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Exploding Oranges

    You fell on top of the pile,

    dragging me on top of you
    around of you
    inside of you,
    oranges exploding with dull thuds
    as hands searched for clasp
    and bodies somersaulted
    and reality escaped through mouths gaping around suns
    to clamp down on evading sunrise
    and dragon’s milk.

    “That was supposed to be the second stanza,”

    you insisted on being specific,
    missing the foreplay
    while wiping your sticky hands on my skin
    as juice slithered down your chin
    together with bitter peel rests,
    slippery seeds,
    and various elements trying to disconnect from my head
    to clean your facial features
    and the rest of your body’s features
    and munch unpeeled oranges.

    “Sometimes reality beats poetry,”

    I retorted, spitting seeds in the sun
    and watching them catch fire in your hair
    leaving me no choice
    but further squeeze the heart of oranges upon the fire
    and inside your mouth
    and beneath the arch of your body
    once you invited me to visit again
    and steamroll between our bodies
    more exploding oranges
    and exploding flint stones
    and exploding planets long dead and forgotten.



Rain Dance

    We danced in the street,
    pouring rain
    yet no drop touched us
    our bodies undulating like thread thin snakes
    between drops the size of eggs,
    the only touches
    the occasional fleet of hand on skin
    sole hovering over puddle
    breath in breath,
    was it a miracle
    or the new body language
    of dancing out of desire
    and into passion?

    We lost the rhythm
    once fingers laced, hooked, welded
    and the downpour suddenly drenched us
    the grass knives cutting into our backs
    as we rolled and rolled and rolled
    the mud glazing into crumbling bricks
    the oven of our joined bodies the purifying hell
    dancing us out of passion
    and into ecstasy.




    let me migrate
    to the warmth
    of your delicate south
    and its delectable delicacies.

    where the silence
    is absolute after the storm,
    where the beauty of the torn petals strewn by the howling savagery
    is absolute after the storm,
    where the pain of fading shared indignity
    is absolute after the storm.

    where the storm
    is absolute.




    Not much I will bequeath,
    the world only infinitesimally richer
    by my temporary sojourn ahere,

    Belike some will read my iconoclastic verse,
    some my genial word
    spewed by a body benumbed by ague,

    Some more, I take heart,
    taking rest in the shadows I lined on paper
    beriming the beauty of bevy and woman and you,

    My books unwritten in lead unsmelted
    yet the sun a smile richer
    dramming vapors above my scribbled sentences,

    Feel the ardor in the ordeal of my fingers, woman,
    as they dehisce between their cupidity of skin
    and the beseeching of proffering your skin to paper.



Corroding Impatience

    Corroding impatience,
    acid shivers cut fissures along my nerve paths
    rolling poisonous desires in the depths thus plowed,
    the mephitic emanation of boiling sweat
    and algae rich breath
    purifying into the attar of roses marrying lilac
    by an offertory of eye blinks
    strumming butterflies off those images
    strung upon memories of you.

    I see you in the primal valley torn inside a mountain’s rib
    Falcons caring for your shadow, dangling vines your flailing crib,
    And an avalanche of boulders plying gashes through the pines
    Melts in sunshine laden bubbles dying in your body’s wine...

    The floor curves dangerously downwards,
    the minutes to pass as many stones in pockets
    hours as many stomping elephants
    days each a trunk
    groaning under ripened fruit and heavy rain and nesting birds
    crushing breast bone splinters
    into the flesh of heart
    and waiting for the miracle of passing night
    to ease the load
    as stone after elephant after tree
    disintegrate into the wrinkles of a burgeoning smile.

    You stole a dream from morning’s armor smiling protests out of way
    Dipping in its pouring colors all of clouds and part of day,
    Waves of diving armadillos lacing pearls to your hair
    Strew a mist of scales and petals into evening’s sweet despair...

    My body turns into a sailor’s knot,
    curled fingers anchoring diamond nails
    deep into peeling layers of glass
    trying to mold it into that one grain hourglass
    ending the infinity of the wait
    by a twist of the wrist
    and watching fascinated the landing,
    the explosion at the bottom
    multiplied a million times by the explosion of the door
    and your teeth sinking the love into my neck.

    The swish of silk invades the room with rolling laughter’s lambent tease
    And carries in its ribboned tail the whiff of east’s caressing breeze,
    I feel the fleeting touch of hands unbuttoning my cotton vest
    Before you land inside my arms to curl your heart against my chest...

    Time stops,
    I do not know the face I knew
    as your beauty is reborn once again
    and you envelope me with yet another side of the rainbow
    and another side of the butterfly
    and I will never sate
    blanketing myself with you
    at the end of the inevitability
    of patience.




    I think of you in terms of flesh.
    and mud.
    when bones enmesh.
    and raging fires rape
    the blood.

    my dreams my cage of lust.
    and awe.
    above my crust.
    beneath your feline purr
    and claw.

    a blanket built of sweat.
    and sigh.
    your silhouette.
    my morning patch of skin
    and sky.

    a wake-up call of smile.
    and song.
    a childish guile.
    a woman dragging suns

    I think of you in terms of day.
    and lair.
    your words' bouquet.
    your blazing trail of love
    and flare.



love me

    show me the white
    there, beyond the hem of skirt
    above the muscle of thigh,

    beneath the white of cotton,

    show me the white
    of flesh.

    fascinate me with the soft,
    the soft supporting the rigidness of nipple
    and shrouding the music of existence,

    beneath the soft of shirt and crude of button,

    fascinate me with the soft
    of flesh.

    trap me with the hard
    behind the gate’s red and inside the serpent’s cavern
    ready to bite lumps off my body and love them into its depths of throat,

    beneath the gaze shying underneath eyelids underneath arches,

    trap me with the hard
    of bone and flesh.

    love me.



I Call It Love

    tireless libido,
    timeless lechery,
    tameless lust,

    the alligator... "pussycat..." sheds its human masquerade
    as razors... "milk-teeth..." sink viciously in malformed male breasts
    and a primal growl... "meow..." peels skin away from boiling flesh.

    "wow..." she cuddles against me,
    "all this me?"

    I look down at her,
    scales and tails and fangs
    reality invading my imagination
    alongside with chrysanthemums budding inside her palms
    and pelicans swimming in her eyes...
    I shake my head wildly...
    "is it a yes?" she asks,
    "or a now?"
    yes or now what?
    I shake my head again
    thinking to find a balance between the worlds
    my horselike manner obvious in more than one way.

    I feel the pussycat... "alligator..." start crawling above me
    its milk-teeth... "razors..." sliding beneath the roots of my chest hairs
    and its meow... "growl..." curdling the wine in my glass
    before curdling the blood in my veins
    as a forest of ten-digited lianas tangles our bodies
    and the beasts war their bleeding passage into the calamity of calm
    and of it's over.

    "it's not over yet," the she-beast turns human for seconds
    and rasps against me
    licking the battered poppies away from our wounds
    and readying the slaughter fields
    for an encore
    of Armageddon.



The Land

    about midway
    between knees
    and breasts,
    beneath the legendary white reefs
    of hidden ribs
    and above the tumultuous spasms
    of mountainous thighs,
    the land.

    where the crow picks its olive branch
    each morning
    and the tiger cuddles sleepily with newborn lambs
    and the whale
    chases its tail in the frolicking frenzy
    of spilling pearls
    and diving cormorants.

    Wonder the land,
    the one which is two
    like never the land
    like ever the glades
    home to the loss of innocence
    and the rebirthing of virginity
    and the cry of life
    as it separates the light from the dark
    and the after from the before.

    I touch it
    in the awe of fear and bewonderment
    knowing of the deceiving calm in its monstrous fathoms
    about to release the savagery of fire tongues
    singing me into that momentary death
    I wish eternal.

    And after eternity ends
    I kiss the flesh
    waiting to be kissed back by sprouting eternity
    once again.





    No, I am not,
    I will never be
    not even when I die,
    I will be full of poems never to be written
    and stories never to be given a title
    and love... oh, all the love left to be bestowed
    and stuttering into oblivion there
    beneath the motionless
    bars of bone.

    Why hurry?

    For every word I write
    there are uncountable I won’t
    and titles no one will ever hang above a story
    and ideas hiding inside phrases
    leaving the virtuality of life now
    for the virtuality of life after
    with others wondering... or maybe not
    which one would have been
    the next.


    Yes, for as long
    as there is a love I know of
    and a woman who knows of me
    and only the poems written
    and the titles given
    and the love bestowed before
    rather than the one unknown after
    is what she counts and recounts
    when her fingers die inside my mouth
    and mine live
    inside hers.



Of Care And Things

    I don’t care your not wearing
    a blue ribbon
    in your hair
    and around your wrist
    and around your waist
    and dragging it behind you from your left ankle
    or right
    or both
    like a kite about to take off.

    I don’t care your not combing your hair
    in curls empty of air and full of heart
    in a pony’s wild tail
    or a schoolgirl’s tame braids
    one or two... is there a three?...
    or not combing it at all
    as you get out of bed
    and hit three walls
    before finding the door to the bathroom
    to leave it open as you lazily take care of the morning.

    I don’t care your eating
    with your mouth open
    and your eyes open
    and your negligee open all the way down to your bellybutton
    and beyond
    as you mix the yolk with the crumbs
    with the apple juice
    and I lick clean the corners of your mouth
    just so nothing gets wasted of food
    and breath.

    I don’t care your singing
    when I sleep
    or your sleeping when I sing
    and I have to carry your dead weight
    and bouncing breasts and muscled belly stretching into calming shadows
    while I dance around
    before I stomp one footed
    and finally fall exhausted to the floor
    with you... still asleep.

    I don’t care your making love
    or lying
    or bathing with no bubbles and rivers of steam
    on top of the mountain or in back of the bus or on a cinema chair
    when all that counts
    is the spots of my skin you count
    and the tips of my fingers you demand
    and the number of times you faint

    How could I care
    your beauty?



Homely Scenes

    Your wet hair
    inside a huge towel turkish-turban styled
    your bare feet
    flip-flopping around in king size plastic galoshes
    the wet leftovers of your skin
    hosted by a bathrobe missing one button and dragging the hem...
    “no other queen
    has ever been
    more beautiful,”

    I volunteered an unasked for half-rhymed opinion
    munching on my microwave defrozen hamburger.

    You spied my expression in the mirror,
    looking for hints of good-humored mockery
    weighing the brush against the nail-polish bottle
    as a possible good-humored missile...
    you decided on the civilized way of settling disputes,
    making words not wars.

    I had to jump the species gap
    so I wiped the mayonnaise leftovers on back of my sleeve
    and repeated, empathically
    “no other!”
    hoping this would do the trick.

    Women are probably as thick headed as they say
    since you started undoing the towel turkish-turban styled
    letting a cascade of undulating hair-thin ribbons embrace your neck...
    “queen, you said?!...”
    making it clear that it was not clear
    and neither was the final punctuation in your voice clear to me...
    “...so you think of me as a queen?”
    you thankfully elaborated further
    dropping one king-sized galosh to the floor,
    the unmistakable sound of plastic meeting tile
    sounding crystal tinkle to my ears.

    Nothing was as thick as impassable to my flawless persuasive powers
    once my mind set on digging out truths unknown
    and facts unperceived by lesser minds... sorry...
    “I don’t think,”
    I insisted to be specific
    and for whatever reason you nodded affirmatively
    even before I finished my exposé,
    women are mind readers probably, I hated to admit,
    “you are a queen
    and no other was ever more beautiful.”

