Hobbies - Poetry - Anonn
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donít let it terrify you,

    your body,

    flowing at craggy bottoms of valleys
    catching scratches from fine thorns of cacti
    and shaggy prairie dogs mistaking it
    for the white belly of a fox
    or of a moon,

    flooding minds hidden under the yellow of leaves
    or inside the pockets of kangaroos
    while eyes detach
    and carry surveys of damage to rationality
    and dream,

    flirting with imagined touches
    of unperformed intentions of penetrations
    driving cats to the scatter of roofs
    through dripping water-spouts
    and broken panes,

    flourishing between words
    meaninglessly artistic
    merging tips of nipples to tips of toes
    to educate unknowing pilgrims
    into the illiterate secrecy of carnal beauty,

    your body,

    donít let it terrify you,

TheCraveOfCurvesText

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Inspiration? Inspiration My Foot

    Can you sit down and write a poem
    just like that?
    I ask myself.

    Of course I can,
    I answer myself,
    all you have to do is Ė ask.

    I go on to prove it,
    after all, every one can claim claims.
    Such calamity, says the voice in my head
    and I pick the pen to prove it right.

    Stick your fingers in the honey, scrapping tints of pollen woof,
    Tap the gold along my eyebrows with your fingerís horny hoof
    Followed by that beast of muscle sneaking out between your teeth
    Slurping its ignoble pathway to my mouthís engulfing sheath.

    Barter tongue with tongue unsating, battling for the crowded fields
    In between palates and tonsils sharing richest whimper yields
    While those honey-cluttered eyelids scrub my lust in pouring sweat
    Batting eyelashes effusing glinting drops of anisette.

    Look beyond the gasping moments trailing ebbing, frenzied gasps
    When my want encroaches further and my nail against you rasps,
    Once the wyvern spit its fire coiling tails between those wings
    I will tell you of the secret tuning larkís euphonic strings.

    Lay your ear upon my ribcage on that gully sloping west,
    Thatís the sound of suns spiraling down my hoary, brittle chest,
    Donít expect a tender flower to accost your passing skin
    But a claw to rip its beauty through your bodyís violin.

    I read it back to myself.
    I approve.
    I take my hand
    and offer myself to my lover
    hand, hide and all.

    Your inspiration? she asks.
    Inspiration my foot, I answer,
    just wrote you down on paper,
    and I wonder why she kneels down to kiss my foot.
    Then she makes love to me.
    All I have to do after
    is write her down on paper again.
    Poetry is such an easy art.

TheCraveOfCurvesText

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Favoring The Skin

    when you take off

    the cymbals from around your ankles
    favoring the skin,
    the necklace from around your neck
    favoring the skin,
    the armbands from around your wrists
    favoring the skin,

    the earrings from under your earlobes
    and the silk from upon your breasts
    and the gossamer from beneath your belly
    favoring the skin,

    when you undo

    the buttons and the zippers and the belts and the laces
    holding together the cotton and the leather and the wool
    imprisoning my body inside that barren, no-womanís land
    favoring the skin,

    when you brush aside
    music insistently hammering your hearing
    when you pull out of way
    linen desperately craving for your forms
    when you mock darkness
    willing to invade your softness with its endlessly groping feelers
    favoring the skin,

    when you bark
    then you yowl
    then you murmur me quiet
    favoring the skin of my cheek, then my chest, then my belly
    looking for the leftovers of passion
    upon my leftovers of skin,

    when we bathe
    in each otherís sweat and odors
    giving up on soap and perfume
    favoring
    the skin.

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you cannot

    don't give me your lips,
    you cannot.

    just give me your lipstick,
    whichever form you find it suitable -
    stains, smears, splotches,
    tooth-marked running tracks or saliva-painted shiny trails
    curved or straight or tri-dimensional
    could be spherical, could be cylindrical...
    hey, get that all knowing smirk off your face...
    you can leave it anywhere, I am no bodypart-racist,
    my knee and higher, my chest or lower,
    my spine spiking whichever direction
    if gravitational and if ascensional
    and if you insist you can leave part of it on my lips too
    before
    and after
    and during...

    don't give me your skin,
    you cannot.

    just give me your clothes
    and if you are too tired I can make the effort myself
    taking excessive care not to crease, neither wrinkle, nor tear
    unless if in my shivering fits my fingers will travel
    a bit too much, a bit off track, a bit... oops, sorry,
    it wasn't intentional, yes, I know this is quite a big shiver
    shoe to... that piece of garment,
    okay, one shoe off and one shoe off as well,
    then one stocking off and one stocking off as well...
    sorry, oh, so sorry, oh, so sorry again...
    hey, I really am, terrible shivering thrice the same uncontrolled way, no?...
    fine, I will not touch that piece of garment ever again
    though you must agree it will have to come off one moment or the other,
    yes, I know, it contradicts ever,
    let's move on with the skirt, and the shirt,
    that button was loose already, no, this was not a shiver
    and I was not impatient, look, see how carefully I take off your bra?
    your turn now,
    start with my shoes?
    oh, fine with me as long as I don't stumble...
    my goodness, didn't know one could do that with the teeth,
    or with the toes,
    you are mistaken - this is too big to be a goosebump,
    a clarinet? you're joking, at most a flute,
    you can play all you want... ouch, told you I might stumble,
    yes, was worth
    hearing the music...

    don't give me your heart,
    you cannot.

    I have it.

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Dance Again

    Dance again.

    No, you don't need me.
    Pair with silver slippers
    and falling seeds
    and moths chasing butterflies chasing moths chasing your hem...
    with tails of kites,
    with flipping whales,
    with the crush of dry leaves scattering beneath your knees
    and above them.

    Don't come to me.

    Unless you are naked.
    With nothing to dress your skin in
    bare my breath
    and my eyesight
    and trailing you of their own wish are the silver slippers
    and the seeds and moths and butterflies
    with tails of kites tickling your ankles
    and flippers of whales circling your waist
    and the crush of dry leaves rising in a swirling storm
    as you offer me the future songs
    of your flesh.

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Mess

    when your left forefinger
    meets my right thumb
    and your left small toe
    meets my left middle finger
    and my right big toe
    meets your right big toe

    is when we know
    we are entering a knot or exiting one
    and all we have to sort out the mess
    are one hand, right, yours
    and one foot, left, mine.

    you try to help
    releasing my right toe
    and lifting yours to meet your left forefinger at my right thumb's tip
    thus liberating also my right foot
    but I can neither enjoy the view
    nor do much with just toes, be they even ten.

    honey, do you mind?...
    and you swap
    moving your right big toe from my right big
    to meet your left small toe at my left middle finger
    then move your left small toe
    to meet your left forefinger with my right thumb,
    so now at least my view is delicious
    but we still have only two feet, mine, and one hand, right, yours
    available.

    honey, do you mind?... it is you this time
    and I do my best to oblige
    succeeding more or less
    to have my right little toe join your right little finger
    but I fail miserably when trying at the same time to bring my left little toe
    at the junction
    of your left small toe and your left forefinger and my right thumb,
    failing as well when I try a more democratic approach
    of my right little toe joining the above mentioned junction
    with my left little toe chasing your right little finger
    and though you make an effort to raise your head and enjoy some view
    I can see the muscles of your neck straining
    and the veins on your forehead about to burst.

    honey, maybe get up and turn with your back to me?...
    we disengage all fingers and thumbs and other inevitable links
    get up
    turn your back to me
    and walk over closing page seventy six of Yoga for the Left Handed
    and page one thousand seventeen of Kama Sutra for Mixed Sexes and Others
    put both on top of each other and jump several times on them
    before kicking them under the bed,
    honey, maybe get up and turn with your face to me?... it is you this time
    and we meet half way
    and we link all the way
    and twined fingers and twined thumbs and twined lips
    are only ninety five point four five four of twined members,
    though I am hardly certain the rest of four point five four six members
    could quite qualify
    for a twining definition.

    whatever they qualify for...
    paradise is ninety five point four five four of it,
    the rest of four point five four six
    is mmmoaning.

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Synonym Spelling Guide

    how do you write 'rage'?
    same like 'sex'.
    what do you mean, there is only the 'e' which is common?
    not when you write it on the flesh.

    she ponders about, around, on it for several hours.
    looks up dictionaries, internet,
    I stop her just before she is about to call the pope.

    how do you write 'sex'?'
    same like 'lust'.
    she looks at me askew, bites a fingernail shearing it completely off.
    again, just an 's' between them, hmm, you're funny.
    not funny, not even fun.
    fuming? she smiles.
    no, this is 'stupid rage', you asked about 'rage'.
    I asked about 'sex', after.
    I answered 'lust', after.

    she gives up on the pope, Oprah, Mick Jagger...
    (how the hell did she get his cell number?)
    how do you write 'lust'?
    same like 'love'.
    and how do you write 'love'?
    same like 'rage'.

    she puts her hand inside my shirt and squeezes hard,
    till it hurts.
    I don't scream, I wait.
    you are almost right, which is the same as completely wrong.
    care to explain?
    not when you write it in the flesh.

    *

    took me a few moments to recuperate and rewind and resynchronize.
    she was damn right,
    my spelling might have been great but my phrasing completely off
    by as much as one letter
    and an ocean of gist.

    I proved her right.
    you were right.
    was I?
    synonyms.

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Walls

    all that the walls can do
    is shiver,

    pitifully flamboyant in their immobile impotence,
    the quarry enchased inside their cubic volume
    constantly changing shape, color, odor
    from liquid flesh to solid flesh to exploding flesh
    to flesh crawling along the floor
    before climbing towards the ceiling
    only to fall again,
    to flesh cruelly dragging nails
    deep inside wailing concrete
    so quiet in its abysmal mourning and pain.

    do you think the walls envy us? you ask,
    when your flesh finally falls back upon your bones.
    I know they do, I answer,
    caring not as I revert once more to dismembering you
    into disjointed pieces
    of that flaming matter
    once called flesh.

TheCraveOfCurvesText

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A Godly Mistake

    woman
    should have been flesh,
    man
    should have been cotton,

    mornings
    to soak the drops of that cursed shower
    from all over her body
    and its fluctuations and pits and hums,
    days
    to guard against those cursed sunrays
    and their punishing strafing of her skin
    and its velvet and sensorial receptors and odoriferous emanations,
    nights
    to keep at bay those cursed dreams
    assailing her mind
    and feed it instead silk and lace and satin.

    but then, lover, we could never make love.
    but then, lover, we would never stop making love.

    tried my best
    to be her cotton
    mornings, and days, and nights.
    she did not have to try anything,
    she was flesh.
    thus, guess it was more my success rather than hers,
    we never stopped making love.

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Behind

    you left behind
    your smell.

    I wish you left
    your clothes.

    and your skin inside your clothes
    and your flesh inside your skin
    with the bones and the rest of you inside it.

    you left behind
    stains.

    some will wash out
    others will fade from irregular, painful blue to pale
    most will wait until we meet again and we merge
    our stains.

    you left behind
    a hole in the mass of air,
    the clapping thunder of invading winds deafening.

    I swept the shards
    and the crumbs
    and the dust and feathers.

    then I laid my cheek upon the pile,
    the shards cutting
    and the feathers cushioning.

    I know you will lick away the scars
    and sow glimmer
    inside their lining.

    you left behind
    emptiness sufficient
    for my tears.

    yes, so big.

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An Infinite Poem

    I wanted to write you a poem,
    an infinite one.
    I called it "An Infinite Poem".

    I started writing... poem, poem, poem, poem, poem...

    I was enthusiastic for the first three pages,
    started getting impatient towards the sixteenth,
    after the twenty third I gave up.

    gave it to you anyway.

    you opened the first page and started reading it,
    your face as serious as that of a Rushmore sculpture,
    stopping at every word and murmuring it aloud with different intonations
    first with various accents
    then with mechanical clicks and clacks of tongue accompanied by finger snaps
    and finally chaining several of them into an aria of some kind
    and a music of some kind
    and an unending variety of smiles of some kind.

    well, I knew it was a masterpiece
    but not as masterpiece as that.

    your eyes shone like suns
    and died like candles
    once you turned the last page
    and there was nothing after.

    you promised me infinity, you cried,
    not accusing. in pain.

    damn. and I who finally reached the conclusion it was all a piece of garbage...
    it is a piece of garbage, I answered, uncertain.
    you raised red eyes, the accusation there this time.
    it matters not the eyes of the writer, it matters the eyes of the reader.

