me
    the wildness of your weed massacring the sturdiness of my tree
    and elevation loses meaning
    when there’s nothing to define me
    or you
    except for some scattered pieces here and there.

    the blackbird visits once more,
    at your call
    not mine,
    my call lost in the forest
    looking for a butterfly to bring back
    and to place on your shoulder
    together with the silk of your bra’s strap
    and my kiss
    and a shamefully red circle of teeth marks,

    you bend over the sink,
    brushing your teeth
    washing your face
    I watch the mirror refusing to watch your skin
    afraid to scare away the butterfly and the strap and the kiss
    with my teeth
    and flame.




    why do I keep invoking butterflies?

    those feeble, soft, squashable creatures
    hardly able to carry their own weight
    and none of their colors
    in the wind?

    why do I keep invoking rainbows?

    the fata-morgana of the sky
    ephemeral, untouchable,
    a parasite borrowing its smell from rain
    and its sound from thunder?

    true, sometimes I invoke skin,
    I dress it in lust and drench it in sweat
    and build a skeleton of flesh underneath it
    to support its life
    as flames consume the whole of the human monster
    and its passion.

    yet sometimes I invoke silence,
    the only God
    I am not able to emulate.

    and you can never know.

    just imagine it
    between the verses
    with me failing to write it
    on paper.

    "but then, there is no break
    to your pace," she said.
    "true, there is no break
    to my love," I said.



Doing Things

    I will slowly paint away
    the grey,
    I will paint back in your eye
    the sky,
    And beneath your shoulder blades I will paint the butterfly
    past a shy
    and smiling May.

    I will dress your toes with rings
    and wings,
    Then I'll dress your wanting skin
    with sin,
    And while demon's warbling flame through your lungs will tear and spin
    shivers thin
    I'll dress your springs.

    I will carve inside your chest
    my nest,
    I will carve upon your teeth
    a wreath,
    And before your flesh returns to that cruel clothing sheath
    feed my heath
    your naked breast.



Fire, All Of You Fire

    as you swagger across the room
    red stains on your flesh marking my brand
    there where fingers let fingerprints cut fine lines into skin
    and you exhibit them proudly
    to my avid eyes,
    a thin halo of fire marking the border
    between the crimsonly burning stains
    and the surrounding palely burning skin.

    fire, all of you fire.

    you open the tap
    and water drops explode on impact
    unable to chill, to clean a body
    keen on burning forever
    inside that hothouse effect
    tri-dimensionally defined around you
    by my earlier, fleeting touches.

    I watch you trying to wiggle your curves
    into nylons and laces and silks
    and the textures turn to melted blobs
    running down your sides
    and inside your crevices
    some dropping on your toenails
    painting them

    help me! you beg
    and I refuse
    afraid to burn my fingers’ many tips and my tongue’s single one
    afraid to see your fire extinguished
    afraid to blink and find you not there once I unblink,
    I refuse until you rush back to me
    and roll your skin several times around me
    and the linen several times around us
    and me several times around your finger
    and your waist
    and your breast.

    and if Adam would have never bitten that apple?...
    I ask, biting ravenously the apple held between your teeth
    and then the one between your breasts
    and then the one between your thighs
    leaving a trail of sticky stains
    in the wake of my depredating teeth.

    then I would have invented the first sin to offer you...
    you answer, stealing the acrid mush from my mouth
    together with my tongue and my sin
    and caring not for my squirming
    as your fire
    turns me glowing coal.




    ...and the grass looked up your skirt's line
    and it shriveled
    and the rain trickled inside your shirt's collar
    and it boiled
    and the flint stone rolled underneath your shoe's heel
    and it exploded,

    ...who are you
    oh, mythical monster
    of Cockatrice leg of Medusa breast of Basilisk heel
    of silk ilk
    of lace grace
    of light delight?

    ...I led my finger up your skirt
    then led my mouth inside your shirt
    then led my toe underneath your shoe
    and I shriveled into blossoming roses
    and I boiled into flickering rainbows
    and I exploded into falling stars,

    ...I never died
    as you collected my flower to your silk
    and my color to your lace
    and my sparkle to your light,

    ...all died yet I live, I asked.

    ...all live yet you I love, you answered.





    need your breast to put my head on,
    your chest to sing me to sleep,
    your thighs
    to promise me the pleasures
    of ever after.

    i close my eyes
    waiting for the mosquitoes to bite me
    relentless female beasts
    thirstying for my blood
    like you.
    there is another thirst in you
    for love,
    for me.

    i hear voices,
    it is a dream
    lights and sounds and smells of worlds of single moments
    coming and going
    like they never were
    they never were, true.
    i feel a touch on my skin
    probably a dream too
    but insisting to stay and burn the spot
    and when i raise my wrist to the light
    i see the moth stealing a moment of skin
    and hurrying away
    i know,
    you sent it
    to steal one more moment for you.

    i love you, i scream after the frightened beast
    and all it knows to do
    is escape a spider’s net
    and smash into the night.
    tell me, when it gets there.
    tell me
    if it made its way safely
    back to your naked breast
    and its music.




    I want to sit with you
    in a flower,
    in, not on,
    either it big or we small
    and once we finished sneezing all pollen out of lungs
    and kicking all bees out of shirts
    we start making honey inside mouths chewing tongues
    and between fingers groping fruits and crushing flesh
    and cracking bones
    though no bones are to be found... there.

    hey, away you pest...
    wait!... the bee, not you.

    I want to bath with you
    inside an apple
    chasing away the worm
    and crawling into the heart of the bitter-sweet-sour
    our hands and feet and mouths sticky
    with juices, apple and... other,
    and once we finished biting and drinking
    laughing ourselves silly
    as the worm licks the soles of our feet with a vengeance.

    hey, away you pest...
    sorry, my love, wait!...
    I mean the stupid bird trying to pull me
    by whatever dangles out there
    and is not a natural extension of the worm.

    I want to make love to you...
    no, no, those previous instances were moments of poetic madness,
    I want to make love to you, seriously,
    at the bottom of a sparkling wine bottle
    the wine in our belly, we in the bottle,
    the fat cork trying in vain to find its once thin girth
    and follow us in (the burping bastard)
    and as I go for your grapes... oh, strawberries...
    and you for my vines... oh, peduncle...
    (which dictionary are you using?)
    the cork wishes us dead
    and we comply drowning in our own wine.

    hey, away you pest...
    no, not you my love, not even the cork,
    only the end of this poem
    which sneaked upon me... we... us...
    what the hell,
    next time we’ll do it in bed, okay?



Evening Rain

    The drops
    hitting the porch railing
    and exploding into tinier drops, spray,
    who is crying?

    I lean my head on the smooth iron
    the drops now hitting my face
    they don’t explode
    though the mist is still there,
    I know who is crying.

    I wait for the thunder to follow
    a dog barks... well, almost thunder,
    will have to do.

    Shall I bark back?
    the thought makes me smile,
    I wish you could see me
    barking and smiling.