    There was sincerity in my voice,
    why not - after all I was sincere,
    the only thing I was unsure of
    was if I placed ever in the right place in the sentence.
    I picked a few crispy french fries
    and munched on, delightedly.

    You dropped the other king-sized galosh to the floor
    and I didn’t even hear this one tinkling
    as your hand reached instantly for the missing button
    of that hem-dragging bathrobe,
    and discovering the stupid mistake reached for the one higher up
    then the one higher up
    then the one higher up...
    “you will choke to death...” you whispered
    even though I don’t think I heard the words, merely imagined
    as you picked up the dangerous mush from my petrified mouth
    and dropped it to the floor
    replacing it with a queenly tongue
    specialized in unpetrifying the most stubborn of fossils.

    Queens have a way with skins... theirs or not...
    I found it out the kingly way.




    I grabbed cupfuls of flesh
    from underneath your clothes,

    your skin invisible
    to my fingers
    as they groped for doors
    sculpted between ribs and teeth and thighs

    finally settling
    for those cupfuls of flesh.

    I gored cupfuls of cloth
    dangling red anger above your flesh,

    the knight in me
    dealing death to the cruelty of buttons
    and instant extermination
    to seams and hems and once mocking trimmings

    finally settling
    for those cupfuls of cloth.

    I gulped cupfuls of breath
    evading your inflamed lungs,

    until we suddenly tumbled into each other
    the stones beneath our fallen bodies
    finding deliverance through bubbling liquid to dispersing vapor
    as we wasted ecstasy into flaring skin flakes

    finally settling
    for those cupfuls of breath.



Unatomically So

    you can sit on me
    and write your life’s story,

    just make sure there is nothing
    between your skin
    and mine
    except for those treacherous cutis anserina.

    you can change position as much as you wish
    from comfortable to too comfortable,

    pay no attention
    to that horrible succession of earthly tremors
    as my flesh loses all inhibition
    expressing growing impatience in a ritual of myoclonic twitches.

    it is my chivalrous intention
    to prevent the chill of night invade your body,

    my palm’s intent is not to investigate your thighs
    but rather prevent heat from flowing away
    as the radiation reflects back from my caring fingers
    helping you maintain crucial homeostasis.

    there is of course my second palm
    definitely disassociated from those most gallant of aspirations,

    with a most insulting disregard to your creativity
    as it beguiles you into thinking it weighs your breasts
    while actually
    it offers me the rigidity of your mammary papilla.

    oh, so you prefer me to sit on you
    and write my life story?

    it would have been possible if not for your incessant knismesis
    of those of my areas rich in pheomelanin
    along with your incessant probing of my cremasteric muscle
    leading to that slightly disturbing flood inside my corpora cavernosa.


    hmm (you say) what about dropping the anatomy?
    hmm (I say) what about joining the anatomy?
    mmm (we say).



Late Night

    I lie with you
    between the pages of a book,
    all past stories of love underneath us,
    above us
    all the stories still to be written,
    our story hesitating between quill and pen and brush
    as it enfolds us with indecision.

    “indecision of what?”

    of quill and pen and brush
    of paper and silk and flower fields
    of humming sunset and tinkling butterfly and contorted word.

    “or all?”

    you always have the solution,
    and I roll the page around us
    hiding from those stories of love past
    and caring not of those stories of love to be written
    busy writing my own
    with your tools.

    the sea has spit the sand
    and the sand has spit the pearl
    and you stole the pearl to bring me,
    the cloud has expelled the dew
    and the dew has expelled the poppy
    and you stole the poppy to bring me,
    the tree has shed the foliage
    and the foliage has shed the dragonfly
    and you stole the dragonfly to bring me.

    I make love to you
    and your skin is the pencil
    and my skin is the parchment
    and the words are meaningless to all
    but us
    as our tongues vibrate in harmony with fingertips
    and with comets about to invade
    the pages not yet written.



Variations In Four Letters

    I stop and stare
    around the bustling city square...

    where did we stop?
    the waffles shop
    with thick vanilla cream on top,

    the tee shirt spot
    where you have bought
    one shirt and paid with smiles a lot,

    the rotting post
    where all and most
    of drunkards pee and winos coast,

    the glassy pots
    with sunken yachts
    and corny gold and silver dots,

    those shining tops
    above the shops
    beneath a summer's egg-sized drops?...

    I gaze a while
    and find your shoe, my dream, your smile...




    big words you think?
    you did not see my heart.
    not to mention my other thing
    even bigger than the heart.
    my liver, I mean.

    so don’t you tell me about my big words,
    they are small
    compared to her smile
    when she makes love.
    ok, makes love to me, if you insist...
    poetic analphabetism is rife, I know,
    I wish poetic hunger would be as rife too
    because I could feed a nation.

    why is it only after I die
    that I will become famous?
    there is a certain amount of social injustice to that
    joining the rest of social injustices
    yet incomparably smaller... says who?

    of course I can write short words,
    one letter’d two letter’d three letter’d words and poems,
    if you insist I can write even short letters, red letters, bingo letters
    whatever it means,
    shorter even than, you know, my liver.

    I will stick to the big.
    whenever I feel like it.
    if I feel like it.
    if she makes love like it. which she makes always.
    love. big.

    let Scylla bite six chunks off my flesh
    and Charybdis swallow the rest of it
    and in between munch and drown
    I will bite six apples off my lover’s boiling flesh
    and swallow the rest of its agonizing orchard
    hungering for her
    the way of monsters and gods.

    big words you think?
    beautiful words you think?
    like centaurea cyanus and lanicera caprifolium and bellis perennis?
    like her?




    I watch myself
    from far, high away
    my insignificance diminished by the power tele-lenses I use
    feeling like David watching Bat Sheba
    all his tools thumbs against indexes against eyes
    while mine are the 21x
    of the mind,
    both of us consociating with the Peeping Tom’s
    of this world
    watching flesh,
    he watching woman
    I watching man watching woman.

    I watching I falling in love with woman.

    The sinful definition in the universal Book of Synonyms
    woman: female, she, lady, cummer, girl, maid, las, colleen, gal...
    written by a bunch of gynandromorphic eunuchs
    lost in the blinding fog of narrow scholasticism
    to unsee the one missing definition
    woman: fire.

    Gynarchy. Reality. The path alongside the pit.
    Looking for the hole in the wall to jump in
    and scream ecstatic death.
    Finding it.
    David. Samson. Adam.

    I watch I wearing woman after I am naked
    and I can’t cover myself enough with it
    as she invaginates me into her mouth and loins
    and still my shivers threaten a solar cataclysm
    until the solano pouring from her gaping lungs
    invests my veins with raking barbed wire
    and she impales her breast’s nipple against the barbs
    blissfully exploding middle of the poppies
    efflorescing upon my once desert of skin.



The Color Of Promise

    Green, like the heart of a grass blade
    Torn by teeth looking for the bitter elixir,
    Red, like the bubbling drop of blood
    Flirting with antelope’s fleeing fur,
    Blue, like the iris-less eye of a spotless sky
    Watching itself unseeingly in a sea’s chasms.

    “As beautiful?”
    As enrapturing.

    The black, housing the miracle about to unravel,
    The white, home to the sweat following the unraveling
    The transparent, the moment of loss after the moment of sweat.

    “As colorless?”
    As colorful.



The Chaste Side Of

    bite the bedposts’ heads off,
    spit them through the window pane,
    watch four hollow bodied spiders grow crack legs
    reflecting on the ceiling broken, multicolored images
    of naked shapes
    wrestling dementia
    in and out boiling leftovers
    of flesh.

    don’t watch the moon,
    holes the size of Antarctica drilling through paleness into darkness,
    the flames of trailing bed sheets planting surrealistic flags
    dragging an own supply of oxygen
    and irrationality
    and exploding seeds
    filling the holes with the first sunflowers ever
    the other side of the yellow blotch.

    howl the wolf-bitch way,
    there’s no shame in bleating, lowing, cawing, roaring, hissing
    the way there’s no shame in sunrising
    and once our outsides meet our insides
    in an immixture of liquefied wood and want and wall
    the burning cocoon enwrapping our singleness
    will break through the hollow spiders and sunflower caves
    to forget us on the chaste side
    of insanity.




    I stuck my finger into the sun
    to the root of the last phalanx,

    pulled it out dripping the essence of orange orchards in bloom
    sprinkled with hearts of crushed lilac and dust of minced mint
    and started painting spiral traces with the crumbling fingertip
    down your thighs
    beneath your knees
    round and round and round your ankles
    all the way into my mouth... the searing sensation on my tongue

    You did not define suns, rather volcanoes
    as you went on to scoop lava into your mouth,

    the jewels dropping underneath your eyes sliding like dancers
    and the sultry music of your growing smile defining the season
    as the flaming ring surrounding your teeth absorbed the fruits
    making intimate sounds
    of crunching and slurping
    round and round and round my flesh
    looking for those shreds of my mouth still alive with the intent
    of greed.



In Betweens

    your morning falls into my morning,
    my evening falls into your evening,

    and in between morning to evening

    the noise of my pen scrapping into paper
    night’s portentous dreams
    and those dissipating womanly perfumes
    and the yawning invasion of leftover minutes
    hardly worthy to be lived
    in wake of the despotic paragon of delirious hours,

    and in between evening to morning

    the noise of your skin scrapping off mine
    day’s fortuitous encounters
    and those desecrating moments of forgetfulness
    and the blood deep cuts of pen
    telling of the evening to morning that died
    and the one about to begin its fulgid ingress into elysium.




    Leave here the banana peel
    for me to cuddle at night,

    Tear that nacre top button
    for me to hammer to stardust
    and stick to my ceiling,

    Spit at my feet
    for me to worship into the end of life.




    Your lips taste
    like scrambled eggs,
    your fingers sticky with orange juice,
    your hair taking after Medusa on a windy day,

    Your gown... what gown?
    when it slides off your shoulders
    like a melting giant snowflake
    and your skin glows with opening pink carnations
    and your lips taste like apples
    and your fingers cut burning ruts
    starting on the desktop and continuing down my hips
    and your hair invades my field of vision
    cutting the sun into boiling marmalade slices
    blinding my skin
    before igniting it.




    That looooong second,
    was it hours, days, weeks?... the miracles of static relativity.

    Frozen in that impasse of time
    from you've gone to you've returned
    my body beating all records, human and inhuman,
    of breathlessness... whales included.

    I knew I was dying,
    was that last breath in or out?

    The shape... the flurry... the mouth...
    another lung pumping life into my blood
    and forcing my eyes fully open
    once again.

    "...hey, were you here all that time?..." she asked.

    I looked at the sunken tile underneath my feet,
    the few "undefined hazard" signs
    placed around me by some overzealous cleaning lady...

    guess I was.




    I sowed
    I harvested shivers
    and soul.

    I harvested
    the salt of your tears in my lemonade
    when you leaned over to kiss me,
    the rip in my silk shirt
    when you pulled me towards you to kiss me,
    the bruise on my big toe’s nail
    when you tiptoed up to me to kiss me.

    I sowed whispers,
    I harvested rain of woman.