    I blushed.
    in shame, in remorse, in sorrow for your pain.

    I pulled the manuscript gently away from you
    and dropped it into the bin.
    you bit your lower lip
    worried, trusting.
    I could not disappoint this trust.

    I took two sheets of paper and wrote my new poem,
    "An Infinite Poem".

    you took it and read the first page... poem
    then read the second page... go to page one.
    oh, the fire in those eyes
    as you kept leafing back and forth, back and forth
    and that eternally changing poetry escaping your lips...
    you didn't even remember to say I love you.
    though I knew you probably did. and do.

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as you

    as you lie there,
    sublime,
    wrapped in that lithe marble of linen
    breathing in harmony with your chest
    and hips as they roll
    and lips as they mutter
    and moths as they search for the candle which disappeared
    once you closed your mouth for the night,

    as you sneak over to my side,
    supple,
    the marble shattering into its tatter and shard components
    on a mattress groaning under the agony of clenched bodies
    busy with redefining the laws of gravity
    and flow
    and appropriateness of linguistics through silence teeming moments,
    the moths falling prey
    to the blaze,

    as you cuddle upon my chest,
    secretive,
    your body parts pouring around the marble tatters and me
    sizzling to thousands of individual deaths
    while pieces of hair and pieces of skin
    and pieces of flesh
    desert your sanctum to explode into the dust
    lifting moth leftovers into the whirl
    around that single ray of sun penetrating out
    from underneath your eyelid.

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unfinished lines

    stick a wedge
    into the day,
    split it into the before and the after,
    the before you opened your eyes and.

    hammer it in
    with the flat of the ax,
    disregard the splinters piercing your earlobes for my earrings
    and your lips for.

    watch the sun
    squeeze its bulging bulk
    through the widening slit
    terrified that it might lose the.

    don't allow
    stars blind you into glimmering alleys
    with tails telling of pleasures untasted
    and tentacles urging to.

    as you bite the flower
    to taste its bitter stem
    remember to turn on the light
    as you step through the cave's dark mouth into.

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Second Hand Moon

    I looked in the mirror, angry,
    not understanding.

    I cannot offer you a new moon,
    all I have is this second hand one
    used and abused and confused
    by astrologists and graphologists and monologists,
    howling vampires
    and snapping dragons
    and lovers, biting.

    Man-made junk
    unable to rust its miserable existence away
    peppered its pockmarks
    long before one Neil deflowered its dust deep skin
    and then long after,
    every finger pointing its blushing way
    every human dreaming of copulating with it next...
    oh, poor monoecious creature...
    its only survival chance that man-made button
    allowing all eggs marked A and H and N to hatch their poison
    and drag big, raped sister Earth
    back
    into chaotic virginity.

    Lover,
    but remember budding lilac in between my stretching fingers
    dripping honey gleaned this morning from the orchardís chirping singers
    when we milled the corn to flour, our flesh the vise of vice
    carried past the rustling treetops by the dandling rise of rice,

    and the moon in blushing yellow
    spills hosannas our way
    upon lips of crushing mellow
    tangling gold inside the day.

    I looked in the mirror, to see her,
    understanding.

    I cannot offer you a new moon,
    all I have is this second hand one
    painted up there by lusting crickets
    or was it hung there by cranes looking for country and warmth
    accompanied by wolves baying for love
    and lovers, touching.

    Its pouring silver nips through those riffles
    riding high behind dolphin noses,
    the caressing touch of one Neil reflecting back and forth
    Earth to Moon
    until the air turns a three dimensional web
    of climbing fireflies and gold dotted rain and exploding wisteria seeds
    along and beyond human tentacles
    reaching in adulation to its dead insides
    and outsides
    wishing it life and the seed of children...
    oh, poor monoecious creature...
    poets rhyming along its shimmering rim
    and painters drilling its shadow inside aquarelles
    its fragile, virginal death wished eternal
    by senescent, raped sister
    Earth.

    Lover,
    do I sense the ruth awaking in behind your dreaming lashes
    as you ransack timeworn ages for this moonís forsaken ashes?
    worry not, the fireís haleness crawls inside the growling graves
    while my chestís consuming passion growls ablaze with crawling craves,

    and the moon bedecks the pillow
    with a mist of twinkling motes
    watching linen tatters billow
    lashing bites of wanton quotes.

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Rhyming Perfume

    I want to write
    poetry,
    I want to write you
    poetry,
    I want to write you an endless flow of
    poetry and poems and poetical musings,
    I want
    to make love to you.

    So many layers of paper to your skin
    and none of them paper,
    so many layers of flame to your flesh
    and none of them flame,
    paper enveloping flame
    and the few mellifluous drops of high-octane ink
    I pour on the mélange
    turn a smoldering promise
    into a deluge of fire.

    Love,
    so deep that I can see through to the other side of your chest
    and I shove my hand in between your breasts
    to cull the cherries and the roses and the squirrel bites
    in back of you.

    Open your fist, lover,
    so you can pull your hand back,

    and I refuse
    squashing the cherries and the roses and the squirrel bites
    into a perfume
    rhyming with you.

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Oh...

    I found your cherry.
    My cherry?
    Yes, the one with your name on it.
    Among millions others?
    Yes.
    And where did you find it?
    On a hill.
    And the hill?
    In the sun.
    And the sun?
    In your chest.
    Oh...

    *

    I forgot your name.
    Senility?
    I don't remember.
    Senility.
    Is it like Penicilinity?
    Penicillin.
    Your name?
    No, silly...
    Silly? What kind of a name is that?
    Shut-up.
    Decide: Silly or Shutup.
    Oh, shut-up silly.
    Can we make it something shorter, like Oh?
    Oh, God, I love you.
    I am not God but I love you too.
    Oh...

    *

    Oh John please don't kiss me?
    Eartha Kitt.
    Correct. Oh John oh John oh John?
    Paula Cole.
    Correct again. Oh Yoko?
    John.
    Hey, you're good with your Oh's.
    I'm better with your Oh's.
    My Oh's? Which Oh's?
    Thessssse...
    Ohhhhh...

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Fisherman's Passion

    The fisherman in me
    casting the net of fingers
    over your cliffs Ė the white, the red, the wet and the warm
    the threshing during
    and the quiet after
    and the innocent all through...
    innocent, like innocence
    where from so much of it
    and so much of softness
    and so much of restraint in so much of passion?

    The net closes in
    on the fires hidden and sharks lurking
    and sirens ululating in your throat
    begging of me to carry them to the slaughter
    of their accursed fate
    and loneliness,
    and I reach with one hand to treetops
    the other pulling the heavy net with its trove of flesh
    and scales
    and embers
    and passion.

    I bait your breathing fragments
    from among the stars and the star-fishes star-of-bethlehems
    carefully fitting each to its suiting receptacle
    after you exploded in the open air
    and left song notes hanging on to my beard
    and dirty fingernails
    and rubber boots,
    then sink with you back, under the waves, naked,
    where your fires and sharks and sirens
    once more
    burn and maul and sing me
    into your sleepless
    passion.

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Dog Blues

    ...and then I sent my dog your way, and in his teeth a flower
    with all the fleas which have survived the morning's early shower,
    I crawled upon his tattered cot - his blanket, bone and pillow
    and waited for the sun to creep above the sagging willow.

    hey, son of bitch and friend of man, don't drag your hinds till summer
    to chase the other son of bitch who owns that bitch - the plumber,
    just hurry back your yapping ways an lick my face with passion
    as if the faucet in my room is running out of fashion.

    come, lie across my heaving chest and bark my ear the story
    of ankles thin, of fingers soft, of lips in blooming glory,
    and you can steal my rubber bone while I enjoy the missive...
    hey, I'm the master, stop that jeer so... jeeringly derisive.

    my lover sweet, your fleas and dog have brought this ruined slipper,
    was it a flower once upon? or Flipper's mangled... flipper?
    yet check those fleas, both yours and his, they carry back a warning -
    there's a surprise upon your bed which landed there this morning.

    huh?...
    I deserted the cot, the dog, the fleas, the rubber bone
    and jumped upon the bed.

    ...to find some flesh upon some bones upon some shapely fiddle,
    some battling feet, some tickling hairs, some arms around my middle,
    you stink of dog! of lust! of fleas! of love! you ploying liar!
    and then, despite rebelling howls, we set the world on fire.

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Parallax, Two

    inhale me
    deeply
    like you would
    smoke of cigarettes you would have chain-smoked mindlessly,
    drink me
    avidly
    like you would
    water of rivers you would have drowned into singing,
    absorb me
    greedily
    like you would
    radioactive waste you would have been rained with at end of worlds,

    death
    imminent.

    like love.

    to inhale the smell of your skin as it drips after morningís shower,
    to drink the pulp of your flesh as it lies mangled between my teeth,
    to absorb the seed of your life as it crawls into my womb.

    do you always see light
    at impending ends?

    I always see love
    at eternal beginnings.

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Just Another If Poem

    If you were morning's butter in the sun
    I would have let you drip drop after drop on my tongue
    and then roll you for many hours
    before letting you slide your thrilling way
    down my throat
    ingesting you as my will, absorbing you as my need,
    burning you as my life...
    and the leftovers?
    smearing you all over my body
    as my lust.

    If you were spring's snowbell under the snow
    I would have crawled underneath your unopened petals
    to be there the moment come when you open your eye
    and your fragrance Elysian
    penetrates its fleeting pencil
    to draw spirals down my nostrils, down my larynx, down my trachea
    to those playing grounds in my lungs
    ingesting you as my will, absorbing you as my need,
    burning you as my life...
    and the leftovers?
    pouring out through my skin
    as my lust.

    If you were geyser's scalding burst
    I would have lied naked across your mouth
    waiting with trepidation for the explosion
    to tear the skin from my flesh and my flesh from my bones
    and my bones from my skeleton
    with the ingrained shadow
    of my memory
    and my once existence
    ingesting you as my will, absorbing you as my need,
    burning you as my life...
    and the leftovers?
    there would be no leftovers
    of my lust.

    You looked through me
    seeing the if's and if-not's and if-when's
    your finger trying to find its way through me as well
    to touch those if grounds
    yet meeting the bone of my breast
    and puncturing it
    to be able to see better, and taste, and smell, and hurt...
    there are so many more if's, what about the rest?
    do you really want to hear all of them?

    I opened my mouth for the next one decennium
    and inside the next one second
    you closed it for the next one decennium
    as you preferred to get the entire story
    wasting none and leaving no leftovers
    straight from that one kiss
    and my lips.

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Carnivorous Lilac

    As you were eaten away
    by carnivorous lilac
    to whiff back with evening into my nostrils,

    sitting under the crying bush
    and learning of fragrances
    I never knew.

    You separated me from the world,

    coquettish molecules
    dressing my insides with a blanket of aromatic sensations
    before laying me gently
    down
    to a bed of dripping splendor.

    I found you again
    after I opened eyes
    into the world of beyond the world,

    to be told how to be eaten away
    by carnivorous lilac
    into that of sensuality's kingdoms
    spanning your heart.

    I refused,

    knowing it means waking up from the dream
    and trusting not
    finding it again.

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defiance

    so don't drink the wine,
    spill it!

    let it run along the crevice of your tightly closed lips
    your head coquettishly cocked to one side
    your eyes muttering
    defiance,

    then wipe yourself
    dry.

    you may not be aware of it,
    yet,
    until you finally open your mouth
    and I prove to you the futility of defiance
    as I lick the penetrating film from the inside of your lips
    and feed it back to you
    on the tip of my tongue
    driving you all the way back
    into that sweet
    madness.

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Soothsayer

    I read my future
    in your shirt's buttons.

    Those untouched, yet.

    Then those undone, those torn,
    those splintered and strewn all over the floor
    with splinters of my teeth.
    Others do it in coffee, cards, bones.

    Superstitious fools, I stated,
    taking hold of the nipple.
    You watched me, not worried,
    curious.
    Will it go the way of the buttons? part of your theory?

    Part of my proof, I stated again,
    turning the probability of future
    into the certainty of past.

    My turn, you said.
    To read your future?
    Yours.

    You got it all wrong.
    The past rushing past me
    better than any of the future
    you predicted.

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Short Term Memory

    I watched the islands.

    Like your breasts
    after the storm.

    Waves committing suicide at their shores
    like my mouth,
    and hands,
    like lemmings mindlessly fulfilling their destiny,
    like my body
    clear of mind and cleared of desire.