    I sweep a handful of cold water
    and let it drip inside my shirt,
    before it trickles down to my belly
    it turns steam
    and burns my palm... yes,
    I miss you.



times, once, gone

    times, once, gone,
    Bob, John, Mike and Dick and The Green Leaves of Summer
    and I cannot keep my eyes open
    and my shivers under control
    my thorax negotiating a few supple undulations
    with a spine suddenly lithe... for a few moments...
    sufficient to transcend me
    to those times

    the radio goes its way
    and I shake it and rattle it
    looking for the coin slot wishing it was a Juke Box
    so I can repeat the tune again and again
    and leave the worry of shameless tears
    to embarrassed or disgusted onlookers
    younger or older
    or careless.

    I crawl into the perfect ball
    I crawled into around my dog
    the same I saw him do
    around me
    days before his death,
    a Moebius plane of man and dog and life and death, one,
    looking for the same innocence
    and the same acceptance
    of inevitable
    when powers beyond us cannot help
    more than
    the power in that perfectly inhuman love embrace.


    my lover,
    sometimes I love you
    more than I do.



five little bites

    turn around,
    no, the other side,
    no, the other,
    no, turn...

    no, i am not crazy,
    i am just dying to see all of your sides
    at once,

    now, if you don't mind turning...


    of course i had my coffee this morning
    (i hate coffee, i lied)

    of course i shaved this morning
    (i hate shaving, i lied)

    of course i walked the dog this morning
    (i don't have a dog, you know it)

    of course i miss you this morning
    (oops, i didn't lie, shame shame shame on me...)


    let me help undress you,
    first... the panties

    (no comment)


    let me help dress you
    first the coat,
    what panties?

    (no comment)


    just let me bite your red of lip
    and bits of woman sip and nip
    and when you reach that low pitch note
    with hips about to float and gloat
    i let my arrow cut your trail
    to rip apart your vale and dale
    and moments fore my horses part
    to steal your chanting art and heart.



The Other Way Around

    You blot away the sun,
    blinding me... hey, no one is supposed to be brighter than the sun!
    but my complaint falls on deaf ears,
    beautiful ears
    decorating those earrings underneath them...
    something’s wrong here,
    everything seems to be the other way around.

    Your hands slide on my chest
    not hovering, digging,
    meeting in the middle and parting sideways
    cupping the flesh...
    “fat...” I grumble,
    “muscle...” you flatter,
    “yeah...” I assent
    feeling your fingers’ synchronized swim reach my nipples
    and the shiver which turns nipples to hard wooden slivers
    clamps also a choking hand on my throat,
    “yeah!...” I quote myself
    meaning something altogether different.

    Ain’t I supposed to do that? I want to ask
    and don’t ask
    reluctant to give up on the crawling sensation
    turning all my known expanse of skin a mountainous ridge
    and raising another mountainous ridge...
    well, even more of a ridge...
    or a mountain.

    No, this is not supposed to be the other way around, hehe, it cannot
    though... ahmmm... the hair...
    no, not the hair on the chest you...
    you... you beautiful woman.

    Your little fingers abandon my nipples
    letting the others take over,
    the ring finger, the middle finger, the index, the thumb
    and while the index makes a slight retreat
    to pinch my pink between itself and thumb
    the little finger discovers the groves lining my sides
    between my ribs
    and starts scratching its way down with a nail
    made of steel
    and lust.

    I moan. Yes, unashamedly,
    I moan
    knowing your depraved self will abuse my poor me blindness
    (yes, I did not yet recover eyesight,
    no, this is not my shut eyelids)
    and your little ones continue their triumphal march
    dragging the unreluctant rest along
    aiming for that demarcation line
    defining the geographical boundary
    where abdomen ends and thigh begins,
    called groin,
    I just wonder why it is so deep... a crevasse...
    my legs, where are my legs?

    You glide on, along the valley
    barely touching, burning,
    converging towards the ridge
    (remember? told you about...)
    a nice fight in sight
    who will win the snail race
    your left hand? your right hand?
    my impatience and hastily dying self restraint?

    I don’t know which hand it is
    I don’t know where the other is
    through half open eyes I discern fuzziness descending
    ridge? what, which ridge?
    where are your hands gone,
    what is this soft, slick, soothing warmth
    embracing, encompassing, engorging
    taking over my strongholds, my fortresses, my donjons
    and dripping into me its nectars, and philters, and elixirs...
    or is it the other way around?

    “yeah!!!...” I hear myself breathe in third,
    knowing of the sledgehammer
    about to shatter my brains.




    your hair,
    where did all this hair appear
    your head anything between a beached jelly fish
    and a squid mutation
    an opening with white cutting bones aiming for my mouth, throat
    devouring my lips, my tongue,
    “make love to me...”
    I heard your bones knocking an unmistakable code into mine
    skull to skull and rib to rib and hipbone to hipbone
    and moments later a jumble emerged
    when the witch-doctor rattled our skeletons in lust’s cup
    making his savage throw on the bed
    with skull growling against hipbone
    and kneecap against clavicle
    and true rib against floating rib
    and the rest a meaningless mess of vertebrae and sacrums
    and carpals and fibulas and ulnas and phalanges and...
    we made love to us
    the wildness of your hair hugging inside knots
    leftovers of unshattered bones
    colluding into monstrous clusters
    and endless permutations.

    “which are mine?” I asked, befuddled,
    somewhere at the bottom of the pile,
    after one of those perennially penultimate permutations.
    “all,” you answered,
    not really understanding the reason to my question,
    after the ultimate settled in place.



Rainbow Trail

    I pushed my palm flat
    against your chestbone,
    then clenched it to a fist
    gathering inside it your robe
    your underwear, stockings, shoes, jewelry
    then pulled it away
    opening my palm again
    and letting the crippled content
    drop to the floor.
    one heel broken in three.
    your skin shivering.

    I watched your white,
    the whiter than white even more mottled than the clothing
    at my feet
    ants running underneath your skin demolishing its smoothness
    into crumbling salt
    the promontory of nipples in seas of areolae on mountains of breasts
    defiant of my violence
    asking impudently
    for the next touch
    of flesh.

    I begged for mercy.

    And crows pulled the shirts off my shoulders
    and coyotes the trousers off my legs
    and beetles heaved the rest
    leaving me naked
    more than you,
    more than you.

    I pointed my finger to the sky
    invoking the hungry rainbow to gobble our bodies
    following the trail heavily scarred by our mouths
    and hands
    the triumvirate of color and lust and love, oh, love.

    We lay in the hay,
    my finger drawing circles around your navel
    slowly spiraling outwards
    undecided yet if the break out will be
    or downwards,
    my mind intrigued by the clash between
    concupiscence and bewilderment.
    "What is the matter, lover?" you asked, sleepily.

    I broke the mirror and raised a shard above your belly
    showing you the rainbow trail spiraling outwards,
    hesitating between upwards
    or downwards.

    You made the decision.
    I merely executed it...