    They followed you,
    your tools of trade
    the scalpels, the pens, the hammers, the brushes,
    clinging to your skin
    the way your skin clings to your flesh,
    leaving behind just signatures,
    the inerasable changes in the fabric of time
    and mine.

    the creases in the bed sheets
    round or straight or smooth
    as you rolled from side to side trying to smother me
    underneath your steamroller of love,

    the tunnels of vacuum
    crisscrossing the room’s air
    as you rushed from the window to the bathroom to me to the door
    to the bed to me to the table to me,

    the beads of water soaked from your skin
    into the towel’s intricacies
    and the dissolved leftovers of salt and lipstick
    and love making,

    the cracks in my bones you worked so hard to ligate
    now piercing out through my punctured flesh
    and sending begging, rugged splinter arms
    your disappearing way.



Love, Two

    like the one in torn flower beds
    and ravaged theater chairs
    and chocolate melting in mouths...

    beyond the sunflower’s for sun
    and cub’s for bitch’s tit
    and rolling stone’s for river’s bottom...

    of the knowledge of carnality
    and satisfaction of handhold
    and flowing warmth of touching nearness...



Another Bunch Of Don’t’s and Do’s

    “Whales or dolphins?” you asked.
    “Whales or dolphins what?”
    “Whose songs are more beautiful?” you asked.
    and I watched you blushing
    to the tips of your dangling earrings.

    “Butterflies, though,
    sing even more beautifully,”
    I continued pitilessly
    and you paled,
    “than whales and dolphins.
    But less than you.”
    The blushing spot turned smoldering coal-red,
    the earrings’ tips started melting...
    “Butterflies don’t sing,” you protested
    shamelessly embarrassed
    and delighted.
    “They do, we just don’t hear them.”
    “Then how do we know?”
    “We don’t. I do,”
    I responded confidently
    since I knew.

    You picked the flower from between my teeth
    and bit on the stem
    green ichor flowing down your chin.
    “Sweet,” you said.
    “Sweet what?”
    I asked, shuddering.
    “Your poetry,” you said.
    I laughed till I had cramps in my belly.
    “We can’t taste poetry,”
    I said between hiccups.
    You touched the green to my lips,
    then your lips followed.
    “We don’t. I do,” you said.
    I guess you knew.



Love Declarations

    to take your body,
    to lay you on that hard board
    and turn you paper thin with a rolling pin
    and so much love.

    then spread above
    dry leaves layers crumbled thin
    and roll you around them repeatedly until
    all of you is gone.

    the match hissing...
    to light one end of the cigarette
    and puff you deeply in, intoxicating myself
    with your splendor.

    “and after I burn?”
    and after the sun burns and dies?
    and after the universe collapses into ashes?
    “after I love you?”



Beneath The Wet, Frozen Leaves

    looking for you
    beneath the wet, frozen leaves,
    Earth losing thin layers of steam
    as I undressed its carcass
    and an ages old habit
    prevented it from shivering.

    but the steam
    meant pain,
    same as mine, looking for you
    beneath the wet, frozen leaves.

    I wasn’t bound by any habit
    so I allowed shivers to run through hurting muscles
    and creaking joints of spine, elbow, shoulders,
    asking forgiveness
    as I scraped further and deeper looking for you
    beneath the wet, frozen leaves,
    with the metal of a broken toothed rake
    and the keratin of breaking nails
    as all of Earth begged to reside underneath them
    yet all I could accept were a few, black crumbs
    the color of life
    and love
    and longing.

    I lay down,
    waiting for you
    beneath the wet, frozen leaves
    stealing Earth’s memories of past days of glory
    and in return
    feeding it with my boiling desire
    and its ages old forgotten shivers
    hoping to share with it the sound of leaves rustling
    and clothes shedding
    and a woman falling on top of me,
    and underneath me,
    and around me.




    Lie there,
    Where the earth is rolling
    and the lark is calling
    for the night’s demise,
    faking frank surprise,

    Sleep there,
    Just below the willow,
    cracking leaves your pillow,
    squirrels’ tickling bites
    your awaking rites,

    Smile there,
    Listen to the drummer
    heralding the summer,
    barking buds and seeds
    birthing ferns and weeds,

    Cuddle there,
    Not against the nettle
    though you’ve been of mettle
    but against the bark
    etching brand and spark,

    Sing there,
    Music sweet and mellow,
    fiddle, harp and cello,
    locust rains and does
    as your beauty glows,

    Make love to me
    leave to others fangle,
    grandiloquent fandangle,
    nestle in my art
    rhyme with you my heart.



Here, Here

    Lie there,
    Where the earth is rolling loudly
    and the lark is calling proudly
    for the night’s demise with sorrow
    faking frank surprise each morrow,

    Sleep there,
    Just beneath the willow's camber,
    cracking leaves your pillow's amber,
    squirrels’ tickling bites and nibble
    your awaking rites and quibble,

    Smile there,
    Listen to the drummer's bawling
    heralding the summer's crawling,
    barking buds and seeds invading
    birthing ferns and weeds parading,

    Cuddle there,
    Not against the nettle’s flaking
    though you’ve been of mettle making
    but against the bark and speckle
    etching brand and spark and freckle,

    Sing there,
    Music sweet and mellow playing,
    fiddle, harp and cello swaying,
    locust rains and doe rich showers
    as your beauty glows and flowers,

    Make love to me
    leave to others fangle’s luster,
    grandiloquent fandangle’s cluster,
    nestle in my art’s rendition,
    rhyme with you my heart’s submission.



Here, Here, Here

    Lie there,
    Where the earth is rolling loudly dragging cogs through sunset mires
    and the lark is calling proudly guising rapturous desires
    for the night’s demise with sorrows burning trails throughout its feather
    faking frank surprise each morrow while its heart sinks fathoms nether,

    Sleep there,
    Just beneath the willow's camber, hanging boughs your dressing habits,
    cracking leaves your pillow's amber teeming with stampeding rabbits,
    squirrels’ tickling bites and nibble claiming with ornate delusion
    your awaking rites and quibble as they drink a night’s illusion,

    Smile there,
    Listen to the drummer's bawling as he drags a sun through valleys
    heralding the summer's crawling as the wheat its scions tallies,
    barking buds and seeds invading kingdoms rich in sprouting beauty,
    birthing ferns and weeds parading, pansies shy and lilies snooty,

    Cuddle there,
    Not against the nettle’s flaking beckoning to hell and yonder
    though you’ve been of mettle making, which at times I sit and ponder,
    but against the bark and speckle and the newborn blade and cleaver
    etching brand and spark and freckle in a flesh beseeching fever,

    Sing there,
    Music sweet and mellow playing as the raindrops hit the gully,
    fiddle, harp and cello swaying, just my sighs the lyric sully,
    locust rains and doe rich showers blend with unicorns alighting,
    as your beauty glows and flowers, copper stars through fields igniting,

    Make love to me
    leave to others fangle’s luster, trinket words of weird intention,
    grandiloquent fandangle’s cluster, claims of arrogant pretension,
    nestle in my art’s rendition, trail its warmth through deserts churning,
    rhyme with you my heart’s submission as you see my poems burning.



Oh, Oranges

    my fingers smell of oranges, she emailed,
    I would like to share oranges with you.

    I would like to share fingers with you, I replied.

    there was a knock at my door.
    I had to pay import duties,
    a fine from the ministry of agriculture,
    extra postage due to outdated stamps,
    value added tax...
    finally it was there,
    the box.
    I opened it, bathing in the fragrance
    before peeling the first one
    and biting into it... oh, oranges.

    there was a knock at her door.
    there were no duties to pay, nor fines, postage, VAT...
    one does not pay for clothes
    with fingers dangling from sleeves
    and me attached to fingers, filling the rest of the clothes.
    she bit into the... oh, fingers.



Silly. Nonsense.

    on my desk
    the pen sits at an odd angle to the paper,
    there is a screw
    orphaned from some unknown contraption
    about to cry,
    loud music slides between the tablecloth
    and the table top underneath
    leaving ripples of dying insanity
    in the wood
    and upon my neighbor’s brain crust,
    the kind driving people to pick a broom handle
    and knock it senselessly into the ceiling.

    I wonder,
    maybe he walks on the ceiling
    using velcro-soled shoes
    and levitating balloons,
    his hair is curled and cannot hang down
    but the broom can fall
    and hurt his cat.

    silly. nonsense.

    there are stones to the wall across from me,
    I imagine making love to you
    lying on the wall,
    the stones’ gravitation keeping us glued perpendicularly to horizon
    your back glued to the cold stone
    my belly glued to yours
    and your hair tying involuntary knots
    behind my neck,
    behind my back,
    behind my thighs and knees and ankles
    your fingers and mine connecting in square knots and fingernail love.

    silly. nonsense.

    woman beauty woman beauty woman...
    is this the incarnation of pure arithmetic progression,
    or geometric,
    or oxymoronic reality or absolute equality or the innocent’s mirage
    when dreaming his last dream
    as quicksand counts to the end of time, so little of it left?

    there’s no beauty like yours
    in Da Vinci’s unpainted masterpieces
    in the blocks of marble
    Rodin will never break
    and the cyrillic necklaces
    buried together with Pushkin,
    there is beauty like yours
    woman beauty woman beauty woman
    in the musical sonance never descended into humans
    by a Hermes too jealous to add a last string to Apollo’s lyre,
    now lost forever
    except for my few moments of pure

    silly? nonsense?
    you know better.
    you are woman. beauty. woman. beauty. woman.



Talking Love-Vignettes

    But I am not beautiful,
    you say.

    Don’t look in the mirror,
    I say,
    let me look
    for you.


    If I touch your mouth
    pouring seeds in it,
    will trees grow in my garden?

    If you touch my mouth
    pouring nails in it,
    flowers will grow between my breasts.


    A squirrel.

    The moon.
    Door to unicorns’ kingdom.

    Hand in hand across the red and white checkered tabletop.
    Finally, unicorns back into my life.


    The red dress.
    If you wish.
    The blue dress, with the white dots.
    If you wish.
    The white dress, the one with fluffy hem and golden buttons.
    If you wish.
    No dress.
    Thank you.


    Bought three cucumbers and one kilo tomatoes,
    stepped into dog’s poop, had to find a puddle to clean it
    before going to the bank,
    have to fill up the tank, it’s one cent more expensive.

    You touched my lips.
    Keep talking to me,




or The Art Of Love

    the hoof
    losing its way into clenched fist,
    forgetting behind sunk talons
    before these too follow trait
    succumbing to reality’s gravitational pull
    into nails
    and that mythical progeny of copulating saber-tooth and wingless-unicorn
    mops its sweat with my chest’s hair
    leaving sour milk traces in my mouth
    as it descends the altar
    turning back

    I clutch at your softness
    fearing... hoping?... to find the abyss
    it took me so long to fall into
    and so little to climb back from
    all the while cursing genesis for having robbed me of one rib
    and not of three
    for not having chosen dust for me
    and flesh for you.

    my plane is at eleven.
    what is a plane?

    my cupped palm a sickle,
    I leave bare swaths across your skin
    as I mow down gods and goddesses and ghosts and fairies
    making place for the mashed time
    mixed with that slaver indecorously populating my tongue
    that I will use to kill your senses of propriety
    and naiveté once more,
    and this time it is I
    who will choose the myth and the galaxy
    and you will not know your being from Myrrha or Echo or Androphonos
    while you’re looking for a god to scream at,
    finding none as I finally kill
    Ananke, and her Chronos cohort.

    I hear a plane overhead,
    and I find Chronos is alive
    as I look in the mirror
    and count his vengeful ruts across my face.