    I touched them.
    Your breasts.
    And life invaded us both
    like the tsunami following the moon falling into the sea.

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Never Ending Fantasy

    She was sad.

    The sea is blue
    but not as blue
    as you,
    I sang to her.

    Not very original, she said.
    Do you have something about doves?

    The dove
    flies above
    and poops on your love.

    Did it poop on you?
    No, on my car.

    We walked hand in hand,
    she sighing, I sighing.
    Donít be sad, it is not the last day.
    It is the last day,
    every end of day is the last day
    of that day.

    It is also the first day of the last days of our love.
    Not very original either.
    Doesnít make it less true.
    And painful.
    I kicked a pebble in the sea.
    She showed me a shooting star.
    We listened to the wind.

    I started running ahead,
    birds falling dead in my wake.
    She kneeled close to each, kissing them back into life.
    They will die anyway, another day.
    But not on the first day of the last days of our love.
    I stopped running, waiting for her to pick up the blackbird,
    the last one.

    A dog barked at us and jumped into the sea
    then ran away.
    There are no dead birds in his wake,
    I remarked, enviously.
    There is no fire in his heart,
    she answered
    closing my shirt to hide the sun.
    I watched her kiss a bud into a flower,
    a bug into a bird,
    a pine cone into an elephant
    then she oopsíd and kissed it again
    into a squirrel.
    Yeah, more appropriate, I agreed
    hurrying to hide the deep traces and looking around.
    No one paid attention,
    they were all looking at raining stars.
    You are too generous, I kissed into her ear
    grabbing a few of the stars for myself.

    We reached the room before midnight.
    Will the magic end at midnight?
    Will you leave behind your glass shoe?
    I have only tennis shoes.
    This will have to do.

    It hit me when we were making love.
    Thankfully there were no frogs around.
    You are my prince.
    That took care of my care
    and we could finish what we started.
    What follows after fantasy? she asked.

    I left my shoe behind,
    on top of the scribbled poem.
    Just more fantasy,
    it is this kind of world.
    I love you, she smsíd me
    turning the obvious into a work of art
    and my day
    into a never ending fairytale.

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Flower Talk

    "Hey, flower." She didn't answer.
    Sure, flowers don't answer.
    They wiggle, they smell,
    they... well, flower.
    They don't answer.

    Short of plucking her
    I tried all other ways -
    I sang, I danced,
    I almost broke my neck doing a triple-lutz
    without skates...
    I even sprinkled her petals with lemonade
    and arranged a few chocolate bars
    around her,
    star like.

    She just wiggled, smelled, flowered.

    I gave up.
    Got up, packed up,
    was about to leave.
    "Stay," she said.

    I stayed. For ever.
    Though she never spoke again.

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Female Day

    You mean... Woman Day.

    No, I mean Female Day -
    women, mares, bitches, cows, does...
    the source of life,
    the source of creation,
    comparable to Sun
    comparable to God.

    And the job left for males?

    I looked at her, impressed by so much naiveté.
    Adulation.

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Preferences

    I like watching you undressing
    or dressing.

    I love you undressed
    or dressed.

    I like you
    naked.
    I love you
    naked.
    I prefer you dressed
    so I can imagine undressing you
    and turn imagination into fact
    and fact into the apotheosis of senses.

    You are beautiful.
    Dressed or undressed.
    Or naked.
    I like you.
    I love you.
    I prefer you dressed or undressed or naked.
    I prefer you
    here.

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Years

    It is years since I last wrote you a poem.
    Yes, I know it is days,
    still, it is years.

    Look at the barefoot heel marks
    missing from my chest,
    the ribs aching to crack under your weight
    as you tiptoe and dance and pirouette above me
    and my eyes never sate
    of that divine landscape
    fluttering on and off under your skirt...
    so many splinters attached to my breastbone
    rebelliously wishing to break away
    as you tease me
    with your toe.

    Look at the whispers unwhispered into my eyes,
    or is it into my mouth, my ears?...
    the tomb of silence enveloping the music
    wishing to be played by your tongue
    straight into the inner layers of my mind
    as you sing languages so strange that they incinerate
    and yearnings so alien that they cut
    and vocal games so beautiful
    that my fingers follow your flute
    and sink to die
    in that white sea of your breasts
    against the cliffs of your nipples.

    Look at the forgotten moments of love never made
    thus never remembered
    to be written into verses
    by those tools of eternity called at times fingers
    and at times fingernails
    and at times fingertips
    as you skip the stage of paper
    and ride the knife of beauty straight into my skin
    tinting the traces with the honey dripping from your lips
    and with the wine flowing from the grapes crushed between your thighs
    and with the sighs
    of bitten cherries.

    It's only years,
    and it feels eons.

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Choices

    If the time of love
    be it but one heartbeat Ė
    who wants to live longer?

    If the choice be it burn
    or bleak Ė
    who wants painless?

    If a bowl of rice
    or a crumb of kiss Ė
    who wants to be sated?

    If the price for a moment
    is a lifetime Ė
    then lifetime be the price.

    I clamped the silk of your fingertips
    in the biting vise of my fist
    and fed you to the dance floor
    together with the skirt teasing my feet
    and the glint of teeth uncovering that coming and going smile
    as you banderoled by
    unable to break the chain anchoring you
    through my fist
    to the rest of my body,
    the visible and the invisible and the rockínírolling pieces of me
    gravitating like mighty Earth
    around
    a butterfly.

    You fluctuated in the breeze
    of trombones and saxophones and loudspeaker vibrating gills,
    your hair separating from your body
    your shoes chasing your ankles over the floor
    at times penetrating between mine
    together with your skirt
    and skin
    and thighs and flesh and bones
    crushing through my gates only to climb my ramparts
    and jump back into a floor cremating itself into glowing ash
    by the pleasures
    of your hammering heels.

    We clung to each other
    honeysuckle and wisteria and scindapsus
    our vines turned limber limbs with tendrils groping the niches of cloth
    and of body
    and of breath
    twining and twisting and growing into and around each other
    choking the dance out of the room
    as the orchestra packed its instruments
    and we kept gyrating on, mindlessly,
    out the windows
    up the trees
    scratching our cheeks on moonís lower crescent tip
    before falling to our perdition in that lake of boiling blood
    which turned our bed
    our place of rebirth.

    If to dance to you or make love with you
    then I be frozen forever
    in indecision.

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downpour

    the flowers you pour
    in front of my feet, calling,
    in back of my feet, bolting,
    in my pockets, promising.

    the clothes you pour
    undressing
    uncovering
    revealing
    that skin thirsty for the flowers
    you poured away from you
    my way.

    the touches you pour
    starting at the roots of your lips
    and ending at the tips of your toes
    as your breasts crush the flowers I brought back,
    all of them,
    mountains,
    and pollen mixing with sweat glints upon the tips of your nipples
    and of your nose
    and the ends of your eyelashes before they crush
    the crude elixir down your cheeks.

    the love you pour
    as you guide my travel along the paths of your body
    teaching me the secret passages
    into the yet undiscovered
    flower beds.

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Paean

    I could squeeze the milk
    out of your breast
    and feed it to my hungering veins right through my skin,

    I could turn your blood to the bitter of black cherries
    and to the green of wounded grass
    and to the glitter of dust falling away from your eye brooks
    for you to bathe me again,

    I could torture your tongue into the fire serpent
    sprinkling thick drops of burning coal
    there, where our bodies finally touch and merge,

    I need not to
    as you feed me the milk and bathe me the bitter and sprinkle me the coal
    before I need blink my need.

    How did you? I ask.
    How did I what? you answer
    feeding and bathing and sprinkling in never ending paean.

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like love making

    turn around
    not before you open your clothing
    not before you turn on the light
    not before I kneel
    and as you swish around
    the double bladed scythe of your breasts flees away from your chest
    and my head ends up buried in your loins
    as your bony fingers drag my shoulders through your thighs
    and my claws clam to your waist
    like a dying sharkís pitiless jaws.

    drop down
    beneath me and above me and around and inside me
    your ankles triple knotting behind my back
    and your tongue triple knotting inside mine
    when you liberate my head
    and imprison my midriff,
    the carpetless floor the dull drum
    upon which our lumps of flesh thump and thud and thresh
    all broken bones to be counted only after,
    after the debacle,
    after thirst quenched with the salt of sweat
    and hunger sated with the taste of raw human meat.

    tie me
    in the barbs of the wire you drag down from the hiding sun
    make your skin the grooming bed of broken glass and shattered rock
    and let me sink roots in between the shards
    mixing my blood within your bloodways
    and my sap within your womanways
    until the walls cave in
    imploding together with our need
    and the revolting music
    of our delirious spasms.

    feed me
    your body parts
    one by one and all together
    and when I fill-up to refuse keep feeding me into the obesity
    of absolute, disgusting satisfaction.

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Editor

    I tried to get the morning unfold my way,
    sleep
    then sleep some more
    and then, if possible, mix some slumber into the sleep
    just to kill the monotony of... sleep.

    She broke down the door
    tore away the blankets
    and raped my peace of mind and body.
    She even used my toothbrush,
    after.

    Quiet.
    The Ordeal over.
    A bed for one imprisoning two,
    sometimes side by side
    switching places,
    sometimes not
    switching places too,
    the ordeal raising its menacing head with Stymphalian breath
    and singing the passing minutes with Larkian trill
    invariably copyínípasting itself in a variety of varieties
    as it moved back into Quiet
    then into Ordeal
    then into... and that toothbrush refreshing the luster to your teeth
    just in time for another crunch, chop, cleave,
    slash, slit, slice,
    kiss...

    I breathed heavily,
    suffocating on chunks of breast
    following on the traces of chunks of thigh, lip, nipple
    you generously fed my beast with
    cooing all the way into insanity
    mine
    yours
    ours
    the beauty of awakening to life stored in between skin and flesh
    mine
    yours
    ours,
    the palette and the colors all yours.

    I allowed myself a momentís respite,
    just enough to whisper in your ear...
    you,
    the editor
    of my mornings.

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Into Every Life A Little Al Jolson Must Fall

    You made me love you
    I didn't wanna do it
    I didn't wanna do it
    You made me want you
    And all the time you knew it
    I guess you always knew it

    Maybe you did, maybe you didn't,
    Maybe I didn't, maybe I did,

    And who cares? says I
    And don't ask, you, why
    When I chase those snapping heels over floor's perfervid timber
    And inside my grappling fingers twist your sinews lithe and limber
    With a hip astride a pelvis roving its demented tumbles
    Till in sonorous arthritis squeals the saxophone and crumbles.

    You made me happy sometimes
    You made me glad
    But there were times
    You made me feel so bad

    Maybe you did, maybe you did,
    Maybe you didn't, maybe you didn't,

    And if so? asks you
    And if no, says who
    Tracing footsteps through the marshes down the alligators' alley
    In the wake of dropping garments leading to that grand finale
    When ophidian allusions covet tempers to enrapture
    And with fire's blazing promise, crave's chimera set to capture.

    You made me cry for
    I didn't wanna tell you
    I didn't wanna tell you
    I want some love that's true
    Yes, I do, 'deed I do
    You know I do

    Maybe you made, maybe you maden't,
    Maybe I didn't, maybe I do,

    And if made? say we
    And therefore may be
    That the music wanes to howling wanes to raving wanes to quiet
    While the skin pulls back its ribbons and in bodies dies the riot,
    Lilac grows between those fingers crawling back from death's dominion
    You - my ever lasting beauty, I - your ever ever minion.

    Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie, gimmie what I cry for
    You know you've got the brand of kisses
    That I'd die for
    You know you made me love you

    Maybe I cry, maybe you know,
    Maybe I'd die, maybe you know,

    And if death moves fore?
    Don't it dare! you roar
    Tying swallows to your tresses as they write the sunset's story
    Then besprinkle it with kisses stolen from your nipple's glory
    Just before I steal your vision to impound inside my prison
    Grooming it through thousand dances to one smile... forever risen.

    You Made Me Love You

    Maybe love.
    Maybe? Love!

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Invisions

    You sit there,
    is it a chair or a bench?
    hugging your knees to your chest
    and your cheek to your knees
    and a rose
    between cheek and knees.
    The thorn,
    is it planted in the knee or in the cheek?

    You listen to street music,
    is it the street or the music you listen to?
    your eyes donít remember when they closed or opened,
    if they closed or opened,
    and you see images of exploding kisses
    and clutching hands
    and dancing dancing dancing couples
    so many of them
    and all of them you and I.
    That flash on the flesh,
    is it a tear drop or a sweat drop?
    and there is no difference
    to the pain.