Compass Rose

    Lie on the bed,
    don't worry of feathers and whiteners and bedbugs,
    of creasing your skirt
    or shirt
    or both,
    it will crease, I promise, they... both.

    Let your right toe point the east for me
    the left toe the north,
    sorry, you cannot do it on your back,
    how inconsiderate of me
    you'll have to turn face up.

    You think you can point east west?
    Of course I don't mind
    and in this case you can remain face down...
    oh, you prefer to turn...

    Okay, let's settle for east north-west
    I will help you with the skirt,
    here we go... easier, no?
    and your shirt, certainly...
    I promised you they will crease, right?
    sorry about the button
    I will buy you two,
    and a new shirt, two too,
    also a skirt
    how many? thanks,
    and... oh, you made it east west finally,

    how old are you?

    What about me?
    I will settle for north south,
    no, smarty,
    not leg leg but head legs... both...
    no, didn't decide yet which way which,
    any preferences?

    It wasn't a bedbug,
    they don't come this size.

    Sorry (what a sorrowful poem this one)
    you had enough
    no, it will not get you fat
    yes, it will get me sore,
    no, I am not scared of getting fat,
    yes, it will get you sore.

    I don't care either.


    We ended all over the place
    north, east, south... all losing all meaning,
    it was all due to varying gravity I think,
    and Earth gyrating probably the other way around,
    oh, you think it was because of all these puffing, gasping, suckling sounds?...

    hmmm, maybe.



peyote dreams

    roll inside the leaf,
    leave your earthly belongings outside – shoes, clothes, jewels,
    and when spring reaches your abode
    let flower crowns lift your bed
    and buds tear it
    and beetles carry the pieces into the river.

    but then i will fall
    and be naked
    and be cold...

    you will not
    because i will carry you on my fingertips
    and let flowers explode through my skin
    and buds adorn your hair
    and beetles cover you with the wilderness of pollen.

    but then i will be covered
    and you will not see my skin
    and not feel my flesh...

    i will
    because your skin will marry the flowers
    and your flesh will open into buds
    and beetles will fane the fire of our bodies into the forest.




    raw, crunchy, sharp,
    like young radish, like green apples
    like ice falling into the singing volcano’s mouth,
    like a twig’s memory
    like a twig’s hope.

    I reached for your teeth
    caring for the caress,
    reached for your breast
    begging for the bite,
    I took them all
    teeth and caress and breast and bite and everything else
    reaching deeper
    looking for the skeleton’s hinges
    and the mind’s vagaries
    looking for shy you
    impudent you
    shameless you.

    the day
    mutilated into a thousand sighs
    the handhold
    bending bedposts into wrought iron
    the kiss
    like sparkling flitter falling east.

    I found the treasure
    in summer
    emulating your smile.



a lifetime again

    like the want in your breast,

    your smile
    on my mouth
    turning bite
    then consoling tongue
    then descending inferno towards the inferno until inferno

    you pick the butterfly struggling in your heart
    and offer it to me,
    I refuse to see it
    imagining to see your nipple
    as my fingers pick up the relay,

    is it melting in my mouth
    or is my mouth melting around it?



Motion Sickness

    Above me,
    all I see are the soles of your feet
    and the shadows beyond your thighs
    the tips of your breasts
    the flesh bells of your body’s chapel
    calling my heathen hands
    to prayer.

    Echappé, jeté, piqué...
    my flesh a tortured floor
    convulsing under the kneading toes
    favoring the motion sickness of dizziness and dazzle
    over the leniency of

    You shake your head
    and your hair swirls left and right
    the thousands of roses I tied
    one to each hair
    then two and three to some
    shed their petals and thorns and butterflies
    covering me with red snow
    and blindness.

    I feel a left foot on my belly,
    your right toe clearing with a fast fouetté
    the heavy layer from my eyelids,
    hesitating a moment inside my mouth
    before I see you floating gently down
    hanging on to those petals
    still fluttering
    around you.

    “Time for pas de deux,” you murmur
    finally taking me into your motion
    and as our bodies slide into each other
    the elegance of ballet
    gives in
    to the elegance
    of chaos.



The End Of Privacy

    The end of privacy,
    the beginning of intimacy
    the breaking moment
    between before
    and after.

    A hotel’s one room
    with walls and bed and TV
    a doorless bathroom and a white sink,
    a castle, an empire,
    a home

    When I pull down my trousers
    when you pull up your cottons
    when I pull the water when you crouch next to your suitcase
    when we bend above the sink
    your breasts dangling
    our toothbrushes mixing
    when flesh appears and disappears in dazzling flurry
    from and behind textiles and nylon curtains and linen covers
    and the only shame is
    why did we wait so long.

    the end of privacy,
    the beginning of love.




    pay you will
    dearly and more
    each shiver shivered untouched
    each word worded unheard,
    each moment unslept
    without you...

    she said.

    thank you,
    I said
    adding shivers untouched and words unheard and moments unslept
    without me
    until I stopped counting
    and she carried on,

    my skin
    cringing the flagellation of fingertips
    my eyes
    fearing the sight of flaming nipples
    my mouth
    quailing the bite of ravenous tongue.

    the door opened
    before I knocked
    impatient as she was to inflict my torture.
    where shall I start?
    she gave me the choice between hells.
    what about starting with heaven,
    I tried,
    then I’ll appreciate hell better?

    aha, and impertinent and wiseguy,
    she disappreciated my offer
    pulling my belt away in one smooth move.
    whatever followed was even smoother,
    all the way from heaven to hell and back.

    Earth was a memory,
    for others to worry about.



Soap Bubbles

    The first I shaped butterfly,
    wasn’t easy
    for anyone but me.

    The second I shaped opening rose,
    even more difficult
    not for me.

    Make me a bubble, she said,
    and much as I tried
    I failed.

    Tell me you love me, she said,
    and I started bending words into butterflies
    and poems into roses.

    Tell me you love me, she said,
    disappointed at butterflies and roses
    and looking for a bubble.

    I love you, I said,
    giving up butterflies and roses for the bubble,
    and she smiled.



Night Air

    I see you there
    under the blanket
    your nightie pulled mid thigh... left leg,
    right leg even higher up,
    do you know?
    not of the nightie, of me seeing?

    Does passion burn your chest in your dream
    same as out of it,
    is the hand pressing between your thighs
    looking for the safety of home
    or for the feel of me
    hand and leg and everything else

    You turn around,
    one thousand miles and you still feel my stare
    uncovering you
    undressing you
    making love to pieces of your flesh
    and snippets of your skin
    and all of you.

    You slide out of the deranging garment
    your body freed
    your palms cupping your breasts and offering them to a memory of me
    as the rest of me invades the rest of your body
    and there is no distance anymore
    between dream
    and reality
    when you moan your desire into the pillow
    and the night air burns.




    You opened the door to my morning,
    the glass of orange juice warming up in your mouth
    you couldn't tell me... hurry!...
    or you would have spilled it over the covers
    over my face
    and you would have had to make love on a damp mattress.
    And lick me clean.
    And apologize for my thirst, then,
    when apologies would have been appropriate
    after making love on the damp mattress
    after licking me clean.
    I would not have accepted your apology, of course,
    and asked for an encore
    of the same.