All Kinds Of Poetry

    the sky is blu
    when I love you
    and the bears coo...

    that’s stupid, you said
    pointing to the grey sky
    and elaborating for almost two hours
    that bears growl and doves coo and flies buzz...
    oh, and you have a typo in the first line,
    completed my literary debacle.

    you still made love to me,
    giggling all the time.

    when I found that the sky is blu
    and that birds sing along with you
    I found out that also doves coo...

    you’re better on bed sheets than on paper sheets, you laughed,
    pointing to the fact that there was still a typo in the first line
    and that only doves coo.

    you agreed though to make love to me,
    after I filled a page with “doves coo”.

    the sky hammers feeble delusions of life in the grains of a desert athirst for its blue
    and offers me nuggets with silvery hearts demanding the rhymes I have written for you
    yet all I can do is paint withering flowers and try to imagine why doves softly coo...

    you are cheating, you stole it, you cried turning to go
    until I pointed to you that I wrote it on the bed sheets,
    as you had suggested.

    you made love to me,
    burning me alive.



We Drank The Yoghurt From The Same Bottle, Remember?

    we drank the yoghurt from the same bottle, remember,
    and for me it tasted cherries
    and for you mango
    and for both of us strawberry wine?

    we drank the yoghurt from the same bottle, remember,
    refusing to let moments pass by
    without touching the other’s lips
    or their leftovers?

    we drank the yoghurt from the same bottle, remember,
    afraid the milk would curd after boiling first with you
    then second with me
    and third time in that mouthful we shared?

    we drank the yoghurt from the same bottle, remember,
    then drank ecstasy from the same body
    yours, mine,

    we got drunk, remember
    wondering what the hell did they put in that yoghurt?



Mus(e)ical Bigotries

    I listened this morning to Johnny B. Good
    while wishing my rhyme half as decent and crude,
    I broke my pen’s tip
    (it was giving me lip)
    and danced myself senseless into fantasies lewd.

    I listened through noon time to Primitive Love
    awaiting my muse and its obstinate shove,
    I howled up my vice
    (to hell Mr. Nice)
    all neighborhood hammering curses above.

    With evening I pumped-up my sweet Little Sister
    declaring my poetry an imminent twister,
    I felt kinda zing
    (a male kinda thing)
    and ended with holes in my socks and a blister.

    The rest of the night it was Polk Salad Annie
    with me self-declared as the word’s Modigliani,
    they knocked down the door
    (not even knocking before)
    and smashed all my records with talent uncanny.



The Divine Cacophony

    ...then she said I love you.

    She moved to my other piece of flesh,
    small nibs ending as meat
    in her mouth
    and she kissed apologetically the new spot saying again I love you.

    After the eleventh time in three minutes it was vexing,
    after the twenty seventh it was mystifying,
    it was after the fifty sixth in half an hour
    that it became addicting, enslaving
    and I stopped counting
    squirming behind the bandanna covering my eyes
    not knowing where the next nib will be,
    knowing what the next words will be
    I love you... I love you... I love you...

    At three hundred thirty-four
    (I know I said I stopped counting, the neighbor did not)
    we (she) made a pee stop,
    at five hundred seventy-seven we (she) made another one
    as I did not dare interrupt the sequence myself,
    at six hundred and ninety-nine I was squirming so bad...
    she refused to interrupt the cacophony
    and pulled me by force joining me there
    making sure there is no interrupt whatsoever
    to my immense (double) relief.

    I love you... I love you... I love you...

    I think there was a sunrise, sometime,
    I think there was a sunset, sometime,
    probably more... many?...
    I woke up from nirvana, alone,
    my skin a spotful of... well, spots,
    the bed sheets smooth around me, the floor shining,
    the kitchen spotless,
    I dressed and went to work.

    “Good morning,” I addressed my young neighbor,
    wondering at the industrial heavy duty ear-mufflers around her ears.
    She ran away, screaming wildly
    (poor girl, she couldn’t hear anything with these mufflers)
    and I couldn’t help but notice
    that strand of white hair at the nape of her neck...
    these youngsters, they’d do anything these days to attract attention.
    “Hey, I love you too,” I screamed after her,
    playing the smartass
    just seconds before she left a dent in that poor bus.
    I hope she heard me.



Et Tu?

    et tu, amor meus?

    I stuff the written pages inside shirt, socks,
    I break the pen
    sit down, lean against the tree, shivering.

    broken words drip from the paper
    freezing before hitting ground
    tinkle, tinkle, tinkle... lov, oodby, neve...
    exploding into tinier fragments,
    until a dog makes up its mind to lift its leg
    and they melt,
    a kid on ice-skates passes swiftly by
    to splatter the stinking puddle
    then cut the tips of my shoes
    and toes.

    God’s... Death’s?... long teeth hang down from gutters,
    half chewed moths and flies and beetles decorate the glittering insides
    with kids sucking thirstily the fearful spikes
    calling them sugarless lollipops if giggling girls
    or motherless nipples if vulgar boys
    or perpetuum immobile if irreverent, dying I and my poetry.

    flake shaped fireflies pinch my bare skin patches,
    tips of flame drill down to my cheek bones
    competing with those drilling up from my toes
    rushing through the solidifying maps of my various circulatory systems
    who will be the first to reach the heart
    and hear that one unique beat,
    the final?

    is it the mountain’s, that final howl,
    or yours, my lover
    once you find my poetry strewn
    upon the white hugging the eternal green of needles
    or inside nests waiting for feather
    or padding the bottom of paw tracks
    trailing the pack of wolves trekking along their tragedy of hunger and extermination
    in interminable circles?

    you are not there, in the snow,
    to define the horizon
    of expectations.

    then die, butterfly.




    I picked the battered leaf and put it behind your ear.

    Leaf becomes you, I said.
    It is the mother of flower, you said.

    I couldn’t give you a roof,
    would you settle for a sky? I asked.
    I would settle for a leaf, you answered.

    We stopped counting stars,
    we always lost count after three, or after five,
    would you rather count the kisses? I asked.
    If as many as leaves, you answered.

    I lay my frozen palm
    upon your breastbone,
    then upon your breast,
    you shiver, sorry, I said.
    I shiver like a leaf with the pleasure of rain, you said.

    You cuddled inside my shirt,
    I refused to ask how you fit in there,
    never ask a poet what a poet can do to a poet,
    your hand offering me a leaf,
    you offer me your leaf? I asked.
    I offer you my fig leaf, you answered.



Wheelbarrow Cocktail

    I empty my pockets in the wheelbarrow,
    suns, some broken in need of mending
    some chasing tails of cats yet not beyond the rim’s end of universe,
    wheat spikes sharing momentary lives with clods of freshly furrowed earth
    and dry thistle heads about to explode into a rain of seeds
    vanishing inside a drizzle of disintegrating dust
    and bugs about to be born
    and clouds mystified by it all,

    I throw you into the wheelbarrow
    on top of it all
    adding a few summers, some rotten apples and ripe oranges,
    you hardly can keep the snowflakes in your clenched fist
    from melting
    and the waves struggling to escape your other fist
    from soaking into your palm’s sand,
    I didn’t yet catch any comet, they are rare this time of the year,
    I do, though, add a few silk threads
    stolen earlier from your blouse,

    I guess it is time to park the wheelbarrow
    underneath the disheveled magnolia tree
    and sneak in between your clothes and you
    mixing the treasures I accumulated at various corners of my life
    with your ever germinating flesh and my never exhaustible desires
    then wait for the earthquake... did we call it or did it come all by itself?...
    and shake the whole of the motley
    leaving thickly-textured liquid hues inside our locked mouths
    while our frantically waving hands smear eternal motion and life
    upon the magnolia branches.




    What is the temperature in your heart? I asked
    Minus ten, she said.
    Then you must be dead. Or a vampire, I smirked.
    Minus ten, counting down from the surface of the sun.

    I had a good laugh,
    then drank some more wine,
    then danced some.
    It did not feel like I was going up in flames,
    at least not right away.
    I laughed again at the joke.

    What are you laughing at? she asked,
    laughing as well with no reason,
    not complaining, just curious.
    She had a beautiful laughter,
    like plus ten, counting up from the surface of the sun.
    I told her.
    She joined in my laughter,
    knowledgeable this time, though sounding uncertain.
    Celsius or Fahrenheit? she added a joke of her own,
    and it was probably a mix of wine and low lights
    which made me double over,
    unable to control anymore laughter's second onslaught.

    We made love, passionately.
    You can touch me anywhere, except my left breast, she murmured shyly.
    I touched here everywhere, except her left breast.
    It was a bit cumbersome,
    though mostly she took care of it
    as I was permanently lost in the clouds of inebriation and lust.

    I woke up,
    she lay next to me, naked, vulnerable
    I decided to call her a sun mermaid
    and she did not seem to mind, well, she did not know yet.
    I kissed her belly button watching her stir
    then lie motionless again,
    a soft beat barely visible underneath her breast.
    A devilish impulse took control over me,
    I picked the wine glass and emptied it inside me
    then turned it over, slowly, above her left nipple
    watching the thick drop moving sluggishly forward,
    hanging on desperately to the glass's rim
    then reluctantly giving up the grip and falling down
    in an elongated silently screaming shape...

    It exploded.
    It did not splash, or splatter, or slop,
    it exploded even before the touch of flesh,
    the firecracker noise shaking the window panes
    and the hanging pictures.
    She opened languid eyes, stretching feline-like,
    her breasts disappearing then reappearing upon her chest,
    her nipples always present.

    What is this dirt on your face, lover? she asked,
    did a fly poop all over you?
    and she touched one of the tiny blisters, licking her finger...
    hey, it tastes like burnt grapes,
    since when do flies poop grape concentrate?
    and she tinkled her way into a sleepy laughter.

    I attacked her mouth like a bull.
    She accepted my body like a queen.
    What happened, lover? she asked me after.
    I finally discovered the temperature, I answered.
    Which temperature, lover? she persisted.
    The temperature of love, I answered,
    my lips suicidally invading her left breast.




    you find that little girl
    inside you.

    Hi, you say.
    Hi, I say.
    May I present her? you say.

    Feet, bare, clapping on asphalt
    shuffling through sand
    hopping among thistles... ouch,
    Hands, gesticulating, pointing to a bird
    cupping rain water
    picking a four-leaf clover... yippee,
    Mouth, gaping, watching a beetle's colors
    squealing at the smell of ice-cream
    munching bitter leaves... mmm.

    Then she hides,
    somewhere inside your sweater
    waiting for the call of sun
    to poke her nose out again.

    Hi, she says, now no intermediaries.
    Hi, I say, now knowing her.




    the cruelty of
    of knowledge of
    and half open mouth and half open buttons
    and willingness to turn half into full
    and flesh into quarry
    and words into rhyming screams... did you hear already rhyming screams?

    the viciousness of
    of admission of
    for fingers unending at ends of arms unending
    beneath shoulders the smoothness of ivory
    adorning a neck
    leading upwards into hell's paradise... did you touch already hell's paradise?

    the ruthlessness of
    of offering of
    unattainable to teeth biting empty air
    pairing with fingernails orphaned of hospitability of spine
    joined by exploding muscles
    and beggar loins... did you make love already to beggar loins?



Dialogues In Front Of Eden

    I pulled out the worm from your apple
    the splinter from your foot
    I combed your hair before, during and after.

    Because you love me?
    Because you love me.
    You don’t love me?
    You pouted.
    Why what?
    You don’t love me.
    I do love you. Immensely.
    You said you don’t love me.
    I said No to You don’t love me.
    Which is the same as Yes I love you. Immensely.
    So you love me.
    You pouted again.
    What is it with beautiful women and small cranial cavity?
    I love you. Immensely.
    You got it.