    You get up,
    is it your sandals or the weight of the years you carry in your left hand?
    your right hand carrying the stain of the bean flower
    you collected from the field
    running away from
    then running back to
    me
    and which ended in that envelope I slid inside my shirt.
    There is no way home,
    is it music you are treading on or dreams awakened from the dust?
    when you try a ballet step you forgot long ago
    and a tango step you remembered not long ago
    and your feet smile around your body
    as you hopscotch your way
    home.

    Sleep does not induce serenity,
    is it a heart you carry under your blouse or love?
    there is no beat there,
    just the euphonious battles of burning flesh
    and yearning yearning yearning.

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The Eye Of The Fever

    I have this sudden urge
    to write such as poetry of lust
    as Solomon would have loved to read
    and Ovid would have loved to write
    and Petrarch would have loved to listen to
    before making love,
    had he but possessed the knowledge
    of my language...

    To invoke none of the sun and none of the moon,
    none of stars and none of gods
    but only the passageways
    and the colors and the odors of Earth
    and of your earthly body
    in its entire pale divinity...

    Before and after,
    before and after denuding it, igniting it, extinguishing it, covering it,
    before and after telling of it
    and never forgetting of it...

    Doors
    to the soles of your feet,
    to knead them open
    after they kneaded my chest with lithe toes and temperamental heels
    and views of endless thighs ending nevertheless
    there, where my fingers reached for and never got to...
    doors, to the soles of your feet
    where I will pour the skim off milk
    I drank from the portals
    of your breasts
    when you were young, yesterday,
    before you boiled into creased flesh
    inside my arms inside your laced lattice
    inside your skin
    boiling...

    Ruts
    to your shoulders,
    to cut deeper, hitting through bone to marrow
    the way of the steel of silk snapping and cutting a rut across my cheek
    uncovering the quaver of a breast the color of Rodinís marble
    and Rodinís marble stiffness of texture
    demanding the muscle of mouth to take over from the muscle of biceps...
    ruts, to your shoulders
    where I will seed the salt and the lilac and the beeís comb
    you wrote me in so many words terminated and so many phrases
    some unterminated
    when my fingers would choke the breath
    off your neckís nape
    and my liberated biceps the breath
    off your chestís hidden lungs and fractured ribs
    your arms limp into the yesterday
    when you pulled that strap up to your shoulder
    I ripped to lashing pieces today
    and you tied with
    my penetrating hip to your punctured belly
    and my wrist
    to the leftovers of your breast...

    Rain
    to your skin clutching to your flesh,
    to guide the hot needles of a stainless-steel torrential shower
    to those steel-less caves of torrential passion hotly hosting hot me
    earlier on
    in wait for the end to the unbearable wait when crude summons will end the wait...
    rain, to your skin clutching to your flesh
    where I will add my skin clutching to my flesh
    and turn out the music loud
    blues penetrating me with the vanquished oneís vengeance
    as it cannot mask your euphony
    and my tenorial tenacity
    when your melted flesh flows around me
    and the bedding knots itself around melting us
    your fingers immobilized in that final spasm
    long after I died of mine
    and longer after our nipples met and melted into one single blob
    of inhuman
    tenderness...

    I roll your body times eleven
    inside the soggy bed sheet
    then pour on cocooned you times eleven
    of crushed berry and mango juice and ice-cream deliquescence
    and wait eleven days
    before I unwrap you and delight in the wine between your toes
    and the liqueur between your thighs
    and the exploding bubbles of champagne fizzling into my mouth
    as I scavenge
    yours...

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North-West

    don't tell me of the poetry
    you have.

    tell me of the poetry
    you don't.

    when you wish me the bird which just flew by
    and you wish me the flower you just picked
    and you wish me the humming
    you never knew
    you hummed.

    tell me of the poetry
    of crying that mix of salt and sugar
    asphyxiating your nights
    and reviving your morning
    till night hits again
    and then morning.

    I lean out of the window
    and look at the building north-west of me
    knowing, somewhere out there behind this building
    far away
    is you.

    I hear your poetry
    and I taste the mix of salt and sugar
    on my lips.

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shared

    two glasses
    upturned.

    one held your tooth brush.
    one held your tooth brush.
    yes. the same.
    glass. tooth brush.

    when we shared all our possessions.
    tooth brush and body and love.

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Bending

    You move around,
    don't know if move or slide or float is the word,
    beautiful,
    filling the room with your half nakedness
    and I hunger for your half dressed
    intimacy.

    What?... the cat asks the mouse watching the cat asking the mouse
    and if I don't hear the meow I do see it
    as you further bend over the sink
    and you bend over the bed
    and you bend over the table, the suitcase, the shoes, the phone,
    the sink once more...

    There is only so much
    a man can take of half nakedness
    bending over the sink, the bed...
    the mouse pulls out its claws
    as the cat pulls up its stockings
    and the roar in the room becomes unbearable
    as primitive instincts blend with delicate fabrics
    in an orgy of rip and tear and shred...

    Why didn't you say so?... the cat tells the mouse caressing the cat telling the mouse,
    sadly contemplating the 747 size nylon runway,
    pulling it off the leg by the dangling half of it
    and tying it around my neck.
    Revenge? I ask.
    Yes, you say, tightening further,
    for taking so long.

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Inventory

    I peeked underneath your skirt.
    What are you doing?
    Taking inventory, I answered, taking inventory.
    Anything missing?
    I wanted to say something rude,
    I said it.
    Yes, me.

    You made sure nothing was missing,
    all it took was a few moments
    leaving pans and pots and kitchen-robots do the job on their own.
    We lay panting on the floor,
    no, not fully naked,
    who had the patience to undress fully?

    I took your hand
    and watched intently.
    Still taking inventory? you inquired, worried.
    Yes.
    Something missing? you asked.
    Something missing again, I answered mysteriously
    emphasizing the again,

    me. You made sure it wasn't missing anymore,
    made sure until I had no choice
    but beg your forgiveness and go for a pee.
    Are you sure you will manage on your own?
    I wasn't so sure.
    But I insisted to try, anyway,
    after all, I valued my independence.
    I guess it was the quiet which worried you.
    Something missing?
    I hated to, I had to, I admitted.
    Yes, you.

    Well, I didn't follow the path as originally I planned to
    and who needed a path anyway
    and what is a path anyway
    and who wants to write poetry at a moment like this, anyway?

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Age?

    Age?
    What age, who has age?
    Who defined age
    and the limit imposed by dates and numbers
    to running a sword through the bowel of the universe
    and emptying it of the gargantuan measures of rain-fire safely ensconced
    unadmittedly and unfoundly so,
    to bathe in the searing flay of its flogging
    and gulp mouthfuls, desertfuls, worldfuls
    of it.

    I think of you,
    and never can think of you dressed if not undressing
    or undressed if not dressing
    or any in-between stage if not rolling inside the ring of my arms
    wet underwear peeling off your body
    and falling in knots of flowers
    and in ribbons of budding branches
    and in hooks dangling from the insides of my lips.

    I hate to think of you.
    I hate to think of those lumps of dead earth filling the between us void
    with passionís many severed heads
    and thrashing morsels of dangling skin,
    I hate to think of you behind those lumps of dead earth filling the between us void
    and you, there, beyond,
    dressing without me to undress you
    and undressing without me to dress you
    and no one to pour the fire stolen from the bowel of the universe
    inside your underwear
    and peel it off your body into knots and ribbons and hooks.

    Is it your breasts
    or is it your nipples
    which you rubbed inside the poem you sent me
    and which I lined my pillow with
    and my clothes
    and the insides of my mouth?

    I chew the bitter stem of a rose,
    thorns cutting into my tongue
    and all I can feel
    is the fire about to gush once more
    once we squash the lumps of dead earth
    into the flimsy thinness of melting underwear
    and skin.

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The Birds And The Bees

    I canít talk about the birds and the bees.
    I mean I can
    but I wonít.
    I mean I can
    but Iíd rather talk about the flesh and the skin and the grunts,
    the grasshopper that swallowed half of the sun and burst aflame
    and the frog who fought an alligator
    and the crow that saved a fox cub from the clodhopperís steel...

    You looked at me,
    uncomprehending
    yet understanding.
    Youíd rather talk about love, right?

    I wasnít so sure, maybe.
    Iíd rather talk about the pearl in your mouth hiding the fang inside
    and the lacquer at the ends of your fingers concealing the talons underneath
    and the bones connected to muscles connected to tendons
    groping my wrists like the twisting insides of a tree,
    Iíd rather talk about the bedcovers we cared not about
    and the moon we fished from each otherís eyes
    and the plough we sank between the otherís ribs and loins.

    You looked at me,
    comprehending
    yet not understanding.
    Youíd rather talk about love, right?

    I wasnít so sure, maybe.
    Iíd rather not talk at all, I said,
    discovering the untold truths about the birds and the bees and the rest of it.

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Opium Dream

    when you shake your mane

    and dust flies all around you,
    dust, not stardust but dust, sand, sward,
    all of which clung to your hair while rolling on the ground
    with me alternately above and underneath and above and breathlessly forgetting...
    the clothes somewhere unknown
    the shoes somewhere unknown even further away
    filling up with crickets and barking fox cubs
    and thieving mountain goats,

    and grunts leave your broken lips,
    grunts, not sighs but grunts, growls, grumbles,
    alternating with the cracking sound of breaking boulders
    and the cackling sound of exploding wheat grains
    as the spikes which punctured your bare shoulders pull out covered by blood
    and drop into the burrows of hungrily awaiting prairie dogs
    and blind moles
    and mice with tails bitten-off in bitter clan fights.

    and sweat hangs on to the tips of your sore nipples,
    sweat, not perfume but reeky sweat, perspiration, exudation,
    offending lilac into decaying witheredness
    and bees into deserting their queens
    and flint stones into meteors flying the skyward way
    when by mischance my mouth misses a drop and it hits ground
    mixing with the grunts and the dust
    and flying like pellets into the eyes of doves

    when you shake your mane.

    you find a way to nestle inside me
    just when I find a way to nestle inside you
    and as we nestle inside each other
    thankful crickets and cubs and goats blanket us with stardust
    humble prairie dogs and moles join mice in a symphony of sighs
    and bees and doves munch lilac and flint stones into perfume mulch
    laying it on our skin
    the way of sparkling rose water.

    is this some kind of an opium dream? you ask,
    shivering in the beauty of it all.
    Iíve never yet heard of shared opium dreams, I answer,
    shivering in the beauty of you.

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When Do I Miss You?

    When I wish to scratch my back
    and have to rub against trees or walls or parked busses,
    when I wish to soap my back
    and the soap falls ten times from my fingers before I give up,
    when I wish to inspect that blue - or is it black? - spot on my back
    and no mirrors arrangement seems to reach that culprit piece of me,

    When I ache for a richly layered cone of ice cream
    and I need someone wishing to steal licks whom I have to fight off
    before I give up in exhaustion, melted leftovers dripping down my chin
    and the fight becomes a prayer for help
    which you obligingly fulfill, licking my chin clean,
    my shirt, my hairy chest,

    When I undress, then dress, then undress, then dress into that infinity
    cut short by my mortalís finity, still too long
    to carry along with no one to contest to my tieís colors
    and my shirtís choice
    and to slap away those fingers constantly busy undoing my doings
    if buttons, if belt, if zipper,

    When I wake up before wake up time
    and the need of skin drives insane my skin
    with the only outlet being chasing that damn buzzing mosquito
    while whistling war-marches
    followed by writing lust speckled with more lust,
    if I do catch the damn mosquito,

    When I smell the lilac
    and wonder at the butterfly
    and run in the rain trying to outpace the thunder or the swallow,
    failing miserably, of course.

    You should ask it differently.
    When donít I miss you?
    Though then... there would be a silence to shame sleeping seashells.

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you MAY call it love...

    if you want to bark
    I will praise your song,
    if you fall on your ass
    I will tell the world about your grace,
    if you forget your toothbrush
    I will clean your teeth with my fingernails
    and then brush them into shine with my tightly closed lips.

    do you feel like dozing off?
    no, I will not wake you up even if your skirt pulls to your waist,
    no... I didnít mention if this would be the result of my involuntary actions
    or pure statistical coincidence to do with the zodiac and the constellations
    or, as the bad mouths would say, to do with any voluntary actions on my part...
    no, I will not wake you up to make love to you
    though, I might envisage making love to you
    while you sleep.

    do you want to undress?
    I will not hold you back,
    do you want to undress me?
    I will not tie your hands behind your back,
    do you feel like eating pizza while I crave for hamburger and onion rings
    and the money we have left would suffice just for your choice?
    I will watch you finish the dish like a devoted dog
    refusing even the leftovers, unless they fall between your naked thighs...
    were you to allow me to rummage.

    when you pain
    I will hurt,
    when you joy
    I will laugh,
    when you go
    I will die
    until you return.