    Instead, you waited.
    Wasting a golden opportunity.
    I finished showering, shaving, brushing my teeth,
    the orange juice starting to simmer
    and drooling on your chin from your mouth's left corner
    as you patiently painted my morning into the sparkle of rain
    and the buzz of bees
    and the piece of sun warming that tip of breast
    for me.
    I wonder if you did it on purpose,
    the orange drop exploding on the sun spot
    the following one on your belly
    the next one almost on the bedding
    as I plunged and caught it mid-air
    then licked your belly then your breast
    then ended up scorching my throat
    with that orange juice you finally poured in.

    I guess you did not waste any opportunity, after all,
    judging by the events that followed.



Not Kids, I Guess

    what do you carry in your mouth? I asked.

    verses funny
    pots of honey
    and a haven plush and sunny.

    what do you hide under your shirt? I asked.

    mellow cherries,
    pears and berries
    and the dust of lusting fairies.

    what do you harbor under you skirt? I asked.

    strum of lyre
    coal and fire
    and perfumes of lush desire.

    what do you hold in your fist? I asked.

    dreams apart
    starlit art
    and the thread to mend your heart.




    in a world devoid of butterflies
    what would we poem?

    devoid of flowers too.

    no, no sunsets, seascapes, stars,
    not even fairies and rhymes inexistent.

    of course love, hence my question.

    of course you know.

    we would poem deformations.

    the deformation of clothes
    struggling in the grip of an adoring fist,

    the deformation of bodyscapes
    of bulges and valleys and secret hideouts and miraculous crevices
    squeezed and ironed and crushed into sighs and fantasies and edible crumbs
    by flesh sculpting flesh with flesh
    and fingernails
    and teeth
    and writhing muscles,

    the deformation of linen
    under the sculpting hysteria of bedazzled flesh.

    and butterflies? and the flowers, and?...

    the flesh the field,
    the sighs the seeds,
    reality deforming into sprouting butterflies and flowers.

    the rest too?

    the rest too.

    you wrinkled your nose, distrustful,
    then raised your head in defiance...
    prove it!... you snarled with no menace,
    expectant, hopeful.

    I proved it,
    so easy was it to prove.

    I had a bit of a problem with the fairies,
    you assented to my victory though
    once you saw the filigree of wings
    sprout alongside your spine.

    illusion?... you tried one last time, weakly.

    reality, I answered
    deforming you into rhyme.



Beyond Dreams

    I saw you bestride an alligator
    swamp reek turning lilac, mosquitoes dragonflies,
    baby alligators paddling alongside
    your guard of honor,
    a pterodactyl diving from the deepest blue
    to shower you with tatters of torn rainbows
    and the dry leaves
    of autumn to come.

    I woke up seeing you emerge from sand
    waves freezing mid gale
    foaming crests hanging in the limbo of indecision
    separating gravitation from fantasy,
    each drop imprisoning a tiny seahorse
    a tiny siren combing its mane
    and tiny sea stars tied to its tail blinking away moments of wonder
    to shine between your eyebrow's tiny hairs.

    I blinked to watch the inner of my eyelash's screen
    and you
    swimming in the crystal of my tear
    deftly rolling the invisible boulders of salt
    upon cymbals and across strings and through flutes,
    your body crumbling into nightingales
    pouring away from my eyes
    to form the green in the leaves
    and the reflections of butterflies in ponds crawling with baby kaleidoscopes.

    I opened my eyes.
    The silver of hesitating darkness buried in the linen.
    A shadow breathing next to me
    I touched it,
    soft, silken, warm.
    The darker shadow of ruffled hair on a creased pillow
    an escaping sigh
    a rustling sound as naked flesh stretched an arm
    armed with five tender tendrils
    and took possession of my wrist.
    You opened sleepy eyes
    watching me, questioning.
    I dreamt of you, I said.



A Bit Of Unmagic

    I wish I could tell of dragons,
    my high school history teacher
    beats them all in the she-dragons class
    making tellings of magic impossible.
    No, no fire no wings,
    but lots of attitude.

    My kindergarten teacher, my fairy,
    betrayed me at the ripe age of five
    (my age, not hers),
    how can I believe in fairies?
    See? I remember her deed
    though not her face.
    Maybe some of the dust
    but this was part of the unpaved street.

    Magic stick?
    Yes, some teachers used them,
    it hurt like hell.
    Same with magic snapping - Out!
    Fortune telling looked promising
    until I found my pockets empty
    and the gypsies were far, far away,
    not in the sunset
    rather in the next town
    and I had no money for the bus to chase them
    (told you, my pockets thing...).

    Sure, there were kings
    (on stamps)
    and queens
    (on stamps too)
    and princesses marrying princes
    (Indian movies but not yet Bollywood)
    oh, there was something, magic beans
    (and oranges, in brown paper bags Made in USA).


    She snuggled against me,
    as long as I was ranting
    the world was perfect,
    it meant I was next to her.

    Suddenly she rebelled,
    sitting up cross-legged
    across from me
    and stabbing my chest with a manicured fingernail...
    "C'mon, there must be some magic left in you."
    A knowledgeable snort.
    "There is no poetry without magic!"
    she added defiantly.

    I watched attentively those dangling breasts
    (how long did I?)
    then that crossroads at the end of her crossed legs
    (probably even longer than that)
    and I moved her finger from my chest
    to my mouth.
    I bit.
    She screamed.
    Before making love I confessed.
    "Yes, there is magic. Guess!"



Further On...

    You came to sit on my lap,
    not asking permission,
    assuming granted
    and forgetting the rest of my vocabulary
    like denied, not home, have a headache
    or my period (a different one, don't smirk).

    The butterflies insisted on joining,
    you not me
    nestling in your hair, on your shoulders,
    upon your innocently (ha) batting eyelids,
    crawling their way inside your bosom
    (bastard scrawny bugs,
    would have wrung their little necks
    but there were so many of them),
    doubling the weight on my knees
    and all this fluttering did not add any lift
    to the composite weight of insect
    and flesh... oh, flesh... oh, flesh...
    (no, not stuttering,
    trying to get rid of that big butterfly hovering between our mouths).

    I love you, you said, or I think you did
    (too much buzzing around)
    pulling the hem of the dress to the mid of your thigh
    and the hem of the hand to the nape of my neck
    and whooshing that damn big butterfly out of way
    as lips collided
    and teeth crunched
    and fingers sank beyond muscles seeking for bone
    (and the butterfly tried to crawl into my ear,
    hey, a jealous butterfly?...).

    I revised my vision of the world
    as a rustling sound suddenly conquered my hearing
    and millions of tiny claws sank into cloth, skin, hair
    pulling us up (with the chair underneath me)
    and carrying us like a miraculous carpet
    past doors, floors, rooms
    and dropping us softly on the bed
    (they dropped the chair along the way somewhere,
    oh, yes, they also pulled the bed covers away,
    told you - miraculous).