    We were seated on a bench, in front of Eden.
    Naked. No fig leaf.
    Do you think he opens today?
    He might be she. Or it.
    Or none.
    Or both.
    Or all. Maybe he-she-it-none-all is a fish.
    Maybe. We were all fishes, once.
    Yet maybe he-she-it-none-all evolved as well.
    Into what?
    A bigger fish.
    Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, went your laughter.

    What else?
    What else what?
    The worm, the splinter, the worm...
    what else you did?

    For you?
    For me.
    I rolled the world round.
    I rolled the sun too, the problem was to make it burn.
    See? I succeeded.
    I also bent the banana.
    No, this was not you.
    No, this was not me, true, this was someone else.
    I did paint it yellow, though.
    Why what?
    And you talk about women and their small cranial cavity.
    Why yellow?

    Because there was enough red, and green, and blue,
    there was need for yellow.
    Watermelon is yellow.
    Yes, I painted it too.
    Did you paint my neighbor’s teeth too?
    No, this was Nicotine.
    Nicotine is a bad guy.
    Every good story needs a bad guy.
    Is this a story?
    No, this is good.

    I pushed a cloud to cover the sun.
    Why did you do that? you asked, shivering.
    You shiver with cold?
    I shiver with pleasure.
    In order to feel the heat of your skin.
    I pulled the sun and the cloud and a few birds down to the horizon
    crushing them into the rich motley of squashed fruits and colors.
    Poor birds.
    We listened.
    There were blackbirds, and bluebirds, and yellowbirds
    chasing sunbirds.
    I hear a turkey. What is a turkey doing inside the motley?
    Flying into the sun?... I volunteered.

    I pushed you on your back,
    the narrow slabs cutting deep ruts in your back
    as I made love to you.
    You pushed me on my back,
    the narrow slabs cutting deep ruts in my back
    as you made love to me.
    I pushed you on your back,
    the narrow slabs cutting deep ruts in your back
    as I made love to you.
    You pushed me on my back,
    the narrow slabs cutting deep ruts in my back
    as you made love to me.
    You look like a checkerboard.
    You look like a checkerberry.
    You look like a checkerbloom.
    You look like a checkerspot.
    Do you think we should have waited for the gate to open?

    I picked some silver from your hair
    and went over, painting it over the gate.
    Now it was a mirror.
    You watched our reflection,
    naked flesh enveloping naked flesh, king and queen,
    dragon and tamer, cow and grass.
    Cow and grass?
    You prefer thorn and dew?
    For whatever reason you preferred thorn and dew.
    Why did you paint it silver? Now we see us.
    So that now we don’t have to wait for the gate to open into Eden.
    Now we see Eden.

    A turkey landed next to us, gobbling excitedly,
    a piece of sun in its beak.
    See? I told you.
    You refused to see anything except for Eden,
    trembling uncontrollably next to me.



Garden Of Flesh

    You did not do it on purpose,
    or maybe you did,
    or maybe you did not know that you did
    and now you were asleep
    fighting off some demons
    with slight twitches of fingers and toes.

    The top button of your nightgown closed,
    the other three, reaching almost to your waist, open
    and a wonderfully shaped piece of pale flesh
    rolled out through the opening
    its one red eye asleep middle of areolian gardens
    dreaming inside your dream
    of last night’s visiting messenger fingers
    and beggar lips.

    How did the hem of your gown
    slide so high and so far?
    a long thigh ending almost as far up as your shoulder
    hugging indelicately the ecstatic linen
    caught in the trap between one bare knee
    and another, hidden one,
    my eye hungrily following linen’s shadow upwards
    till the blurred line of soft, blonde plumage
    delineating the border between matter and flesh.

    There was no much finesse in my cupping fists
    when they took hold of the nightgown, both sides of the seam
    and with one impetuous move tore it off the flesh
    revealing the rest of the other knee,
    the other thigh
    the rest of the plumage and areolian gardens...
    are you the archaeopteryx of my dreams?
    you smiled through eyelashed cobwebs,
    shedding the last of the threads.
    I am the man in love of your nightmares,
    I answered, taking possession of the skin pouring my way.
    No wonder I have so many of them,
    you gurgled back, helping me die endlessly
    between the roots of that ruthlessly dexterous
    garden of flesh.





    battling the dripping nose
    scrapping the ice
    refraining from getting hold of the boss’s jugular
    and simply squeezing...

    one of those heroic days.

    tying laces with fingers frozen solid
    listening to rap at seven am
    getting buried under a pile of snow falling from the church’s roof
    and still dreaming of ice cream...

    one of those heroic days.

    thinking of you
    writing a poem

    and what is so heroic about this?

    not heroic, just impossible.
    shivering outside
    for reasons different
    to shivering inside.



kinds of when

    when you float upon the tiles
    sometimes whirling, rushing out in between the pane and the sill
    then finding your way back in
    through a keyhole, if present,
    or through that crack in my mind you often laugh at
    and I agree,

    when was it that you chased a dry leaf
    throughout the garden
    and then the cat started chasing you oblivious to your non corporeality
    driven only by those flowing colors painting nebulae in the air
    and then the dog started chasing the cat
    and I chased the dog
    until you caught that dry leaf but I never caught you,

    when you find your lair in my pockets
    between dry crumbs of bread and torn bits of paper
    drifting between thread knots
    and visiting sometimes pieces of me I am unaware of
    my only reminiscence from your visits
    this allergy population of red dots
    so strangely and minutely
    heart shaped,

    when was it that you painted suns inside the bottle
    I just finished drinking
    or carved smileys there
    where my teeth bit into the thick sandwich
    then ripped from my hand the mayonnaise dirty hankie
    and folded it into a sequence of letters
    telling me where to find
    the corporeal you,

    when you pull the hat down over my head
    to hide that crack, now not secret anymore
    and you drag colored paper balls flying around me,

    when was it that you had enough of this game
    and allowed corporeal you to pull a bed underneath the three of us
    breaking the secrecy of making love into whiffs of perfume?...




    I heard it said, sung,
    I heard it misunderstood,
    I heard it in prayer, chanted.
    I saw it written
    in its originally split form
    of that ancient language.
    I understand it
    beyond the mystic.


    You wake up in the morning.
    You walk the cat, or whatever one does with a cat.
    You brush your teeth
    smiling at an unseen reflection of me behind your shoulder,
    you eat, just a little,
    you drink, just a little,
    you eat a tangerine, a big one
    thinking of that legendary slice
    that once slipped from your mouth straight into mine
    and started our legend, even if only we know of this legend.
    Your shoes sound rhythmically on the pavement
    the chilly wind trying to lift your skirt...
    of course you don’t allow, only I am allowed to lift your skirt,
    a figure hastening in the shop windows waves back at you
    knowing it is you yet not you yet telling you of you
    and your green sweater and red scarf and black stockings,
    it does not know of what you wear underneath
    even I don’t know, I will never know
    until I meet you again
    and I will know of the colors underneath your clothing
    and of the colors underneath the colors underneath your clothing,
    and more.
    You stop to catch your breath,
    closing your eyes before allowing the world catch up with you
    and saying to no one in particular
    yet to the whole world to know,
    I love you.





    Lift your finger,
    I want to take a picture of it... click!
    Now another one...
    no, not this one, this might be perceived as rude,
    try another... click!... another... click! click!
    the other hand, click! click! click! click!...
    I guess we cannot delay any longer, sorry,
    do lift the middle one, I have no choice, click! click! click!
    I know you don’t have three,
    the third click was for your mouth.

    Now lift your big toe.
    You cannot? Another toe then?
    You cannot?
    Then try wiggling them...
    hey, stop wiggling,
    I cannot take pictures while laughing,
    no, neither while being tickled,
    especially there,
    I will try to zoom in...

    Do you know you have a scar on the second toe from left, your right foot?
    How do you know?
    Oh, your other lover told you,
    did you also tell you that you are a liar?
    The scar is on the fourth toe from right, your left foot...
    ouch!... that hurt.
    Do you always carry a collapsible baseball bat in your bag?
    I see, only when you are dating me.
    What do you carry when you date your other lover?
    Oh, a collapsible baobab tree. Click! Click!

    Okay, click! click! Now I have your nipples too. Happy?
    All of it goes to my lawyer,
    to be opened in case something awful happens to me.

    Give it to me now,
    that terrifying, abysmal, ferocious passion.
    They will know now
    who was




    flowers? ha, flowers...
    why do lovers always invoke flowers?
    why do I always invoke flowers
    when it is the hunger of the wolf pack I should,
    with the savagery of the lion pride
    and the invincibility of the hyena clan
    guiding me brainlessly into that land where brainless is beautiful,
    where fingers do not touch to caress but to slash
    and hummingbirds die abandoning their whistling breath
    inside panpipe hollows
    to accompany the sounds of our exploding muscles
    and coveting rapaciousness.

    flowers? ha, flowers...
    to trample beneath picaresque bodies who lost a footing
    meaninglessly meaningful in another world
    we long stopped caring about,
    to chew into bitter cantharides
    with lumps of earth and rotten last year’s beetles
    the shared teeth of our shared mouths
    humanity’s last tools of creation of that unique beauty
    lost with unicorn’s nib of horn
    and dragon’s whiff of smoke
    and our yesterday’s lung collapsing deep inside the other’s chest.

    flowers? ha, flowers...
    the skeleton to garlands perfumed with that blend of sweat
    telling of the mixture of skins glowing
    and flesh intimacies swelling,
    the background to bountiful bouquets and festive festoons
    cowering underneath pine’s dried needles
    with pomegranate’s red hearts beating themselves into mush
    and grape’s seeds shooting holes the size of fists
    for wine’s ensuing deluge
    once the spark between our clashing teeth
    sets fire to garlands and bouquets and festoons
    and stones turn gravel between our clasped palms
    while a giant eagle convocation
    drowns our lupine shamelessness
    in a snowfall of feathers.



No, Not

    Don’t try to hide
    behind the cactus, love,
    I will squash it between our bodies
    and as many bleeding punctures there might be
    there will be... one more;
    no, not as thin, I think?

    Cobra’s lair is a poor refuge
    if you try to run away, love,
    big as its fangs are
    and poison rich their round hollows
    see these bites round your nipples
    they seem to be... flat toothed;
    no, not a goat, seen any horns?

    Even if you descend
    the volcano’s mouth, love,
    a fate worse than the burning coal eating your soles
    and burning away your whites
    awaits you
    as deep as you might be... your lips going up in flames;
    no, not lava, maybe licking lava?