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Rage

    Rage died.

    No, it didn't die,
    rage doesn't die,
    it coiled back growl-less, muscle-less,
    like a snake slithering back down its hole
    by sheer gravitational drag,
    fangs sheathed, poison wasted,
    a trail of peeling skin and drops of blood
    decorating the walls of its passage.

    We didn't dare open eyes,
    afraid to discover that rage might not have been there at all
    or that rage might still be alive
    or that rage will not wake up again,
    we preferred to rest in that final embrace
    soaking back inside us the abundance of enveloping sweat,
    caring not whose was which or which was whose
    as salt was after all just salt
    and pungent smells mixed into an unidentifiable melee
    reeking of slobbering bacteria
    and autumn leaves thawing their way out of frost
    and exploding snowbell buds.

    My chest was working its way out of heaving pain
    and I wondered who was on top of whom,
    my flesh sensations numb
    my mind mush
    and as far as I was concerned gravitation could pull any which way,
    any which way your body lay
    any which way your breasts were demanding my undivided attention
    though my attention was divided
    three ways at least.

    I tried to move.
    Don't!
    I didn't.

    A tickling sensation started converging from sides to ribs
    as ants... ants on the bed?... fingertips, you silly...
    started picking salt grains to crush between terrifying fangs
    and feed to my nipple, my mouth, my burning eyes,
    tried to move once more, meeting no comment
    yet unable to
    as I lay paralyzed in an embrace of lithe thighs
    and one clawed hand,
    the other continuing the ants' parade down to my belly,
    and downwards still,
    apocalyptic images of a resurgent rage mixing with that brine burning my eyes
    yet unable to ask for forgiveness
    or pity
    or absolution.

    I heard the rustle of coils uncoiling, scales bristling,
    the unmistakable clucking sound of fangs unsheathing once more
    with the richly flavored poison sparkling like morning dew
    on an opening rose's mouth,
    the rage pulled back its head
    tensed its muscle
    struck
    bit...
    oh, the exquisite beauty of dying again...

    Love...
    Yes, love.
    Sometimes it is only exploding snowbells.
    I stopped for a moment the depraved activities I was performing
    and let smell take over from touch as main sense
    my nose inhaling waking morning's desperate calls for attention
    and your skin's relaxing tension,
    there was something strangely mystical in your semi-question
    in the momentary reality...
    I believe you are right, love, exploding snowbells...
    I admitted
    and buried my face in the source of all perfumes
    again.

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Empty Ears

    I sit in the garden,
    trying to catch up on my missing naps.
    I would if I could,
    or rather if I was allowed to,
    or rather if that bird of unknown breed and origin
    had shut up.
    I surmise it was a bird,
    could not have been an elephant, could it
    even though I never saw it? I guess. Might have been an elephant, though.

    If a bird, then certainly a male,
    only a male would have had that richness of voice,
    that smoothness of tone
    changing in so many ways and intonations
    that even Shakespeare would have been put to shame
    had we but understood it,
    maybe the Shakespeare of the birdsí world and a bit more?
    No, no, ladies of certain malicious mind and similar inclination
    I bear no discrimination against females and certainly female birds, mind you,
    I actually wish this world was females only
    me excepted, of course.
    But you couldnít mistake the tonality of a Le Caruso with that of a La Callas,
    could you?
    Unless you were deaf by birth or birthright.
    Or possibly right out of your mind.
    This was certainly a male,
    so deeply in need for his (yes, not its but his) mate
    that he reminded me, painfully of... me.
    Deeply in need for my (yes, not his but my) mate.
    I miss you.
    I wish I could say it as beautifully.

    I heard some thinner chirps, starting to interfere with his majestic baritone,
    he either lost his mind, or lost his tools of reproduction
    or maybe she finally had pity on the poor fellow
    and answered.
    Oh, the beauty of that (so I hoped) duet.
    Quiet.
    Even the cat stopped looking up,
    mourning the dissipation of the bliss of that voice
    or of a night snack, another thing I would never know.
    I opened a can of food for it,
    hoping to improve its chances of appreciating the artistic side
    of the event just passed, over the culinary side,
    call it my own wee contribution to the artsí world
    and to the birdsí kingdom
    and to thoughts of you, naked.
    Yes, why not, naked as the day I first saw you naked,
    as the day I last saw you naked,
    as the day I will again see you naked
    until the end of nakedness and time.
    Until never ending beauty. Of you.

    I wait a few more minutes,
    the cat gives up long before me,
    yes, easy with a full belly, isnít it? Empty arms donít count.
    Neither empty lap, empty bed, empty eyes.
    Empty ears.
    Le Caruso is gone for the evening, or for good
    with or without his tools of reproduction with or without La Callas,
    with the catís appetite.
    With that chunk of heart he drilled and tore away from between ribs
    once mine,
    so cruelly,
    leaving a shapeless hole and fading echoes.
    I wait for them to die, echo way, they donít.
    Knew them to be carnivorous, birds, didnít know them to be uomnivorous...
    yes, uomnivorous not omnivorous, damn spell-checker.
    Sure, no contradiction. Just damn pain.
    I miss you.

    PS Heís back this morning. Itís a duet.

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arousal

    does it mean
    I reading your poetry telling me of
    arousal?

    does it mean
    seeing you on the bed, mornings,
    sleep your bedside companion
    I the peeping companion
    unable to tear away my regard from curling glimmer
    revealed by that treacherous nightgown
    which pulled just a bit higher
    than modesty
    allows?

    does it mean
    waiting
    as you pull down the shoulder straps
    and the gown clings on to your rigid nipples
    revealing rather than hiding
    yet refusing to give in
    to my friend,
    gravitation?

    does it mean
    watching you dress
    slowly,
    one hundred of my time-frames to one of yours
    played back in that maddening reality pace
    allowing me to see the never ending trip of lace
    from ankles
    to hips?

    does it mean
    your hand searching its way from my knees
    upwards,
    past the moment of hesitation
    and further until,
    repentant,
    it slides back down dragging in its wake
    that noisy
    zipper?

    does it mean
    rigidity,
    abominable in its
    ephemerality?

    does it mean
    you reading my poetry telling you of
    arousal?

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Define

    I brought you to the car,
    didn't tell you anything
    just opened the door and waited for you to sit.
    I closed the door.

    Then I dug out the terminal tiles
    ripped open the asphalt to the plane
    tore apart the plane's carpet... until I found it.
    I didn't even pay attention to sirens, and dogs, and screaming people.

    Nobody can touch your perfection, I said
    handing you the fallen button.
    You are crazy, you said.
    You are wrong, I said. I am in love.

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Rottweiler

    hear me,
    biting deep in the wood of the bed
    crunching to shards the last glass of wine you touched
    the withered stem of the withered flower of my withered hand
    the living thorns and the dying perfumes
    and the phone book of your abode,
    see the splinters in my hanging tongue
    dripping the drops of my life
    to die in the dust of my carpet?

    I cared once,
    for the masses and for the oppressed
    and for prisoners of war and those of dead relationships
    and of terrible wounds and sickness
    and victims
    of the holiness of man in all its ugliness
    and its vainglorious self righteousness,
    I was ready to kill
    for life.

    all I want now
    is bite,
    to bite in your lip and to bite in your breast and to bite in your thigh
    lock my jaws
    and let the oozing elixir of you
    mix with the drooling slaver of me
    petrify my maxillae in that eternal, mute ode
    to your carniferous forest of bones
    and beauty. yes,
    youíll have to drag that dead lump of my flesh behind you
    until it rots away
    or you cut it out of your flesh.

    I wish to care, again,
    for the masses and for the oppressed
    and prisoners and victims and those dragging their throes through my heart
    and those who donít,
    after I bite into you my brand
    and nurse it with the salts in my sweat
    and the sugars in the petals I will pour between your nakedness
    and my bed.

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Units

    I touched you
    with one finger,
    and you split in two
    like butter giving way to a hot knife.

    I was afraid to touch you
    with five,
    lest I wonít have enough ribbons
    to bind your beauty back
    into life.

    I made love to you
    not touching you
    and we flowed inside the mattress
    down to the floor
    soaked into the stone, petrified in that one instant
    of eternal nothingness.

    How can one instant be eternal, you ask?
    Nothingness, bears no measurement units
    as does not
    love.

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Mosaic

    You sent me
    pieces of your skin,
    you will hurt, I screamed,
    and you just smiled and kept sending them
    in consonants, in words, in phrases.

    Followed pieces of your flesh,
    some cut smoothly, like with a scalpel,
    some still threshing in the throes of agony
    as they filled up envelops in songs and promises and dreams.

    Next... stop it!... the leftovers of that treasure
    called your body,
    fingernails, and single hairs, and teeth, and bones - some broken,
    oh, I almost forgot the tears... I heard you saying
    even though your mouth was by now with me
    and the tide drowned me in salt crystals and shards of bone.

    Now, your turn, you said. Build me.

    I looked at the thousands of pieces scattered on my bed,
    on the floor, in the garden, all over the world,
    I knew I had not enough time
    I knew what time I did have should be made to be sufficient.
    I took the first piece, an alveole, and fitted it in my left lung
    and in my left lung of poetry.
    Then I took a piece of the aorta... no, I did not intend to go alphabetical,
    that's the miracle of randomness... next a ventricle (see?), next...
    it wasn't easy, body cells, and poetry words
    and your breeze caressing me inside my clothes, and deeper
    I will not finish on time, I cried for real
    knowing I will not finish on time.
    On time for what? was your answer,
    as parts of you started materializing inside me, inside my phrases,
    even your dreams - I started having your dreams.

    We fell asleep. We? you giggled, your parts of skin already grafted
    cuddling and curling inside mine. We still had a long way to go
    before We, but it felt already like that.
    I had already two heartbeats. And my poetry was a mess of worlds
    just starting to tune itself to one single, it will take time.
    We have all the time we need, you assured me,
    floating somewhere there, inside the scattered pieces,
    as long as your hands touch me.

    I knew you were saying it for my sake. I knew you were right.
    I knew for certain when I wanted to make love to you
    and I didn't have to reach farther away
    then an eyelash length.

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Wanting To, Definitely, Murder

    Wanting to, definitely, murder.
    Wanting to, definitely, murder him.
    Or it. Or her.
    Wanting to meet that buzzing, conniving, blood thirsty beast
    which left red itches on my legs
    and shoulders and waist and other intimacies
    though not that intimacy - thank God,
    and murder him. Or it. Or her.
    Where the hell did it hide
    wallowing in my Rhesus+ sweet, warm blood?

    Wanting to, definitely, murder that other beast. The silent, crawling one.
    Which moves the needles on the glossy face of watches
    and tears the pages from paper calendars
    after sunset or before sunrise
    or inside one eye blink Ė where is tomorrow
    when yesterday was just inside grasp
    and suddenly they all become today and there is nothing left
    after today?

    Wanting to, definitely, murder the scream.
    Not the scream but the screamís father, mother, parents past and present
    and if there is future after the scream then also those future.
    The one dragging at the tail of a subsonic airplane
    swallowing so many dreams and lovers
    and one dream and one lover,
    the one trailing you through pass control
    and security control
    and stewardess control and you cannot keep it in check
    anymore than you can give up on my heart,
    the one which believes my head is its mother-country
    and fights like a demon for its right to independence
    and to... scream.

    Wanting to
    definitely
    murder.
    Poetry. If it refuses to define you
    rhyme.

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Dead Alligators' Clash

    like mythological titans
    about to clash,

    you opened your mouth
    above the one forgotten on my face
    which lay there,
    devastated by sleep and sinister, decaying nightmares,
    your tongue forcing itself between numb lips
    your dead alligator looking for mine
    and I opened the cave with a mix of yawn and yowl
    as smells of rotting food leftovers
    mixed
    in a clash of teeth and tonsils
    watching yawn and yowl turn roar and rage
    wrestling tongues joined by wrestling hands and feet
    and awakening body halves
    followed by assailing body functionals,
    dead alligators burning to lilac essence,

    and the only sign of life
    other, tail whipping alligators
    ripping our bodies
    from inside
    out.