    I love you, I dared say
    looking around in fright for that bullying butterfly...
    but it was gone...
    they were all gone,
    we were alone.

    What happened? I asked
    sad and happy and... something else.
    It did not yet, it will soon, you smiled knowingly
    opening your arms and floating to the ceiling (huh?...)
    your clothing suddenly dissolving into billions of moths
    and as the swarm disappeared through the door
    you floated softly towards that frantic figure (mine)
    trying to dissolve its clothes as well before...
    you landed, oh, so softly,
    we embraced, oh, so softly,
    we merged... you know... merged, oh, so softly.

    In that last moment of sanity
    before vision blurred and heartbeat crumbled and breath choked
    I saw that big (big? more like giant) butterfly
    letting go of you, winking (butterfly winking?)
    smiling (butterfly smiling?)
    and rushing out of the door
    following the moths to some statistically probable candle.

    Good luck my friend,
    I wish you not to find that candle,
    I thought,
    before the final blur and crumble and choke.

    Sorry, my love, I have a small confession to make,
    when we were making love I was not fully here, with you,
    part of me was there, elsewhere,
    promising the god of butterflies
    that I will follow high studies
    (starting next Monday)
    focusing on invertebrata
    sub section arthropoda
    sub sub section entomologia (hehe, poet or not poet)
    sub sub sub section lepidoptera.

    You didn't mind
    if to judge from the following session(s)
    of blur and crumble and choke.




    dressed in your skin,
    the ancient bounty hunter
    having trapped the virgin
    and opening the claws of the trap
    to close around his waist
    cutting him into halves
    writhing in that lurid agony of prurience
    and realization
    that there is no return
    from the virgin’s skin.

    I count spiders
    carrying invisible ribbons across apple trees,
    I count needles
    sewing the mantle to pine trees,
    I count minutes
    growing the belly around sequoia trees
    and drilling devastation holes
    in the time bulk separating us
    for it to collapse into raggedy pebbles
    upon which roads
    our bleeding toes finally meet.

    open those legs
    let me investigate the miracle of recurring virginity
    in the sacred seclusion of that inguinal hideout
    and fill the lands beyond
    with the death of withered flowers blooming
    and the despair of fallen doves soaring
    and the dread of forsaken cubs roaring
    and summer.

    open those arms
    and let us compete on heart size
    and chest size and emerging drumming size and nipple size
    and count of ribs and decay of flesh in between crushing fingers
    when muscles atrophy on the blueing expanses
    of rebelling blood stains
    and the red blots of coal sizzling
    and summer.

    open those lips
    in surrendering admission
    to the well between worlds of flaming pale skin
    and eternally missing eternity
    ingurgitating the sweet drivel off tongues
    and the noise of teeth grating on teeth and sand and glass
    when lungs join into the humidity of one enormous cave
    and the genesis of that ancient scream
    cuts through our humanity
    and lasciviousness
    and summer.

    you lie, pale,
    panting no longer,
    and I caress your white plains
    letting the sirocco pouring from my fingertips
    burn scarabs
    upon that of your skin
    enveloping us.



Fingers On The Mountain

    I am trying to reach once more
    that shamelessness
    my fingers found
    when pulling up your skirt
    there, on the mountain,
    your eyes blinded by the green of grass
    your fingers failing to find
    my belt
    our existence improbable
    as none of us dared breathe for countless minutes.

    The beauty of the rotten wood
    smelling like a thousand broken perfume bottles
    failing the conquest
    as my fingers tasted your lust
    bringing it to my nose and lips
    just as your fingers finally worked their way
    struggling to pull the cage apart
    and liberate the beast.

    We did not make love
    except in the nightmares I kept waking up into
    later on
    wishing we did
    reminiscent only of that terrible desire
    our lust stained fingers claimed to own
    mixing the life essence of our insides
    with the bitter green of crushed four-leaves clover
    and the fluttering white dust of mating butterflies.



Technology Of Senses

    I hear you, there,
    at the other end of a wire
    entering a hole in the wall
    my side of existence
    and exiting a hole in the wall
    your side of it,
    the irrelevant black-box between us a minglement of electronics
    and finance
    and architectural monstrosities
    aimed at dirtying the landscape
    and reducing the distance between us
    to zero.

    Click. Touch. Sigh. Hi. Hi.

    My voice, no, not my voice
    but me, there, next to you
    thirsting for your body
    covering it with the lust of whispers
    and the gaud of insinuations
    and veils of gripping debauchery,

    your fingers, no, not your fingers anymore
    watch my fingerprints take over
    see that tiny scar on my index finger
    sliding down your belly,
    or is it up your thigh
    looking for the gate to your eternal fires
    beyond those meaningless, worldly cotton shields,

    open your mouth wide to gulp the air in the lonesomeness of that room
    there, where my disembodied presence invades you
    through the thinness of eardrum
    and the shiver of searching fingers,
    the chair the bones of my knees
    the current of air fluttering beneath drapes my scorching breath,

    open your mouth wide,
    gulp those bucketfuls of air
    to fill your lungs and fill your chest and saturate your bloodways
    for that moment
    when your lupine howl sings of Verdi
    and the masses of air purify your vocal chords
    into the absolute silence
    of after.

    Your breathing,
    now breaking through the paralysis of muscles
    and cutting the quiet to the smoothness of ribboned shreds,
    I can almost feel it glide upon my face
    as I am about to return from distance zero
    to distance of wire, and wall, and wall, and wire
    and technology's damned limitations.

    Your flesh, when your flesh? you ask.
    Your flesh, when your flesh? I answer.

    Hi. Hi. Sigh. Touch. Click.



A Whole Lotta No's

    don’t look into my eyes,

    sink into them
    just one tear-depth away
    from my heart,

    sink into it, my heart,
    to find no flowers, no butterflies, no rainbows,

    no music,
    to find

    no, not your twin, not even a mirror,
    you visited before
    you stayed behind
    when you left.

    no need to understand,
    not even to try,
    just cuddle between the arteries and atriums and aortas...
    no, no areolas...
    and fall asleep.

    of course you can suck your thumb,
    after all
    you are a child.

    of love.




    did you decide
    if to slide or to roll or to crawl
    from floor to bed
    from bed to body
    from body to that amalgam of skin and flesh and viscous rivers
    upon the once pristine
    once smooth
    once virginal expanse of linen desert?

    did you decide
    what your tools of trade
    and tools of war
    and tools of music are going to be
    once the clothes eject us
    and the air in the room turns vacuum as it inflates our chests
    with walls bending inwards about to follow the air
    along with paintings and wallpaper and lamps
    right into our lungs?

    did you decide
    which tune will you scream
    the moment come
    will it be rock or classic or jazz
    or simply woman
    calling upon those beasts dying in the forests
    and those seas dying into skeleton cluttered abysses
    and those stars dying into spiraling rocks between skies
    to expiate for a meaningless life
    when they join you in the spark of that one moment
    into life?