    So why don’t you just
    slide back under the sheets, love,
    it’s your destiny
    to suffer the terrible torture
    I have in store for you
    until you be... dead;
    no, not dead dead, what about delightedly dead?




    no artificial colors,
    only the pink of your skin beneath the white of your whites,
    no artificial flavours,
    except for the tangerine leftovers between your teeth
    and the sticky melon splotches at the ends of your fingers
    which I diligently lick away... both,
    no preservatives or stabilizers or emulsifiers
    for as long as you do not gnaw your way underneath my skin
    and into my flesh
    and deeper.

    feed me coy cauliflower
    your fingers crushing steamed heads into white mud
    to rub through those of my still clenched teeth with a stiff tongue
    and lips begging only for grapes in return,
    sate me with the flippant cabbage
    broiling adventurously at the bottom of a deep pot
    to end its life underneath the beauty of your palate
    before entrusting the last of its worldly flavours
    to my endless edacity,
    stuff me absolutory broccoli
    the way you would stuff grape leaves
    with perished rice and crunched nuts and squashed tomatoes
    then lose your way on the perilous journey
    eating your full
    of my offered ripe flesh and ripening muscle.

    the water
    we stole from each other’s mouth
    won’t suffice to put out the fire in each other’s bark,
    the scorpions ending your fingers
    won’t match
    the crocodiles lining my wrists,
    choke me with the seed of your cherries
    and I will seed you
    with dreams seeding devouring suns.




    dance out of your shoes
    as I lift them
    and you above them
    and the sun above you
    way above me,

    leave the dirt of your soles behind
    to embellish my palms
    with mud not yet dried
    and steps already taken
    there, where I will never be
    to gather the dust raised,

    float out of your dress,
    replace debauchery of ankles
    with debauchery of ankles and knees and thighs
    and everything above them
    as your elbows bend around descending swallows
    and ascending sighs,

    abdicate the grief
    of memories we will never have
    and tie your curls
    to memories we always will
    letting them bare your neck
    to the decapitating swish
    of outreaching caresses,

    fly away,
    steal the red off angry rainbows
    and the dew off dejected mornings
    and when an impatient god points an accusing finger your way
    guide his fingertip
    to that spot of ground
    where I still wait
    with hands way above my head
    holding the shoes
    you forgot behind.




    to the place where words are written with letters yet to be born,
    beneath the shadow of trees yet to be seeded,
    on the bed of my body,
    the one yet to be consummated in the flames yet to subside
    of our coalescing skin.


    Make love with me
    in ways yet to be conspired,
    Sing into me
    those melodies to be composed after our yet to come death,
    Drink through me
    pregnant grapes not yet boiling under tomorrow's sun.


    The water dress adheres to your body
    splattering as my fingertips penetrate its gossamer thickness
    reaching for those spots where skin ends
    and passion begins,
    Your sand shoes crumble around your toes
    leaving taste of seashells
    and ribbons of sweat
    rolling like wind-driven leaves behind my lips,
    A garland, a flurry of wings
    disentangles itself from around your hips
    and crushes our alloyed, shuddering bodies
    under tons of crawling colors
    and trilling insanity.


    You pour between my fingers
    and yet
    you never detach
    your lips.



Breaking News

    Hey, look, you said
    tumbling three times forward
    then running an amuck run around me
    before falling, exhausted,
    disturbing the sand and a few beetles
    and sleepy me.

    Look what? I asked
    not really paying attention,
    not even reacting to that flurry of hands
    trying to pull my shoes off
    and tickle me.
    I wasn’t ticklish.
    not even pulling my pants down
    sired (ladied?) any reaction.

    They bought my book, you yelled,
    sitting on my head.
    Did they read your book? I managed a muffled question
    minding not, actually enjoying the sensation,
    after all you were sitting on my face.
    Of course, else why did they buy it? you rubbed my nose into it,
    your feathers ruffled -
    told you, I didn’t mind,
    not even the feathers.
    Probably because it was about me, I bit back,
    and I mean – bit, and you bit back
    and I mean – bit.

    This is the beginning of a new one, you said
    after you bit back and I bit back and you bit back...
    hey, holdholdhold... hooooold on,
    I will never sell even one book with this kind of cacophonic illiteracy.
    I hope it is a long one, I bit back...
    oops, sorry folks.
    It has no end, you promised,
    and if to judge by the introduction
    it promised to be quite an eventful one.

    Sit on my head again, I pleaded
    and you mighty did much beyond that.
    I guess I will have to buy that coming book
    if I am to know what happened after that –
    see?... I remember nothing
    but I kept spitting burning lignite for all of three following days.
    Not too ecologically friendly
    but, by God, something must have turned my insides’ furnace on.



In My Mind

    in my mind
    wells and water and waves
    and you jump down and into and over
    and they peek under your skirt and wet your thighs
    readying you
    for making love to me.

    you prefer searching for the moon’s hideout
    dragging behind you a bouquet of flowers and burrs
    and roots looking for a new home
    wherever your body seeds its warmth
    lying for a night’s rest
    before following the quest.

    in my mind
    I plough the field ahead of your bare feet
    and build mud castles in back of them
    collecting the fallen flowers and burrs and roots
    to line that lair where you’ll find the moon
    readying it
    for making love to me.

    you prefer asking the way to passing birds
    and fleeting leaves
    carrying in the tails of passing foxes
    your bouquet growing ever bigger and your pace ever slower
    your lost tatters tied on to my left wrist
    and my right cutting away the forest
    in front of you.

    in my mind
    you give up
    knowing that the moon will ever stay hidden
    and I will ever follow you
    to that lair I set in stone and wood and feather
    where you give me your bouquet and your beauty and your love
    in return for your tatters
    and my unclenching fingers
    and making love to you.



Flesh Flower

    your petals
    be they stocking or skirt or brassiere,
    flesh flower
    shivering delicately in dawn’s dew,
    your skin
    into a world void of flesh perfumes,
    to unfold nights beneath my covers.

    soak into the window’s pellucid pane
    your color’s
    let eagles bath you in the rising sun’s
    and ocean’s
    sink back into my flesh your flower
    decrying lost
    when you turn back to seed remember




    I danced with you beneath an autumn’s leaf...
    where did you lose your shoes this morning?

    I lost them with a kisses thief
    there upon his pillow’s reef,
    stole my shoes with little warning,
    stole my heart then killed my mourning
    and my grief.

    I bathed you in seven drops of dew...
    where is your shirt which bade long summer?

    I swear I haven’t got a clue,
    maybe when I drank that brew
    with the guy playing the plumber,
    haven’t seen a fellow dumber...
    maybe you?

    I dug for you a bed inside the sea...
    where are your silks and left foot stocking?

    I bet beneath that damn marquee
    where rascal he and vestal me
    bartered bodies softly rocking
    through the glimmer of hot, docking
    flesh debris.

    I sang with you a sailor’s crave for rum...
    where does it hide your skin’s sweet fallow?

    I guess where larks taste sunset’s crumb,
    where your lips exhort my thumb
    our venery to hallow
    when beneath the weeping sallow
    we succumb.



the paradox of perception

    don't pull it completely down,
    your zipper.

    that one moment
    half way between the moment eternity wasn't invented
    and the many following moments it didn't yet arrive
    irrelevant how fast your action
    and intent.

    the paradox of reality versus perception
    seeing me
    indifferent, before motion with no eternity in sight
    dying, while eternity equals wait
    dead, once eternity is just behind
    and your nakedness in front.

    the state of human, derived from the state of eternity
    controlled by the state of you
    and the flick of your fingers.


    I am richer now
    with the knowledge that there is life after death
    and all of it



Till The Cows Come Home

    Till the cows come home.
    Only cows?
    Can be sheep, pigs, storks, whatever.
    Even chickens.
    Good, I have chickens. I don't have cows.
    Why? I thought you said 'whatever'.
    Whatever you don't have.
    I don't get it. So cows, fine.
    I still don't get it.

    I'll love you till the cows come home.
    But I don't have cows... oh...

    It took one full second, well, she was after one full glass of wine,
    the cheeks turning lurid blush
    the skin turning crushed glass
    the frown metamorphosing smile
    all the way from a lemon slice into a sliced watermelon
    while her hands were looking desperately for a way
    from beneath the hem of my shirt
    all the way along my bare back and up to my shoulders.
    Thank goodness, sometimes she gets it.

    It was easier for my hands to find a way
    from beneath the hem of her skirt
    all the way along her bare thighs and bare back
    (with a small strategic pause along the way)
    and up to her shoulders.
    There was a mirror in back of her, the lure was irresistible...
    I started moving from the shoulders down the front
    before she moved hastily away.

    Wait for what?
    For the cows to come home.
    But... but... but...
    It wasn't my habit to stutter yet I stuttered like it was.
    My cheeks turned lurid red for other reasons,
    the crushed glass lining my skin melted into collapsing mush,
    my lemon took over from my watermelon...
    She sat at the desk and tore a piece of paper in two.
    On one she wrote cows,
    on the other she wrote house,
    then put the cows under the house.
    Then she got up and faced me,
    bringing my hands back exactly there
    where they interrupted their journey towards the mother of gravitation.
    Okay, the cows came home.
    I guess I was still dumbfound, or whatever the word.
    Thank goodness, you will never get it.
    She took hold of my belt.

    Sex was not even invented
    until that one moment after.




    you’re the only one capable of three typos
    in a four lettered word
    and get away with it.
    you mean love?

    I mean lust.

    are you sure?
    maybe lure?

    so you admit.
    maybe last
    of summers passed,
    maybe long?...

    that would be wrong,
    typos two and rhyming song.
    life, leaf, lost and leer and lone?
    screak or scream or screw...
    or spawn?

    imperfect rhyme.
    imperfect typo.
    what are we doing here?
    doing nothing. making love.
    with words?
    imperfect words.
    perfect love.

    after, when words lost any of their intended meaning,
    any meaning at all
    and classical grammar bartered itself with a series of disarticulated grunts
    and the sun descended beneath your belly
    disregarding neighbors abusive of broom handles
    and ceilings.

    it does not change a thing,
    you’re still capable of three typos
    in a four lettered word
    and get away with it.
    you mean lust?

    I mean love. Oops.

    so a thing... did change. typo?



How Many Glasses In A Bucket?

    I drink love
    with a glass, glassfuls.

    I pour love
    with the bucket, bucketfuls.

    How many glasses in a bucket?
    Is the rest wasted?

    Or to some other
    maiden fair,
    waiting there
    in lover’s lair,
    golden hair
    and flimsy wear?

    No, none of this and none of that.

    What your glass doesn’t catch
    to words
    I sculpt
    on your brain’s craving ridges,
    to orchids
    I drop
    from your eyes’ curving bridges,
    to swallows
    I feed
    with your nectar of mouth
    as they swarm to that south
    blessed with coveys of midges.

    And this takes care of all you poured?
    So how much is left?
    I opened the atlas and pointed to the Pacific.
    I see,
    enough for maidens fair
    with golden hair...

    Yes, I concurred.
    Oh, that pouting lip, so chewable.

    You see...
    while I write my stupid song
    you see right and you see wrong,
    true, a maiden sweet and fair
    waiting here and waiting there
    in this lover’s luring lair
    with cascading, golden hair,
    does she don some flimsy wear?...

    I pulled the hem of her skirt up,
    enough to reveal...
    she blushed, batting the skirt back down,
    her pout even more heartbreaking
    as I tore that Pacific page from the atlas,
    folded it,
    and shoved it deep into her shirt’s pocket.

    What is it that you carry beneath your pocket? I asked.
    What is it that I carry beneath my pocket? she echoed almost perfectly.
    The thing that goes bang... bang... bang... I asked.
    It is called heart, and it went BANG!!!... she mangled the echo completely.

    Yes, she did don some flimsy wear.
    Not much of it, though.
    And not for long.




    You undress
    in front of me.

    I watch you
    through a peephole the size of the room we’re in
    as you innocently discard irrelevant pieces of clothing
    just to don other,
    one step forward, two back, three forward, one back, two forward...
    the sum total nevertheless advancing inexorably
    toward that absolute, ultimate, implicit nakedness
    when you peel the last piece away from your body,
    static electricity sending disconsolate, greedy hands
    from nylon to skin
    yet with a tiny spark giving in
    to death

    The garb floats to the floor
    taking its time, a paper butterfly
    just discovering that its wings
    are real
    and the glimmer of reflections eternal.