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Celestial Games

    Demons, playing, riddles laying under sunís exploding skin
    Dreams of tangerine allusions to the hell which lies within,
    Angels fan away the ashes from the feathersí glowing tips
    Quashing into absolution yet another proud eclipse.

    Games of gods, the stardust mingles with the titansí tears to mud
    And pollutes into dispassion rivers once aflame with blood,
    Yawns a demon, while an angel hiccups boredom in the rain,
    Tail to wing to snore the sunset into eveningís shameful bane.

    hey...

    What in hell and heavenís blisters is that awful, screeching sound
    Coming from... oh, godly father... human-seed infested ground,
    Tailless, wingless puny giants playing games of earthly make
    Way beyond all godly measure and that grievous, first mistake?

    On a bed of scattered linen lies my head between your hips
    As a nightingaleís capriccio fills the void from smiling lips
    Solving hellís entangled riddles into lifeís invading light
    Letting heavenís absolution die in squeals of pure delight.

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CloseX

or Don't Stand Close To Me

    Don't stand close to me,
    stand closer,
    better yet - lie down, closest
    possible, until the bed sheet is baobab thick in comparison
    and absolute vacuum asphyxiates the poor cells
    there
    at touch point.

    Closer than that
    and we merge.
    Like ink stains under a steamroller
    on a star the size of three suns.

    Listen,
    do you hear the blackbird?
    Do you hear the myriad lilac flowers
    opening,
    in ones and twos and seventysevens
    popping like 24 pounder howitzers
    and tearing holes the size of Antarctica
    in our ear drums?
    Do you hear the whales
    singing of blue love and yearning?
    Like ours?

    What's closer than closest,
    more beautiful than most beautiful,
    what is more love than love?
    Maybe ours?

    I leave your body burning,
    boiling in its consumed sweat
    and I escalade the window sill
    feeling like a modern day Icarus
    aware of my no wings and my yes fingertips
    and the pens
    and the myth
    and I open my arms
    letting millions of white butterflies grab each particle of skin
    and carry me towards the sun,
    so much safer than wax
    and feathers.

    And why do you fly towards the sun, lover?

    Not towards, through,
    and if I make it then glowing cinder
    and if I don't then glowing ash
    will rain its passion
    unto your flesh.

    But it is your flesh I want, lover.

    Then sing the color into the white
    and a sun into the eyes
    and my fingers into the breasts.

    And you sang the color, and you sang a sun,
    and you sang my fingers
    and you found closer than closest
    and I found more beautiful than most beautiful
    and we found love
    more than love.

    This is sweet, you said.
    You were wrong, of course.
    It was much sweeter
    than sweetest.

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Goose Lake

    Tchaikovsky would have re-written his ballet.
    I did. No, not re-write my ballet,
    never wrote one.
    Did re-write the poem I intended to write about swans.
    Did, though, pass a few phases Ė
    first it was ducks, then chickens,
    a short passage through frogs
    but then landed into geese. Or goose, to keep the lake spirit.
    And you,
    the human among them,
    not as beautiful though Ė you had no feathers
    you werenít as plump
    you didnít offer to attack me with twenty or so cohorts
    you didnít eat grass, bugs, crumbs... hey,
    maybe you were as beautiful, now that I come to think of it.
    Maybe even more beautiful.
    Smooth skin, slim muscles, you did attack me but with nothing more
    than hugs, and kisses, and some censored stuff,
    donít quite remember what you ate Ė were there any bugs involved?
    No, I donít mean those big eyed ones who ogled you all evening
    at dinner time,
    above their wivesí shoulders,
    I mean bugs that make buzzz in your ear.

    Hand in hand. Not with any goose, you dork,
    with you.
    The geese were the decoration
    you were the main act,
    your hand in my back pocket testing my muscles as we walked
    my hand around your shoulder hanging as low as possible
    before getting a cramp but after touching your breast... just the right height,
    hip rubbing against hip
    and thigh against thigh
    and sandal against sandal... I love you, you said
    and I did not know if you meant the big goose we just passed
    or me, until your hand deserted my back pocketís muscle
    and moved to my shirtís one, underneath,
    pulling hairs savagely, pulling lips savagely,
    kissing with an abandon worthy of a goose
    if there was a ballet about geese and she the main ballerina.

    Canít write about the room. Or what we did there.
    No, not shy, whatís there to be shy about love
    boiling, crushing, maddening in its primitive intensity
    and linen ripping frenzy. And bodies in love Ė
    is there anything more beautiful than bodies in love?
    Canít write about the room because there were no geese there.
    Tried, to persuade, bribe, kidnap, no way,
    they all preferred the dirty, worm infested water
    rather than the clean, worm uninfested room. Stupid. Geese.
    What can you expect from geese, especially those thinking themselves swans?
    There were swans too, but they thought themselves geese,
    no winner anyway.
    So I cannot write about the room, the stars, the sun balcony
    because this poem is titled goose. Tough luck.

    I cannot write about the food either, yeap,
    no goose dinner. Thankfully so.
    I hate eating decoration. Even the one who tried to bite the laces off my shoes.
    Charlie, the Chaplin guy, did it too. And no one ate him.

    Checkout. Baggage. Car. Tears.
    I will miss you, geese, I lied.
    Not that I wouldnít miss them.
    But that I would miss sitting with you on that bench,
    your head on my shoulder
    and dreaming of how life could, should be.
    Terribly. Miss. It. You.
    Tears. Tears. Tears.

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Inflatable

    I like to snuggle close to her
    when I need some warmth,
    sheís there since yesterday
    my beautiful inflatable doll...
    Sorry. Joke. Bad joke, I know.
    When life is worse you need a bad joke,
    something higher than life
    forcing you to look up
    and see some sun. No, not inflatable. Warm.
    Like an inflatable doll. Oops, sorry again, I have to repent,
    would an inflatable sheep be ok?
    No, neither, I see. A balloon then,
    a simple, birthday party balloon?... thank you, my love.
    Did I tell you I love you?

    You know, if you lived here
    I would have cut all your shirts and all your dresses
    just there, where the tities are
    so I could watch them dangling all the time. Sure, touch them too,
    sure, your braís too.
    Tities, my love, not breasts,
    breasts are for serious poetry
    this is light poetry. Tities poetry. No, not boobs,
    boobs are slang poetry, I donít know to write slang poetry,
    I could try, though, if you wish.
    Boobs... rhymes with cubes... no, not easy.
    Winter? Weíll cover them with plastic sheets,
    sure transparent, what else could plastic be? Inflatable?...
    oh, you got me there.
    Others? who cares about others,
    they can see all the apples they want in the supermarket
    but they cannot bite. Unless they buy.
    Are you selling, my love?

    Hey, I see that big frying pan in your hand,
    even if this is just a letter,
    donít you have a smaller one?... yeah, thatís better
    though I wouldnít want to feel it either.

    And panties, panties would be banned
    and skirts the rule, right? Short skirts, not gowns, you woman.
    What do you mean Ė what would it help me?
    All the floors would be covered with mirrors, of course,
    except for the spiraling stairs,
    we could save some money there -
    I will have one single easy chair
    placed just underneath, ok?
    You accept?! Oh!... Oh, one condition. That I wear skirts too?
    Hmm, fine then, but only inside,
    outside I want to be known as respectable
    inside Ė I do not mind being known as lustectable.
    Bathroom? No doors, no curtains you say?...
    Never thought of having them.
    Love me? Okay, lots of mirrors.
    And shelves. Many shelves. Floor to ceiling shelves
    for perfumes, and lipsticks, and crayons, and powders, and creams...
    creams?... any special cream you had in mind, blushing woman?
    Of course I see your blush,
    letters are not that protective
    when I know you that well.

    PS The balloon I mentioned earlier,
    you know... it is kind of long... and kind of thin...
    ouch, you woman, even a small frying pan hurts.
    Next time I come I will bring you another one.
    Inflatable, of course.

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Jeux Interdits

    I danced around my flower.
    "What are you doing?" she asked.
    "I dance around my flower," I answered.
    "I don't see any flower."
    "Look deeper." She did.
    "Oh, you are a child," she said.
    "Uhuh," I said, which was the onomatopoeia for yes.
    "May I join?" she asked.
    "Ugh," I answered, which was the onomatopoeia for no.
    "Why?"
    "Because I want to join your world. May I?"
    "Why?"
    "Because there are more flowers there."
    "How do you know?"
    "Because I see you there, naked."
    She blushed. "Your soul," I added.
    "Still, naked..." she blushed further. "Yes," she added.

    I joined her flowers,
    Dragging with me my flower, my marbles, my teddy bear,
    dogs, butterflies collection... "I hate dead butterflies..."
    "This is a living-butterflies collection..." my turtle, my gold fish,
    my dragons...
    "Are they fierce?"
    "Only to grownups."
    "Am I a grownup?"
    "If they bite you." They licked her.
    The elephant refused to follow
    until she allowed her (it was a girl elephant) to borrow her pink ribbon
    and tie it to her tail.
    "Do you always carry your entire zoo with you?"
    "Only when I move my world."
    We danced around her flowers.

    "Your tits are small, I said.
    "You said you don't see my tits," she pouted.
    "I said I see your soul," I answered.
    "You lied," she insisted.
    "I lied," I accepted. "Children lie."
    "Always?"
    "Only about unimportant things."
    "And what is important?"
    "Love."
    "What about love?"
    "I love you."
    She blushed even deeper.
    "You blush. Are you ashamed?"
    "I am happy."
    She did not refuse to dance, hugging closely,
    almost cuddling.

    "When do they go to sleep?"
    I thought she had finished by now all the hues of red,
    seemed she did not, descending even deeper.
    "Why?"
    "To make love."
    "Children are not supposed to make love."
    "These children are."
    "I can whistle them to sleep."
    "Also the teddy bear?"
    "Also the teddy bear."
    I whistled them all to sleep,
    the marbles on the petals, the flower in the teddy bear's paw,
    the turtle choosing to sleep on its back,
    the dogs under the elephant's ear, the elephant under a dragon's wing,
    the rest of the dragons hanging upside down from huge flowers
    and the butterflies covering everything with a miraculously colored carpet.
    Fishes don't close eyes. Mine did.
    She fell asleep as well,
    cuddling the fish bowl.
    I didn't wake her up,
    there were many tomorrows in this world.
    I just sat and watched her sleeping smile.

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Contest

    your nipple,
    hidden, first by a piece of cloth
    then by your open palm
    then fist, then thumb,
    our thumbs warred over the possession
    my thumb winning the thumbsmanship contest
    by the sheer power of my muscle
    and my lust.

    "your lust?" you growled,
    and your intimate squeeze wasn't gentle.
    I offered a compromise,
    in the form of another contest,
    I suggested the other nipple.
    "I have a better offer," you smirked
    making sure I won.

    and it wasn't my lust.

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When Lust Invited Herself Into My Life

    She said ďhiĒ
    and never left since.

    Day,
    when I sit in front of the unfinished potatoes platter
    and she squeezes between my shirt and the tabletop cloth
    facing me
    and my diligently munching maxillae-based machine,
    skirt pulling away from knees
    to uncover pale skin and flexing steel
    while a mouth hungry for the potatoes in my mouth
    and the tools turning it mush
    forces an unasked for help upon me and them
    smearing vegetable oil and fried onions and lipstick all over my face,
    hands sneaking past buttons borders
    and cloth borders
    and hairy chest borders
    moving left and right and up and down
    and mainly down and further down and deeper down,
    turning me miracles believer
    when other pieces of human misery called bra-cups
    and knickers and shorts and shoes and trousers and stockings and shame
    dissolve into nothingness or tatters
    together with the potatoes platter which explodes on the floor
    and her loins my dessert
    and my howls her revenge...