Tired, Two


    I crush the banana in my palm,
    imagining myself Hercules
    crushing the olive tree’s trunk
    into a flute.
    Holes to follow.
    Oil to follow too, oozing out of my other hand
    crushing the olives and the seeds to pulp.
    I watch closely – it is a tomato
    and I stain my trousers
    and the carpet
    with ad-hoc ketchup and cucumber green.

    Told you, tired.

    The radio wails its harmonica into my density
    and the blues is from another world
    and from another singer, sounding as tired as me
    but much more articulate. He gets paid for being tired.
    I get paid for getting screamed at.
    By customers.
    I wish I would have been talented enough to sing
    and face customers waving unbranched-alkane-called-butane lighters
    and candles
    and throwing their underwear at me
    (how do I sort male from female, shit?)
    rather than customers waving invoices and hatchets.

    Tired, oh, so tired.

    I stretch my mind and muscle and eye,
    to see what kind of nonsense my tired brainwaves
    emit to paper and keyboard
    yet don’t dare read
    afraid I will laugh so hard
    that I will not be able to sleep and I may loose a tooth.
    Don’t ask how. Don’t ask why.
    Probably the blues is to blame.
    I chew some German chocolate
    (terrible blasphemy in Belgium but I am in blasphemous mood)
    drink some Belgian beer to compensate
    and think of you and miss you suddenly
    though I missed you all day too.
    Also all night but I don’t remember.

    Tomorrow I will read this again,
    probably backwards it will make better sense
    and if I am honest I shouldn’t edit it,
    tomorrow I will know if I am honest
    though you will not. Or maybe will. Or will. Maybe.
    I wonder if Heine ever painted when tired.
    I mean wrote poetry. I mean my German is lousy at best,
    how could I know?
    Or Homer of the Simpsons.
    Or Hercules.
    No, certainly not Hercules,
    he was too busy playing guitar. Or killing Philistines.
    Yes, this one was Samson, I know, the same macho.
    Delilah was a bitch, how could she do it?

    I miss you. Goodnight my love.
    Tomorrow I will probably bury my head in shame
    and in ketchup,
    but who cares?
    I am tired.
    I love you.



Technological Limitations

    You sent me your nakedness,
    your word of mouth
    disarticulated into acoustical waves of grunts and moans
    and words of a language known to you only,

    guess I need private lessons
    same room, same mouth, same bed,
    wonder not when student turns better than teacher
    inside hours, inside mouths,
    inside clenched fists
    at lesson's end.

    You sent me your nakedness,
    that technological painting
    dismembering you into pixels of red and green and blue
    recomposing as skin upon my retinae
    and as half open lips underneath half closed eyes
    inside my mind,

    I wish I possessed pixels of your breath, of your touch
    to push against in my desperate need
    for fires
    to extinguish and rekindle
    at wish.

    I sent you my nakedness,
    clumsily attempting to awe you into admitting the want
    for more of the same
    and of other,

    knowing that the moment of shared shamelessness to come
    will prove the superiority of reality
    and flesh
    over technology.



don't, want

    don't want to hold your hand.

    want to hold your hand, your elbow, your shoulder,
    your waist,
    the flowers to offer you
    the handle to open the door for you
    the shoelace after I untie the knot
    the waistband after I remove the silk
    the arms to pin to your sides as my body ravages your mind.

    don't want to walk with you in the forest.

    want to walk with you in the forest and on water and beneath grass
    picking stones from your shoes
    and thorns from your skirt
    and withes finding miraculous ways to penetrate your shirt
    building nests around your breasts
    to warm the back of my hands
    as my palms cup your softness
    and your hardness
    and fall asleep.

    don't want to make love to you.

    want to make love to you, and to the rest of you, and the whole,
    before you wake up unknowing why you're sated
    after you fall asleep unknowing why you're naked
    when you shop and you clean and you cut potatoes
    my body your pillow
    your belly my playground
    your dreams torn between reality and hallucination
    our voices the midway between the neighing of horses
    and the harping of sirens.

    fill the sea beneath my chest bone
    and wait for the sharks to nip your nipples,
    crush my olives between your toes
    and let the oil crawl into your curls,
    chase the sun down my throat
    and fill my mouth your tinge of tongue.



Lust in F major

    My skin quavers feebly,

    like a foal shaking away fears and desultory buzzing predators
    I shake away desires
    working their fumeous way
    through my body’s thousands of porous fumaroles
    and drenching my flimsy clothing
    in frangipani ethers
    and fulgid crystals of salt and barely contained lust.

    My skin hangs in fringes,

    like furbelows,
    like flounces festooned to my extremities
    upon the layer of flesh upon the layer of bones upon the layer of marrow
    the muscled interstices limp and ungainly
    in atrophied pseudo-indifference
    to fever’s lambent fire
    and blood fermenting into the thickness of moaning magma
    and its fomenting

    My skin suddenly feral,

    the ferocious fulmination at the moment of touch
    and quaver turns howl between fringes tightening to steel filigree
    when veins swell
    and muscles swarm slithering snakelike
    between bones and veins and pulsating flesh
    sending the famished tentacles lining the periphery of my palms
    into the landscapes of erogenous no return lining the secrecy of your body
    until the feast is consumed
    and the screaming feminine fumulus of pink virga
    into shared felicity.




    before after became the only reality,

    walking with you through tall corridors
    of wheat and corn and rye
    counting our treasures
    the gold of grains with kisses
    and the silver of dew with eyelashes
    and the copper of copper-butterflies with discarded garments.

    after before ceased to exist,

    watching the image in the mirror
    yours, not mine,
    as you stretch behind my back
    thinking yourself unseen
    and cupping your breasts my way
    and arching your pelvis my way
    the aura around your body born inside my eyes... or in the linen?

    in between, while before and after lay meaningless among our shreds,

    the bed shivering in empathy
    as grains burst between palms and breasts
    and dew vaporizes between pelvis and thighs
    and the coppery aura around your supined shape
    materializes to the flutter of wings
    carrying your suspires into the flames enveloping our disintegrating flesh
    and turning sun.



reality dream

    so you wrapped your body
    inside your skin
    inside the water pouring from that artificial sky
    with its round nickel shape
    and symmetrical holes
    and controlled temperature


    remembering a dank wooden enclosure
    and a barrel of chilly water attached to a string
    as we wrapped our rigid bodies
    inside your skin,
    inside the heaven of that putrid smelling water
    boiling away from our lost innocence


    the soft towel
    hiding the glamour of your flesh-dressed bones
    from a steamed mirror,
    sucking away the insolence of water
    from forms outer and inner
    and leaving behind
    the desolation of burns uncaressed


    remembering sawdust and dried pine needles and sand
    sifting away from hands
    pouring roughness between your breasts
    and your thighs
    and the grating sound of teeth
    licking away the humidity
    and feeding you the river


    you fell asleep in the kingdom of linen
    burning in the lust of flesh



You Lie

    You lie
    most of you above me
    the rest of you around me
    some of me
    inside you,
    not even panting
    like pizza dough stretched paper thin
    now filling all of my irregularities with yours,

    even the hair on my chest
    even my numb elbow
    even my navel,
    and the rest.