    “What?” you ask
    sliding through those layers of air separating us,
    allowing the curtains of invisible silk undulate upon your skin
    readying your flesh for that ultimate, ceaseless

    “Scheherazade?” I ask
    baffled in my mind
    between whiffs of promising perfumes
    and the shadow you cast upon a moon
    too curious, too insistent.

    “Do you want to make love?” you ask
    as my hands take over from the silk
    yet hang on to their first touching spot
    like fishing hooks.

    “First tell me our story,” I ask
    and you start from the end
    guiding my senses all the way to the first time
    we created a sun.

    I wake up in the morning,
    finding you keeping watch over my derelict body,
    “Do you still love me?” I ask
    pointing to the abstract painting in blue
    around your nipples.
    “More than ever,” you answer,
    offering me the canvas once more.



When Reality Barges In

    I grab a cupful of buttock,
    one only, though I wish I could grab both,
    I squeeze hard disregarding the whimpering
    knowing it is for the tear in your stocking
    and the crease in your freshly ironed dress
    you whimper.
    If to judge by your palm
    cupping a sizable portion of my buttocks
    inside belt and trousers and underwear.
    You were always one step ahead of me.
    And most of the time underneath me.
    Not now, as we discuss the ecology of noise
    and the curse of global warming
    and the American election results
    and our fingers play their disrespect to the haughty ideas of our mouths
    yet not of our minds, half way in the gutter already.

    You force your ideas upon me,
    the political and the religious siding with the curls of hair
    there where I would have expected to find them
    yet not alongside the political and the religious
    and certainly not with metaphors hiding the crude reality
    and its barbarous, heavenly stinking, beauty.
    You pull me into you
    before I stumble in the piling trousers decorating my ankles
    and I fall underneath you, damn,
    the back of my head thudding dryly on the tiles
    so unlike anything Bogie ever did to Ingrid
    or Fred to Ginger or Mickey to Minnie,
    at least what they showed us when in reality
    they were so far from dancing
    and so deep in hammering the floor
    the way we did.

    I don’t mind
    your groping fistfuls of fat forgotten around my belly
    as long as you don’t mind
    my groping fistfuls of breast grown on your chest
    and competing with my hair
    not in quantity but in quality.
    No doubt, you are better built,
    though you would claim the other way around
    if to judge from the way your eyes insist on seeing me,
    every bit of me and none in the least disgusting
    and all of it tasty to your smacking lips
    and that vacuum building inside that dark grotto
    defined by your palate and tongue and tonsils
    sucking in everything of me not attached with firm ligaments
    to my bones.
    It sounds incongruous, almost indecently so
    when we finally disentangle and your mouth tastes of love
    as you whisper... I love you.
    It has nothing to do with the airplane
    just cutting the full moon in two with a horrible noise,
    sounding no more than a whisper
    when I remember
    that shared howling just seconds ago.




    I started mapping your body,
    didn't intend to write the results anywhere,
    maybe just on the dura mater of my brain
    in case someone researches, upon a time, my corpse
    and tries to understand the reason to my terrible passion.

    Started measuring circumferences,
    my tool thumb and forefinger
    adapting their curvature from fully “o” closed
    to beyond ninety degrees open, moving around ankles, wrists, nipples
    (measured both, there is always good reason for asymmetries),
    at times I had to use both hands facing each other
    as your waist may have been waspy but not that waspy.
    I preferred to use my whole cupping palm for your thighs
    mixing caress with movement...
    hey, there is a problem with your breasts
    even as they are hanging straight down
    their circumference seems to depend on my squeeze and your need,
    a mighty inaccurate measurement... ouch...
    sorry, correct, depths are not supposed to be measured at this stage.

    Depths now, okay?
    I used my fingers, all of them,
    after all I had to ascertain that the results are confirmed,
    repeatable and trustable... yes, also toes, but this strictly for fun.
    I wondered why you kept oohing and aahing all the time
    interrupting my scientific research with rude comments
    and girlish giggles, though I was thankful that from time to time
    you wiggled like a snake in heat (hey, that's a good one)
    allowing me to find the bottom of the deepest of them...
    some I never quite succeeded, especially with my little finger.
    I didn't know you inherited one of Cerberus' heads,
    that was really painful, look, it is bleeding...
    so what if it wasn't a finger, it was almost one... mmmmm... thank you.
    Humidity next?

    Did I finish humidity? It took me hours?
    Impossible, I remember nothing of it,
    did I visit everywhere, I mean not just the sweat infested skin
    and tears infested eyes
    and salivating lips and... oh, yes?... even there? and even there?...
    Must have been hit by lightning, or amnesia,
    or plain prurience induced hysteria
    resulting in an aggregate occultation of the senses and thalamic nyctalopia.
    No, this is not Esperanto. Neither Swedish. Forget it!
    Did it together with humidity? I hope it is not deadly.
    What do you mean what? My prurience induced... okay, okay,
    forget it! Did I do already hardness tests?
    Thank God, some things I do remember not doing.

    I poked everywhere,
    using mainly my forefinger and measuring the depth of penetration
    and meticulously registering the results,
    bet the first time anyone ever did it so scientifically accurate
    well, missed once or twice my target, swear it wasn't intentional
    and was made aware by you, thank you, telling me
    hey, you finished with your depth measurements,
    causing me to apologize, confused and worried
    at my previously mentioned thalamic nyctalopia and things.
    I had no way to poke your eyes,
    so I contented myself with swimming in them.
    And I had to, seriously, I apologize a million,
    had to go to the pinching rather than poking method
    when measuring the hardness of your nipples,
    poking got me nowhere, and pinching got you somewhere,
    so it was worth trying.
    It also proved my theory - they are not symmetrical.
    Here, try pinching mine,
    see? Told you.

    Sound, now? Then we'll make a sex break,
    not before. Promise. And sound mapping is so important,
    look at dolphins, and bats, and whales...
    no, I don't imply anything, complimented already your waist, didn't I?
    There was a lot of nothing when it came to sound.
    I put my ear to your foot, ankle, shin, nothing.
    A bit of clicks around your knee, probably you'll need it operated
    if you live two-hundred seventeen years, so no immediate worry.
    Nothing around your thighs, so boring,
    nothing around your loins, though not boring at all...
    finally, first signs of real life when I reached your belly -
    sounded like a mix of siren songs, and coyote howls,
    a bit of cascading water, Swedish (again?)...
    it's yesterday's pizza, you laughed,
    annihilating my fantasy with one strike
    and reducing my measurements to irrelevancy.
    I mapped accurately your heart, left then right then left then...
    is it my heart or my nipples you are mapping? you laughed once more
    pulling the left nipple out of my ear
    and pulling my head higher up.
    I had the impression you started getting fed up with all this mapping,
    hungry as you were for some more pizza and the afore mentioned sex
    since you started humming and lullabying and whistling
    driving all my measurement systems into saturation
    and my ears into near deafness.

    Okay, I get it, I got it, playing the wise guy, you want pizza,
    yet knowing reality. Fool! (that was me screaming to me).
    I had to wait thirty six minutes for the delivery, pay a hefty tip,
    watch you munch at leisure
    and tell me stories about the Spanish inquisition,
    then go wash your mouth, brush your teeth...
    it was when you opened the wardrobe
    and started looking through your dresses that I roared like a wounded zebra
    grabbed you by the hair
    dropped you on the bed
    pulled your legs apart...
    hey, if it is pizza you want it is not there you'll find, you whispered,
    as suave as a viper in heat (and here I go with the serpentine heat thing again)
    and it was not pizza I wanted.

    Shucks, it was time to run some other kind of mapping
    for the benefit of future generations
    and I did not give up perfecting it on the fly
    to the point that you had no choice but admit...
    hey, there, lover, and all the time I kept thinking that you're not interested
    in the geological aspects of mapping.

    Oh, yes, I was, if there was something I found out I really liked
    was mining under erupting volcanoes, oh, yes...



Hair Sculpting

    in front of me.

    let me sculpt in each of your hairs
    crystal castles high of tower
    savage grasslands rich of flower
    jumping goats upon the mountains
    drinking larks beneath the fountains
    feathers from a falling dove,
    poems, from a falling love...

    let me braid your hair into
    garlands dipped in fragrant summers
    meadows swamped by squirrel drummers
    budding leaves among the fallows
    sleeping does beneath the sallows,
    gurgles, from a crying dove,
    murmurs, from a crying love...

    you can stand up.


    no? why?
    no, no, no, this was not my intent.
    oh, are you sure?
    well, if you insist...

    a zipping sound tears through the night ripping the sky asunder,
    a wailing howl follows...

    sorry, that last one must have been me.




    you didn't dry your hair
    as you stepped out of the shower,
    your skin rough, wallowing in goose bump decorations,
    your hair limp, hanging in shapeless lumps
    dripping all over the carpet...

    sit down, I offered,
    spreading a towel on the chair
    and watching your breasts in the mirror,
    your nipples competing with the goose bumps
    and winning.

    I stuck the comb deeply,
    until it met with the refusal of the scalp
    and pulled it through the first lump,
    turning it into an almost presentable strand
    as drops stained the carpet like a local bout of rain,
    did it again, then again, then took another lump in my left palm
    and sank the comb deeply once more,
    then again...

    you closed your eyes,
    probably visiting another world, worlds?
    as I repeated the ritual like a automaton, mistakenly delivered with a heart
    and with passion in its heart
    and with fuel sufficient to feed the passion
    and move the sun into another orbit
    around the earth... or is it the other way around?

    when was it that my fingers took over
    the comb long broken
    the hair long dry
    the goose bumps eternal around flint nipples
    and down breasts
    with nails scrapping fever into hair roots
    and thumbs massaging passages to chariots of gods
    and their furious horses?

    you did not open your eyes
    even when my palms found their way underneath your breasts,
    not even when they separated your legs
    combing gently the reluctant curls
    before one arm embraced the back of your knees
    and the other your shoulders
    and I carried you to the linen.

    you did not open your eyes
    when we made love.

    are you asleep, lover? I asked,
    knowing better,
    that pounding heart was almost jumping out of your chest.

    yes, you lied,
    why did you allow the dragon
    pour all this liquid fire inside me?

    I had no answer, I couldn't apologize,
    I couldn't lie and tell you the truth,
    I had no choice but take the comb once more
    and send you to these others worlds again
    hoping for your forgiveness.




    the plaster I poured
    there, where your cheekbone has resided
    for a whole night,

    I lifted the pitcher
    and brought it above the nipple-burned blackened holes
    mid of the deep, wrinkled crescents in the linen
    left by the mounds supporting them,

    mixed some wine, red, and let the mixture cover that stain
    forgotten by your thighs sighing in contentment
    all the while your belly hosted my love.

    the masterpiece ready,
    water and wine dripping on the floor under the pervious mattress
    with pieces of you in solid white and pink plaster
    reminding me of the flesh once hosted
    by the same

    I pick up the hardened plaster pieces,
    lift them at eye level
    and let them drop one after the other
    breaking into hundreds of pieces.

    none, if not my flesh,
    has the right to carry
    the memory
    of your flesh.





    like the one rhyming with love?

    like the flight beneath the feather hauling wine inside its nib
    stolen from the bleeding nipple dripping life along my rib
    knowing not that once the nostrum lands upon your lip to dry
    it will nest upon your shoulder
    and will die?


    with a savage call, or worse?

    with a field of groping thistles seeding roots beneath its hide
    as it gallops in the sunset shooting pebbles in its stride
    in its mane a ribbon braided with the offers of my eye
    to bestow upon my lover
    and to die?


    laying sunrise claim to shame?

    laying colors through the meadows as it drags its crine along
    wide astride a roaming mistral hoarding whispers into song
    carrying my gasping shivers to the pleasures of your sigh
    until summer turns to ashes
    then to die?

    all of messengers, my lover,
    you have sent my erring ways
    wait, my autumn to uncover
    and your blaze.




    certainly savage,
    certainly not rhyming.

    what would you prefer?
    you mean rhyme-wise.
    I mean savage-wise.
    cleavage, of course.
    so you have nothing to complain, right?

    and she opened another button
    and she leaned a bit further
    and she reached back... a snapping sound
    and the sudden weight against her shirt suddenly unbearable...
    by me, not by the shirt.

    damn textile, so resilient these days
    and there was no choice but hear the ripping sound
    as the thread whirling through the buttons proved the stronger
    with the nice front trim turning frails...
    who gives a damn when that kind of flesh hangs bared
    twin pendulums proving more than any Foucault experiment
    that the Earth rotates
    and what it rotates about.