    Night,
    when I absorb an eyeful of TV alter-culture
    mixing Zombie shrills with Disney quacks and .44 Magnum pops
    and she slides somewhere, mid-way between the glass of my spectacles
    and the glass of the screen
    fully filling my angle of vision...
    or is my angle of vision suddenly cropping everything else out?...
    with a view of Renaissance marble blobs
    dangling loose from a Renaissance marble hairless chest,
    almost falling off the bottom end a loose T-shirt
    ending way above her navel, probably a shrunken leftover from her ninth birthday
    when tits where not yet on her mind,
    and there is no such red marble neither Renaissance nor Carrara nor Knidos
    as the sharp tips at the ends of the blobs transpiring through the cotton
    and as I try to view pendulum like left of her waist
    then right of her waist then left of her waist the hero blowing up a mountain
    she undulates those other Renaissance marvels just beneath her waist
    pendulum like in sync with mine
    continuously conquering every crumb of spatial angle from my vision
    as she approaches
    and my eyes cross
    and my spectacles steam before disintegrating
    when the triangular cotton remains in between my teeth
    unveiling triangles of different color and of different composition
    and her loins my spectacle
    and my howls her lullaby...

    Morning,
    when the damn alarm clock bangs its damn hammer against my head
    long before the damn birds bring over the damn sun,
    and she slides between the drops lining my chest
    and those still raining from the unforgivable shower
    and offers to count them loudly
    and follow them individually from the very top of me to the very bottom of me
    with a long pause at the very middle of me which I refuse to appreciate
    so early,
    the only way to make her shut up and stay upright
    being to drink all I can, at risk of drowning in my own shower,
    every drop which lands on her lips and inside her mouth
    and upon that long, sneaky, muscular fifth limb
    called mistakenly tongue
    that keeps offering me boiling drops and teeth-cleaning services,
    it doesnít take long before the soap is being put to uses
    other than purely hygienic
    and bubbles crawl beneath the door
    and I wish I was bubbles as well to crawl beneath the door
    beneath the soles of her feet
    between those curves and creases and geysers forbidden to all but soap bubbles
    when she murmurs bubbles in my ear
    and I turn a darker shade than darkest beet
    as I kneel
    and her loins my ocean
    and my howls her nightingale...

    She said ďhiĒ
    and if she ever leaves
    I die.

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Pawn

    You put in my hand a piece of cake,
    I bit into it,
    I liked it, told you.
    I made it, you said, proudly,
    not for the making
    but for sitting next to me
    and watching me
    chew, smile.

    You put in my hand the key,
    allowed me to open the door
    close the door
    undress you
    dress you,
    I was thrilled, told you.
    I am happy, you said, proudly,
    not for your body
    but for having let me make love to you
    while watching me
    shiver, smile.

    You put in my hand your heart,
    I touched it
    through cloth and flesh and mind,
    I loved it, told you.
    I love you, you said, proudly,
    not for being loved or loving
    but for giving me all you could
    then watching me
    cry, smile.

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Remembering Annabel

    In the tower down and under whilst the morning tears asunder
    Through a coffinís lid and laden wilting wreaths for my sweet maiden
    Smiles her pale eternal beauty in the worlds beyond of wonder
    She, who visits now with Abel and with Cain Ďneath sands of Aden...
    Annabel, the reaperís plunder.

    Under glass of lead affection lie bereaved of imperfection
    Breasts of snow from hidden valleys whereat my anger rallies
    Ankles in unyielding fetters locked in dreams of resurrection
    Eyelids over frozen oceans carrying your morrowsí galleys...
    Annabel, my heartís inflection.

    Black the ink upon my paper as my phrases blindly caper
    Thoughts of vengeance rising madly failing in my laments sadly
    Craving senses search your flavor as in worlds beyond they taper
    For the touch of dying fingers I would cut my fingers gladly...
    Annabel, my spiritís sapor.

    In a pouch of cracking leather I have found the ravenís feather
    Tied with ribbons from your dresses and with fringes from your tresses
    And I ran between the marshes cutting circles through the heather
    Biting in my chest the poison with the foxglove and the cresses...
    Annabel, in worlds of nether.

    I awoke from slumbers haven shamed at blessing stuporís craven
    Facing tormentís grim seduction into hellís invading fluxion
    Come, ye devilís crawling omen sent upon my windowís raven
    And Iíll follow in Gehena if youíll name my poor destruction
    Annabel, on eyelids graven.

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We Created The Sun, Didnít We?

    itís like when we rolled on the sidewalk
    wrapped in flames
    passers-by having to jump over us
    or side-step us
    or be enveloped in the heart of the inferno
    feeding in and on our bodies and consuming all around us Ė
    human, stone, tree... how many went missing that day
    and no one knows why to this lament?

    what was that gaping mouth
    spitting its slices of shivering life inside mine
    before starting its seven years pilgrimage around the exploded parts of me
    not to repair but to ravage, pillage, defile
    and chew damn slow my toes to the bone
    and suck my marrow before splitting the bones into splinters
    to use as toothpicks
    and as necklaces around ankles and breasts?

    donít wake up, you commanded,
    blanketing us in the rolling asphalt,
    broken cobblestones stuck to its outer layer like a prehistoric hedgehog
    and breaking hip bones allowing loins to commiserate the moment to come
    when they will have to part ways
    and expose their nakedness back on the sidewalk
    with indifference walking around them
    as if nothing happened... and yet Ė
    we created the sun, didnít we?

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Thankfully

    I look
    with dead eyes
    those eyes which wish they were dead
    rather than deprived of fire, smile, dignity,
    the eyes of my father.

    Not the way,
    not the way I wished to remember him
    that broken piece of flesh and humanity
    rotting alive in its own dreams... no, the dreams are still alive
    just the vessel is rotting slowly, oh, so slowly,
    why the hell not in one single blast
    so I can remember just his strong fingers
    and his powerful arms, legs,
    and the oven warmth of his palms, his palms
    now so cold, trembling...

    Thankfully
    I can still cry, even if his eyes dried long ago
    looking upwards towards an inexistent God.
    Thankfully
    I feel your hand squeezing mine to crushing bone
    in compassion, and love
    and I feel the breeze of your breath as it blows through my nape's short hairs
    trying to keep me upright
    the way rushing winds keep upright a flying kite
    hoping the string never breaks.

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Under The Willow

    I see you under the willow.

    Are you reading or writing?
    Are you thinking?

    I see you bending,
    gathering dirt in between palms
    and letting it sift back, slowly.
    Are you looking for seeds forgotten
    by time and rain,
    ready to plant them again
    after kissing them,
    dirt traces around your lips
    and a smile of sad satisfaction at the corners of same
    lips?

    I see you reclining,
    the willow's sturdy trunk softening at the touch of your dress
    and building a cushion of moss and dry leaves
    and wings of butterflies dead many years ago,
    the beauty still there
    even in death,
    beauty never dies
    even in death.

    I see you undressing,
    touching the edge of the pond with your toes, shivering in pleasure
    then lying down and waiting for tiny ebbs to wash you with the smell of rotten leaves
    with the spikes of broken bamboo culms
    with the regards of curious frogs, leaping over you
    like it was a game,
    the white stain of your skin adorning the shrubbery
    like snow
    middle of a tulips' bed.
    You don't melt,
    you wait
    for thoughts of me to dress your dreams
    and touches of me
    to undress you further, can further than naked be?

    I see you, falling asleep.
    The ebbs fall asleep as well, the frogs too.
    It is the moment I choose to visit you
    and write poetry
    in the mud surrounding you.
    Next time
    I will write the same poetry
    in the bed sheets surrounding you.
    And inside you.

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Ponders

    I wish I knew the language of your mouth,
    to write poetry to you
    in the words you were born with.
    Though, I know the language of your heart
    and I write poetry to you
    in the words you don't need to understand
    to understand. Yes, you understand
    even if I write poetry to you
    in the language of silence.
    Even if I write poetry to you
    in the language of sadness. And lust. And death. And love.

    No, no one understands the language of love,
    it does not exist
    except between two.
    Talking, lusting, dying, loving. Each other.
    Closed system. A law of physics not yet quantified in formulas,
    it will come. When all poets of all times die
    the law will be written. Because there will be no variations
    anymore.

    Do you love me?

    There is no answer either, to a question
    as unnecessary as the language in which it is said.
    A random collection of letters and grunts,
    does it bear any meaning?

    You gave me your most sacred, your mind,
    and you bent words and turtles and willows
    to fit my shape
    and shape my moods
    and light fireflies there where the world is at the end of its life
    and darkness eternal
    in me, or so I thought.

    You gave me your most sacred, your body,
    and you took me there where you took no one before
    and I was not taken
    and you carried my flesh through fires old unlighted
    with sparks new carrying the frenzy of creation
    and there was no after-glow
    since the glow
    never ended.

    You gave me your most sacred, your serenity,
    and you dived into my pain
    looking for my hand to hold, to gather to your breast,
    to tell me that we sink or live
    with this handhold chaining our lives
    and our destinies
    the way gravitation chains our matter
    and death our future.

    We walk. Holding hands.
    Nothing exists, nothing existed before,
    nothing exists, nothing will exist after,
    nothing exists outside of us and of holding hands.
    Holding hands when we merge minds,
    when we merge bodies,
    when we merge pain.

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love,

    my mind
    is a sea of confusion
    and boundaries crumble
    between what was once pain, love, happiness, desire,
    sensations switching positions
    like thistles rolling in the wake of a wayward wind
    and I am not sure anymore when to laugh, when to lust,
    when to join the crumbling process and lie down waiting for rain to purify me
    or accelerate the rotting process of flesh
    and mind.

    even in confusion
    knives are sharp,
    knives cut.

    and yet, there is a rock
    and I hold on to it with the might of a dying fist
    as it floods me with the broken pebbles of its crust
    and the burning needles of its heart
    blessing me the sense of magnetic poles, and up and down,
    and wrong and right
    waiting for my body to stop threshing aimlessly
    before it turns its rigid essence into feather softness
    and offers me its soul
    to save mine.

    you wait for me to open lucid eyes
    before telling me
    the same you told me in my moments of madness
    making sure I understand that which I knew...
    love, knows no boundaries.

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Flesh

    Bring me
    the flesh.

    The flesh that was once yours
    and now is mine,
    the breast to choke me, the loins to drown me, the fingers to flay mine
    as they meet in that valley of no time
    where all flesh is one
    when no flesh exists
    and souls are lost in Earth's belching fire
    before sweat exterminates the fires once again
    and flesh rests inside flesh
    hoping for eternity to find it still there whenever eternity decides to show up,
    long after much loved insanity and its sister passion
    shared the rule
    in shared flesh.

    Feed me
    the flesh.

    The flesh that was once yours
    and will never be again,
    the skin to sharpen the blades of my incisors and pad the valleys of my molars
    and adorn the peaks of my canines
    like wreaths of flowers bleeding their lives,
    the muscles to knot in threshing pain
    as they arch around the walls of the prison
    to breaks their way in
    and triple plait with mine
    and with rose shrubs and wine vines and crawling butterflies,
    the bones
    to crack as they crack mine
    and pull out of sockets in that terrible need
    worse than any pain.

    Let the flesh
    love me.

    The flesh that was once yours
    and grows on my bones
    and flowers under my skin
    let it love me as if it was still yours
    forcing my lips around nipples hungry to be eaten
    rolling my thighs around thighs desperate to be crushed
    offering nests for nails in between spine vertebrae from cranium to pelvis
    when we light the hay we roll in
    and dry the lakes we sink into
    and pay no attention to the wake of wild autumn flowers and thistles and weeds
    covering our trail
    like the sun's corona
    around a match head.

    Never knew a match head
    could compete with a sun
    until I uncovered
    your flesh.

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inner flesh

    hover above me,

    offer proudly your breasts to the sun
    as you shake your mane and shake your hips
    and your body's rain
    washes me,

    the exploding sweat
    and the glittering tears
    and the boiling rivers carrying our passion to that savage creek
    where wave after wave explodes
    against the sanctum
    of inner flesh...

    don't
    fly away,

    after the rain
    breathe inside my ears
    flowers.

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The Name Of Things

    this
    is called cellulite... oh, what nonsense.

    this is the extra flesh I need to sate my hunger
    and the parts of you none else sees, touches, craves with desire for
    but me,
    the valleys I iron and the peaks I squash
    and the obstacles I grab with insane fingers
    on my way to finding the way
    and the sun
    there...

    and this
    is called wrinkles... oh, such crap in the minds of idiots.

    this is the skin acting as the pages to your life's story
    written with an invisible pen but to the one loving you,
    telling of experienced pains, and experienced loves, and experienced lust,
    telling that which few, if any, would know
    to assuage my need and alleviate the threshing
    visiting my belly and my loins and my mouth
    the way you would know
    and you would do
    allowing me
    this...

    and this
    is called gray strands... oh, the horrors of color blindness.

    do they see the blue still sparkling deep in the orbs
    and the red still flowing once I bite your lip,
    the pink of your feminine lust
    and whipping tongue
    and cheeks of after the deed, after the exploding stars, after
    the pain is allowed to return,
    do they see the blonde still growing from the roots
    and the transparent
    breaking into rainbows
    once it starts rolling down your cheek
    when the moment arrives for
    that?...

    abomination, human ignorance at its utmost,
    oh, humanity,
    when will thou know to read
    love?