    You lie,
    are you alive?
    the bountiful bounce of your breasts
    now crushed into insignificance
    against the odoriferous muscles lining my ribs
    glinting invisibly with itching sweat
    previously dripping from the tips of your nipples
    and splashing inside the puddles pouring outside my skin
    from the sources of my impatient passion,

    I hear steam hissing sideways,
    the vapor palely pink
    with leftovers of wine
    and lipstick.

    You lie, you moan,
    you are alive,
    and it is by sheer willpower rather than muscle
    that you pull your pizza away from me
    your face a medieval warrior's mask of snarled hair and some teeth
    with a Cyclops' one sleepy eye,
    imprisoned geysers finally exploding to salty liberty
    as your skin sloshes around over mine
    guiding my way back in
    and the bounce thunders into action once again
    all the way into the rattling paintings on the walls,

    who designed this ugly ceiling framing this celestial creature? I wonder
    before celestiality is all which rests of my mind
    changing in its turn
    to mush.



Farm, Kind Of

    You shake up the blanket,
    and with it the crumbs of last night's lovemaking
    calling for diving swallows to compete on lost grains of gold
    and hopping sparrows to fight over leftovers of leftovers
    timidly sizzling in the dew.

    I watch you,
    and you watch me watching you
    when you brazenly pull your left breast out from your brassiere
    letting it hang loose
    together with sticking your tongue my way
    while the blanket floats down over me canopy style
    and I feel tens of tiny clawed feet walking all over my head
    picking and twitting and probably mocking.

    Something is probably wrong
    as you, mysteriously, don't follow underneath
    and I worry even more when I hear the clinking of glass
    and of tin and of wood and of plastic and... barks?...
    a sliding door sound... come, quick!... the corner of the blanket lifts
    and you throw something underneath with one hand
    pulling me rudely with the other.

    I lose my underwear behind rushing after you
    while a swarm of birds and dogs and chickens and ducks
    and one old goat
    invades the bed pulling and snapping at whatever you threw over there
    and you slide the door closed after us... quiet...
    now we have the world to ourselves, you smirk
    pulling off the rest of your garments
    and as our skin freezes on the grass and the grass burns under our skin
    I cannot shake off the awkward feeling of that old goat
    looking at us from behind the window and shaking its head
    in embarrassment.



Oh, The Torment Of It All

    The torment
    of undressing you,

    with fingers taken by autumn shivers
    shedding off the last of hairs,
    with lungs assailed by a hurricane
    finding the exit of nostrils indecently narrow,
    with eyes blinded repeatedly
    by spots of skin revealed.

    Oh, the torment of it all,
    forgive me love

    the yellow thread
    pouring out from an undone seam,
    the metal buckle
    which lost your shoe somewhere,
    the elastic band
    hitting me square into the eye.

    The torments,
    those gentle appetizers

    to that duet of arias
    working its harrowing way out of constricted throats,
    to the macabre realization
    of swimming in a sea of dying convulsions and moans and gasps,
    to a quiet
    equaled only by the desire of torment to start all over again.




    The stone in my shoe,
    rather a rock
    sculpted for optimized discomfort
    by the hand which tore it apart from the reef,

    The sea,
    littered with fish shit
    and screaming gull congregations
    and pelicans so prominent in their absence,

    The crack between the beds,
    who fell into it - I or you,
    when we swapped the ritual of love making
    with hysterical laughter?...
    did we finally make love?

    The wet underwear...
    no, mine!...
    no, because I washed it!...
    yes, certainly,
    who needs underwear at all in paradise?

    The woman.



The Smell Of You

    The shirt,
    atop my short-sleeved shirts and my t-shirts and my trousers
    beneath my underwear,
    without your body to fill up its inner side,
    with your deodorant and Chanel 5 and your skin.

    The pillow,
    a few hairs - yours,
    a few creases - mine,
    a few stains
    where your lipstick wore off into my mouth's linen and the pillow's lips
    and sweat tried unsuccessfully to wash it off
    and tears... mine?... added the chemistry of salt
    to the chemistry of your femininity.

    The room's corners,
    upon the floor where I crawled on my knees
    collecting the crumbs of a waffle,
    the crumpled wrapping cellophane of a sweet,
    the molecules drifting into the ceiling's corners
    which I have difficulty to reach
    and those buzzing away inside an angry mosquito's belly, lost forever.

    I sink my head inside your folded brassiere
    and hope you will not find it hilariously funny
    when you return...
    yes, I know this is funny,
    yes, I know how much I will miss you



Dead Crocodile

    no dead crocodile in my mouth with morning...
    you threatened,
    walking stiff (and bare) assed to the bathroom
    to brush off all those poor steak leftovers
    into the black abysses of that white, gobbling gullet
    called sink.

    you walked, stiffly still (and bare assed still) back to bed
    breathing en passant a mint phrensy into my face
    making your threat true
    and my mind mush.


    we made love
    and I called you dove.

    yet, though there wasn’t any dead crocodile in that mouth of yours
    there certainly was a living crocodile in that mouth’s body.

    no, you get me wrong again, my friends,
    no poetical metonymy here.



Almost Rhetoric

    I wish I was whiffs of air...
    one breath in
    and I would be inside your lungs
    and you could keep me forever.

    And when I breathe out?

    Do you have to?

    I wish I was the paved road...
    each of your steps touching me
    leaving an eternal imprint
    dislodging tiny stones to carry in your pockets.

    And when I step away?

    Must you?

    I wish I was the door handle...
    your palm clasping me
    crushing me
    turning me into a lump of twisted metal.

    And when I close the door?

    Why should you?

    Molecules of me will get lost in between your ribs and heart
    dust of me will encrust within your pocket’s fiber
    slivers of me will penetrate underneath your skin.

    I wish molecules of you to swallow me
    dust of you to paint me
    slivers of you to pierce me.

    And when I leave?

    Do you have to? Must you? Why should you?



Perpetuum Mobile

    looking for that corner
    to kiss,
    hiding from the multitudes of strangers
    inside arms raised around heads
    and mouths hiding inside mouths
    and an oblivion sistering what the hell?...

    the beauty of that departing coat
    inhabited by the beauty of that departing body,
    luggage pieces hanging on to multidigited appendages
    conniving with gravitation to pull her shoulders down
    to mask
    the heavier than humanly bearable
    sudden solitude.

    woman, oh, woman,
    when a wind gust stole my tear your way
    and Earth’s rotation twisted my neck around
    and the swooshing doors in your back
    strangled my breath into the nearness of death,

    I let my body grapple with the chair’s back,
    growing acceleration trying to sift my parts through its texture
    while the rest of me floated in chase after you
    trying to engage you once again
    into the one-two step
    upon that dance floor we refused to quit.

    my dear,
    finding you amounted to coincidental miracle,
    parting from you amounts to recurring suicide,
    loving you amounts to the perpetuum mobile
    of poetry.