    I woke up hours later
    some of me forgotten inside her,
    my cheek smashing flat
    that which was, once, a savage cleavage
    and my mouth drowning in the salty fluids
    now glutting that same, once, valley.

    would you prefer that I dress?
    why dress?
    so there is a cleavage to ogle.
    your shirt is shredded.
    I can sew it.

    damn women and their thrust-and-parry logic.
    I had to think,
    finally making up my mind.
    after all, that some of me forgotten inside her
    had a mind of its own.
    and it had nothing to do with my puerile fantasies.
    but everything with hers.



The Supreme Sacrifice

    my panties too?

    such dreadful, devastating, disarming innocence.

    I owned all of you...
    life, soul, virginity, skin, dreams, minutes and words
    and you were finally ready for that last, ultimate, supreme sacrifice.

    mid of the wildflowers field
    mid of the scorching day
    and all your clothes by now sheared to thin ribbons
    and connected to my kite... the tail,
    the rich cotton and silk and lace rainbow
    ready to take off into the treetop zephyrs
    and you took them off, blushing in your pride of sacrifice
    and handed them over to me with your left,
    you right trying to hide your modesty.

    I couldn’t regard your tears,
    the absolute beauty in that absolute pain
    of giving all.

    you removed your right,
    allowing me to take you all

    I cut the softness into thin, long winged butterflies
    and tied them alongside the rest of the rainbow...
    fly fairy! I shouted
    and started running away from you,
    the kite taking steeply off, the rainbow scintillating with broken sun rays
    and your naked figure stepping into the wilderness of flower and thistle
    as it chased the kites tail
    screaming your maidenly delight
    right into that prison
    holding my heart.

    I fell in love with you,
    once more.

    how many times
    can I fall in love with you,




    To my right a truck, Verbeegen written on it,
    I zoom past it to find one marked Jack Mullen,
    Marty Balin on the radio
    never knew about him but I recognize the song, Hearts,
    I feel like salty
    and a few cashews find their way into my mouth
    nice texture
    like your lips
    except for the taste,
    yours don't taste salty,
    no, neither sweet
    unless it is moments
    after you pop a chocolate into your mouth
    and lick your lips insisting on sharing
    after chewing,
    yes, a taste like your lips
    after we bit ravenously into each other
    and lips turn meat for lovers.

    Speed camera! careful! good! I applaud myself into deafness,
    now I can speed for a long stretch
    unless if the bastards deployed one of their mobile units
    for law abiding citizens like me.
    Wrong place to think I love you?
    No, no place is wrong place,
    I love you.

    Traveling Wilburys on the radio
    and the DJ claims that wilburys is to Brits what gremlins is to Yankees,
    I sing along...
    and the wallls come down
    alll the way to helll...

    and I add a third l everywhere for the effect it has on my mind,
    glad to have immediately after Lleonard Cohen,
    yes, still one l too many, inertia of the mind,
    and he begs to be danced to the end of love,
    great music, almost as good as my poetry
    maybe a bit better
    probably a lot, maybe,
    didn't yet decide while passing underneath a bridge with another camera...
    ouf, almost forgot.

    For a short while I am stuck in a jam caravan
    crawling alongside an elegant Camel... oops, Mercedes
    driven by a distinguished looking elderly guy,
    bet he's a plastic surgeon
    judging by the measurements he takes of his nose -
    external and internal...
    the traffic eases and the Mercedes zooms away with a thunder
    (with such electronics it's not even capable of decent tire burning)
    the back of it saying Dak Herstellingen, i.e. Roof Repairs,
    and as a honest bet loser
    I move one Euro from my left pocket to the right one.

    I'm thirsty. Also for love.
    Didn't know cashews were aphrodisiacs,
    did know they were thirst inducing
    and I still have quite a number of miles to the next station
    most of them alongside a truck lighted like a Christmas tree
    and a driver looking like Freddy the nightmare
    smiling my way,
    no I'm not gay so I don't give him the finger
    but speed away looking for the Aachen sign
    which heralds the imminent arrival of the gas station
    and the next calories-rich sandwich, and soda, and chips
    to keep me going
    and singing. I love you.
    Had to say it and write it
    before turning off the key in the ignition.

    Damn, the toilet is defective,
    I will have to stop somewhere else along the way
    as the pressure is significant and after I irresponsibly finish the soda
    it is even greater,
    I try to take my mind off the immediate need
    by counting sheep... wrong!... this is for sleeping, dumkopf,
    German cursing feeling appropriate as I cross into Deutschland
    and I squeeze it down to 100mph, rain irrelevant
    and temperatures graciously above freezing
    though my tires are illegal for the period of year and for this country...
    damn... bad poetry, no double use of key words in one poem,
    yet no choice as speed hungry me misses the parking...
    thank God, another parking for Zoll - customs - hungry officers
    chasing the bad guys
    and I am one of the good guys
    halting with screeching brakes and running with neck breaking speed
    to the next tree...
    damn... a third one, since I slide on the luxuriously spread clay
    down the steep mound, hey, nothing will hold me back!
    I don’t scream as I relieve the need and reason returns to the world.
    and to my mud laden shoes and pants.
    Doesn’t matter, the customer likes me with or without pants, ahm,
    I mean – dirty pants.

    Jimmy Cotton blesses my ears with Cotton Crop Blues
    followed by J B Lenoir’s Let It Roll, then J B Hutto, then Otis Spann...
    what better for an unending stretch of road
    (other bastards reduced the speed to 80mph and sprinkled the roadside with camera’s)
    than a blues program I taped from the radio
    and singing of all kinds of love, except my kind.

    I’m almost there,
    finished another soda, the cashews, some sweets,
    the stupid GPS finds everything except the place I need to be at
    and after passing a third time under the same bridge
    and over it
    I decide to take control of my life and drive against the lady’s advice
    pissing her off into several “recalculating” fits
    until finally she gets me there in one piece,
    and more important – the parts I carry with me for the machine.

    Druckzentrum are delighted to see me,
    especially since now they have another, bigger problem,
    for which I have no spares with me.
    Did I tell you already that I love you?
    OK, now that I don’t have to keep the wheel with one hand
    and the pen with the other
    let me tell it to you with both hands holding the pen:
    I love you.



Upside Down

    I wish
    we could dance on our hands
    our toes holding, our knees touching
    your skirt fallen down till all I can see is the top of your nose,
    and eyes,
    and hair sweeping the floor
    as I try to work my way beyond the hem of your skirt
    and find your mouth
    with mine.

    Your underwear?
    No idea, I cannot see
    though it doesn't matter much
    alone, as we are, in our universe.

    I wish
    we could make love on our hands
    though I wonder how can we overcome gravitation impediments
    and drop upwards trousers, shorts, panties
    with hands busy keeping our bodies inversely upright
    and mouths busy keeping tongues from falling out
    while we open buttons and zippers and belts with toes
    and wriggles
    and one hand stands.

    Your breasts?
    Looking wonderful
    as they stretch downwards
    competing with your mouth for my mouth.

    I wish
    we could sleep on our hands
    connected to each other in various ways,
    decent and indecent,
    slumber keeping us from falling
    with the swarms of its invisible flying sheep
    and those woolen ribbons tying our ankles to ceiling and lamp and clouds
    even as we – for broken moments – disconnect our decent hold
    but never
    the indecent one.

    Your other hand?
    Safely hanging on to my unmentionables
    while mine safely hangs on
    to yours.



Abstract? OK

    covers the tips of your fingers,
    you squash freshly plucked petals
    between fingertip and piano key
    listening to chords snapping,
    the roots growing up from ivory into skin
    sucking all sounds of all ever played accords
    to mount beneath arms along ribs into loins
    infusing your insides
    with imagined images
    of me.

    lies confused between your thighs
    dragging memories of past loves and future loves
    some yours some none's,
    linen creases wringing into skin wrinkles promises fulfilled
    and fragrances slept with
    wearing off a body rubbing against yours,
    the night
    dies between your bedposts
    and your relaxing muscles.

    still reverberate between walls and valleys and clouds
    and palate to tongue to teeth
    and I pull away to view the wounds
    you punched through flesh, ours,
    bird flocks flee away to come back
    to craw to claw to claim
    to emerge the other side of Earth's shapeless pregnancy
    with rumors of dying kings
    and childless queens
    and singing pebbles picked from your left shoulder.

    timidly wrapping the shower
    after the thunder of drops
    and the wind of towel
    and the scratch of nylons
    carried by squirrels between bushes and breasts
    tying my hands to your wishes
    and to clothes flying anew
    from between us
    providing an invitation of entry
    to places I just deserted for never.




    did you take your perfumes?

    those between closed lips
    those between open thighs
    the ones fresh mint, the others sated lust,

    those underneath your hanging breasts
    jasmine under the left and wild rose under the right
    pouring into my nostrils
    as you hover over me, your hanging flesh offering me flesh-flowers
    turning steel inside my mouth
    as I suckle avidly the pollen of milk
    and your blood pumps them full of passion,

    those between your wringing hands
    those behind tightly squeezed eyelids
    squirting out tears the color of snow
    from a heart frozen
    by the hurt
    of parting.

    you get off the bed
    draping the bedding around your shoulders
    and the bed
    and the street with its macadam and lamp-posts and dogs,
    a bridal sumptuous train
    dragging in also the airport as you squeeze through the plane’s door...
    how did it all fit through that tiny hole?...
    and the metal takes to the sky
    leaving behind volatilizing traces of high-octane perfume
    and nothingness.

    I look at the desolation of blackened stones and fossils around me
    and I lie down on the sharp silica
    hugging a huge bone to my chest,
    the one which eons ago thundered through this place
    with the arrogance of tyrannical eternity
    and giant maxillae,
    shadows and sounds around me meaninglessly assailing my eardrums
    with words the perfume of madness
    while my mind shrewdly invents a new word
    around bone and perfume and shadows
    that none knows or will ever know its meaning
    as I slap letters into slots the size of sentences
    and I spell it secretively backwards, to myself,
    only. e.v.o.l

    there’s no perfume
    until you bring life



Transitions, Other

    the wind
    shrieks its despair
    hiding in your pocket
    as the sun
    ignites the summer.

    ice, clings to your shoes
    immaturely trying to find
    from a death of water and mud
    in the warmth of your feet.

    dry leaves
    forgo beauty
    to crumble into fodder
    ingurgitated by ravenous roots
    and emerging buds.

    moves away
    for life.

    hang on to your breast
    my abstinence