    I try to impress you,
    I don’t have to
    I know,
    the way gulls impress you without trying
    or squirrels nibbling on their nuts
    or waves making sounds of rain
    and of another sea, the one luring sailors to perdition.

    All I have to do is be,
    betide, bechance, befall...
    and you would cull the copper off descending sunsets
    and the color off disguising chameleons
    and the fragrance off dying white lilies
    to seed it all to my wake
    pretending it to be mine.

    I try to impress you,
    my inadequacy rivaled by your heart’s purity,
    complemented into the knowledge
    of the impossibility to deceive
    the believer.

    So I follow in your feet’s indentations
    on dry ground and deep water and cold tiles
    and cull your traces’ copper and color and fragrance
    to seed them all into rising sunsets
    and bragging chameleons
    and the pride of flowering white lilies.




    You saw smiles behind every corner
    chasing them with your butterflies net
    at their seeping through the densely woven nylon mesh
    at their entangling in your hair
    like dangling grapes on fluttering vines.

    You found a pebble
    hardly big enough for your right toe’s tip
    and you started dancing on it
    the most complex of classical ballet moves
    and craziest of rappical break-dance contortions
    then pulled me in as well,
    God knows where you found place,
    forcing the wildness of a devilish cha cha cha
    into the depravity of a smelting tango.

    You pulled your hair up to a bun
    and your clothes down to your feet
    offering the shower’s needles a steaming death
    upon the volcanic plains of your body
    and inside those burning craters of a flesh
    tendering to non existent gods
    the alms of your passion.

    You sang
    half an octave lower than right
    and I sang
    half an octave higher than right
    our average just right
    for finishing off the repertoires of Morandi
    and Del Monaco and Cinquetti,
    the walls cursed into immobility by the witch of Builders Guild
    screaming their sufferance with immobile calx tears
    and shivering candelabra.

    We made love, finally,
    the destiny of a world forming pearls in our mouths
    as we swapped grains of time
    and patrimonies of tempest
    and legacies of skin.




    I will collect your scattered limbs from mountain’s lofty peaks
    Your bones from valley’s crawling beds and spitting morning creeks,
    The falcon I will beg your heart from yonder forest’s shroud,
    Your nail the bear, your flesh the tree, your breath the flitting cloud,
    And when the time will be to come to find the frailth of lips
    I will beseech the blazing muse of sun’s assailing ships.

    A ribbon clad in copper’s blood to bind the puzzle’s grace,
    A golden thread of autumn rust to pour through silk and lace,
    With cobweb tender filigree and yarns of glinting mesh
    To patch the last of flaming skin upon the last of flesh,
    In blinding awe of having thieved the vineyard’s only vine
    To guide the chalice to your mouth and drip that one drop wine.

    I will behold the rush of day inside the pale of cheek,
    The glowing coal alighting stars inside the depths of bleak,
    A whooshing tempest tearing chest to pennons beating wild
    And fists unclawing into birds from love’s awaking child,
    If death to die then wish I do when sparks your eyelids graze
    And read I read of deathless love inside that burning gaze.




    Your skin
    smooth, tanned, tense,
    rippling muscles showing off when you turn one way
    then the other
    then the same one way again...
    (are you doing it on purpose, lover?)

    Mine (skin)
    once (smooth, tanned, tense)
    hidden (rippling muscles dying to show off under some extra layers)
    and now this random, intricate mosquito polka-dot design
    red, itching... I feel like screaming
    if not for all the other tourists.

    "They" (mosquitoes, not tourists) "all invaded me, none invaded you,"
    I whine secretly in your ear,
    scratching secretly again,
    screaming secretly again as well.
    "They" (mosquitoes, not tourists) "are female, they have good taste,"
    you wink my way,
    mollifying my attack, buttering up my vanity,
    slapping lovingly a non-intimate flabby portion of my anatomy
    (don't do that! I protest with my mind and scratch with my nails).
    "Nonsense, it's all a matter of pH,"
    I flaunt my (inexistent) chemistry wisdom
    returning the loving slap to an intimate taut portion of yours
    (anatomy, not wisdom).

    The sun burns (all the time).
    I itch (all the time).
    I scratch (all the time).
    Back to the room (thank God).
    You undress (thank God).
    You undress me (thank God).
    You taste me (thank all the gods, past and present).
    You wrinkle your nose (oops...).

    "Nothing to do with pH," you claim
    (and your chemistry lurks even more into ignorance than mine)
    "it is rather to do with hP..." huh?... Hewlett Packard?
    "no, silly, h-y-p-e-r C6H12O6..." you spell it insultingly slow
    and start spitting things like mellitus...
    erythrocytes... hexokinase... glycolysis... help!...

    the last one mine, the previous yours
    with other words interspersed making sense for you
    and a lot of noise for me
    and finally I choke your flow with a despairing kiss
    (ok, so you know your chemistry, big deal, shut up!).

    "You know, there should be bees chasing you, not mosquitoes..."
    you open languid eyes, blink twice excessively slow,
    and I cannot see the end of your smile
    as all of you invades my vision
    and those rippling muscles lock me into the pleasures of death.

    "Aiii..." I tear my mouth away from yours,
    the pain of that needle something terrible.
    "Told you so," you laugh happily,
    taking control of my mouth again
    and somewhere along the way I stop feeling the needles
    though I cannot prevent myself from hearing the growing buzz.



In White

    In front of the white wall,
    close to it,
    as close as feeling my breath
    reflecting back into my face.

    I try to write on it with my finger
    scratching the lime
    white layers getting underneath my nail
    smarting, the pain not as intense
    as the pain of inability
    of telling you of my feel

    I don’t recognize the words
    though I know them,
    I try to climb the wall
    stepping inside the traces
    and I slide again and again
    yet I keep trying
    knowing you are on the other side
    sleeping inside the settling dust.

    Exhaustion seeps to bone
    and finally I fall in a hump,
    not even snoring.

    I feel fingers softly combing the whiteness
    off my eyebrows, eyelashes, upper lip...
    how did you pass,
    you are not a bird?...
    I say,
    did I ever say
    I am not a bird?...
    you say,
    snuggling next to me.

    If I was a bird too
    I would have seen those words I scratched
    settling like a blanket around our hugging forms
    and forming a mesh
    of interwoven promises
    in white.



Dress Code

    I don't want to dress you in diamonds and gold,
    In satin's rich spangle as evenings unfold,
    With trimmings of silver and nacreous tints
    Embracing your summers with glorious glints.

    I don't want to dress you in crushed petal dust
    And slices of apples invaded by rust
    With zephyrs entangled in fringes of hair
    And gliding down eyebrows with devilish dare.

    I don't want to dress you in nightingale songs,
    In tinkle of cymbals and rumble of gongs,
    In deep scarlet hues flowing shoulder to foot
    And fighting your crimsons in bitter dispute.

    I just want
    To undress you.