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The Divine

    say
    The Divine
    and they all know
    one talks about the incomparable, superhuman, inscrutable, flaming, untouchable
    Garbo.

    ignominious infamous ignorami.

    sure,
    she may have been all that.
    sure,
    they were never in love
    those ignominious infamous ignorami.
    if they would have been
    they would have known
    who is it one talks about.

    look.
    I say
    The Divine
    and I burn.
    because I dared touch
    incomparable, superhuman, inscrutable, flaming, untouchable
    you.

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Dream

    when you let water
    wash the day away,
    thistles brush the palate pleasures
    and cream soothe the dust and the sun out of your skin,

    when thin cotton
    pours over your drying flesh
    reaching down to your ankles passing over
    nipples and loins and lustful curls and begging knees,

    when your body sinks
    first into the white of linen
    then into the soft of mattress
    and lastly into those recurring dreams braiding our lusting bodies,

    when we wake up
    into the land of eternal music
    laced with gasps and whispers and demands
    and we cannot sever the flesh from the flesh and the crave from the crave,

    is when we wish
    to never wake up.

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Anatomical Love

    please, allow me to volunteer
    to restore blood circulation to your body,
    your safety my main concern, of course.
    my lust only second.
    I lie, of course.

    to remove the wide elastic band
    restricting free flow around your waist
    there,
    where the sacrum's first segment articulates with the lumbar spine's last
    and its alae with the ilia
    and your hips oscillate like a willow's disjointed branches
    once summer's breeze decides to hide
    in between flirtatious leaves
    and vapors
    rising from the lake,

    the narrow elastic bands, two,
    at the tops of your thighs, both,
    somewhere between the greater trochanter and the lesser trochanter
    beneath that spot where the femur joins the acetabulum
    with that swiveling arrangement
    allowing the mess called your knees to part east and west
    while the mess called my whole body orients itself north to south
    looking for the hidden foliage and the sparkling springs there,
    close to the pubic symphysis
    and its inebriating
    flora,

    the straps of the shoes and the straps of the socks
    strangling your ankles
    around the place where talus connects to tibia and fibula,
    thus preventing blessed oxygen from blessed distal phalanges,
    mainly that wonderful hallux
    always on the search for either my crotch or my inner thigh
    or for that flexible hole in my face
    (located between a pair of widely gaping maxillae
    and afore a dark cavity leading into the caverns called lungs)
    called mouth,
    in its blessed eternal search for giving, taking, creating
    unforgettable moments of blessed abandon
    and unforgivable moments
    of cursed
    rest,

    the metallic clasps, the lace cups, the silk shoulder straps
    crushing with unimaginable, bestial ferocity
    the lobes, and lobules, and ducts, and areolae, and nipples
    to sternum and manubrium and that prison composed of a variety of human ribs,
    until the heart refuses to pump
    and the lungs to expand
    and two bodies fizzling with desire unfulfilled
    are left fuming in their impatience
    to commit into the realm of reality
    that, which the realm of imagination designs
    yet clasps and cups and shoulder straps are committed to prevent,
    even at the price of
    killing
    the desire.

    please,
    allow me to volunteer my fingers
    to the martyrdom
    of burning with desire's enemies,
    please, let me rip'em apart
    and die inside your body's
    Elysium.

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donít let it terrify you,

    She.

    Two pairs of shoes, check.
    One pair of trousers, check.
    Scissors, mascara, sunglasses, check check check.
    Stockings... one, two... hmm, there's a run here... two, three, check.
    Panties, how many panties do you think I need?

    Unwillingly, I lifted my nose from Asimov.
    If you ask me, none.
    C'mon, you want me to run around bare-assed under my clothes?
    Run?
    Okay, walk.
    Clothes?
    Clothes, you know, the woven thread that results in fabric,
    the cut fabric that sews into garments... clothes,
    that soft thing one drapes the body in before going shopping or sightseeing.

    You think we'll have time left for shopping?
    Well, me might get hungry somewhere... sometime... during...
    She blushed. She had a point there.
    Okay, seven panties.
    Seven? Why seven?
    Because it is more than six and less than eight.
    Some to wear some to tear.
    You know wear'n'tear, no?
    Different wear.
    Same idea.
    Seven panties, check, four white.
    Four? Why four?
    Because it is more than three and less than five.
    The others?
    Who cares, tear you said, no?
    Sounded okay to me.
    Do I need tooth paste?
    No, I'll bring.
    Toothpaste, no need.
    Bathing suit, check,
    one pair sandals, check,
    books...

    Books?
    ...three, check.
    I looked at her askance.
    Is it reading sessions you are planning?
    She looked back, skewering me with her regard.
    Books three, uncheck, book, one, check.
    Her tongue reached lengths I didn't know it possessed
    before hiding back behind the clicking incisors,
    was it a threat or a promise, I wondered.

    Legs, one, check. Which would you prefer?
    I had it coming, no?
    I would prefer two, I mean - both.
    Sure? Why?
    Left one left side of the bed, right one right side of the bed...
    And if it is a wide bed?
    The wider the better, I tried, and stayed alive.
    I see, then legs two, one left and one right,
    and her eye was a flurry of winks.
    Or left one right side of the bed, right one left side of the bed.
    Huh? I think I lost her. Oh, I see...
    but she didn't see, the winking frozen into pondering.
    Shaving cream?
    We'll share.
    Razors?
    We'll share.
    Skin lotion?
    External or internal?
    She nudged me hard enough to have me bend in two,
    it would have been in three but there were no suitable joints to my body.
    Skirts? Shirts?
    What's that, you're a poet all of a sudden?
    Skirts? Shirts?
    As if you need my opinion on anything.
    Skirts? Shirts?
    She wasn't listening, the rhyming decision dilemma
    having driven her probably into some catatonic phase or... was it stasis?...
    I looked in horror at the Asimov robots book in my hand,
    and threw it violently to the floor...
    my God, are you a Robot?
    Skirts? Shirts?
    Three! Three! I screamed,
    Skirts three, check, shirts three, check.
    I wiped my sweat, oh, my, this was a close call of some kind.
    Or were you?... no, you weren't... were you?...
    Camera, click.
    Check!
    Click.
    Check!!!
    Click.
    Looked like something was still wrong, I was about to start sweating again.
    Camera. Camera. Check. Click. Camera. Click.
    What camera?... Click. Cam... oh, youuu, biiitch,
    I mumbled, hissed, wheezed
    seeing the red eye blinking from the top of the table.
    I kicked the paper from her hand and threw her on the bed,
    my hand resting (not for long) on her knee.
    Camera, click, I mimicked,
    letting the red light build its own impressions from the ensuing events.
    No, not suitable for the Educational channel.
    Neither for YouTube. Maybe for the Simpsons.

    I left her snuggling the one eyed Barbie.
    It wasn't really complimentary that this was what she hugged in my absence.
    But I preferred it to Ken, of course.
    I picked up my own check list.

    *

    He.

    One you, check.

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Pazzo

    If you weren't under-age
    I would have taken you to bed and...
    now I cannot even talk to you about it,
    imagine someone overhears.

    She was used to my being crazy,
    differently crazy every time, still - crazy.
    But not dangerously so, I think.
    This is what crazy people think always, anyway.

    Under which age, exactly? she asked,
    filling-in the wrinkles with whatever extracts
    from whatever flowers
    from whatever jungles
    the big companies were promoting at the time of my declaration.
    It wasn't Borneo anymore, seemed they had found something better,
    more expensive, of course.

    At least she didn't force me to go through the degrading act
    of checking my temperature
    (you know how it can be done, well, she did it that way).
    Under the age of consent, of course, I answered. I was logical.
    I was a sentient human, trying to keep his ass out of trouble
    and, except for the temperature thing, I mostly succeeded.

    She finished with the creaming, lipsticking, shaving... all those things
    sensible sensitive sentients of the female gender usually do.
    She knew I wasn't joking, I never joked about serious matters.
    Death excluded. I considered death a cosmic joke.
    Consent to what?
    It was time I checked her temperature, but I didn't dare,
    even the thought of it was embarrassing.
    Sex, what else?
    I tiptoed to the door,
    tore it open to uncover whatever secret elements were spying on us,
    found no one, so I returned to the couch.
    And if there was someone there, what would you have done? Shot him? Or her?
    She wasn't logical. Of course. Who was crazy here? I snickered to myself.

    And if I told you my age is three times that, would it be ok?
    Who was she joking? Who are you joking? I asked, boldly.
    I watched her, her firm flesh appetizingly al dente
    her sublime loins making any al forno concept obsolete
    those hard mele with their harder fragole...
    What are you licking your lips for? she asked,
    do you think Mediterranean again?

    Ma perche?... oops... I was about to hang,
    for no offense committed. Yet.
    She seemed to have other ideas, hanging high low on her priorities list
    that conceited depraved young under-age chick
    with her snow-white skin and china-blue eyes and poppy-red lips,
    all her creaming, lipsticking, shaving done by now.
    She went to the door and pulled it wide open... Nooo... I screamed
    covering my eyes and ears and nose (though I had a problem,
    missing a few much needed additional limbs),
    I didn't want to see/hear/smell the twenty or more bodies
    spying on us through the one keyhole
    now to be ripped/shredded/quashed by the blast of her naked looks...

    I felt fingers, not too gentle, pulling away all limbs I tried to use
    from eyes and ears and nose... I peeked, ready for insanity,
    seeing just the rear end of a grey cat walking lazily down the corridor,
    Where are they, I asked, shivering like pudding in a 6.3 Richter.
    Here, pazzo, she knocked her knuckle on my forehead,
    kicking the door shut, the cat out of sight,
    and surprising me with her deep understanding of Albanian.
    Relax, I am at least three years over under, she added enigmatically,
    sprawling me over the bed as enigmatically.
    I didn't really believe her, with that al dente, etc,
    but sometimes, there are things in life worth dying for. Even jailing for.
    Even having the temperature taken for.

    Are you sure you want?... I asked, thinking He-Little Red Hood.
    Like yesterday, answered She-Wolf.
    Why was yesterday sure I didn't know, I didn't care either,
    going cucina all the way. Her babbà was delicious.

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Flower in December

    I saw a flower in December.
    No, not global warming.
    Yes, this side of the equator.
    No, not a miracle, as I understood, later.

    *

    The doors opened,
    the human swarm rushed out from the first anteroom of hell
    to the second one.
    Each on his way to his own personal hell.
    Or hers. Or its.

    She spotted me,
    I heard her mental squeal of delight
    as she ran ahead of the crowd to her hell as well,
    with that tiny stopover in heaven worth all of the hells.
    Funny the human misconception of the two,
    heaven the fire and hell the frozen ...well, hell.

    She jumped in my arms,
    hands around my neck
    lips around my mouth
    the rest of her all around my body.
    Took me long to disentangle myself from her twenty arms
    and God knows how many legs.
    You bloom, I told her.

    She looked up at me, in a strange way,
    A flower always blooms
    in the sun, she said.

    No, not a miracle, as I understood, later.
    Love.

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Resurrection

    Donít touch me when I ask you to,
    touch me
    when your desire flares,
    when itís not anymore a matter of life or death
    but of death
    savage, ruthless, merciless,
    and your fingers are bleeding
    sick with the want to run along my skin
    and cauterize the plague consuming their tips
    with crystallizing sweat,

    Donít undress
    before you undress me,
    peel humanity off me
    and leave me bask in the advancing glory
    of uncovering femininity,
    I wish you to witness my disobedient flesh
    as it rives away from my insides
    and rises to meet its oncoming torturer
    in that atrium of creation you promised me
    to die in,

    Donít
    pull away,
    donít open your knees if I scream,
    donít close your knees if I scream,
    donít allow your mouth take leave off my body
    before it has visited shadowís leftovers
    to bite your claim with penetrating canines
    there, where world began
    and will end.

    Lie by my side.
    Let me die,
    so I get born again
    inside you.

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Enough!

    Iíve had enough of flowers.
    Enough of flowers and sun and butterflies
    and butterflies and flowers and sun
    and any other combination
    with colors and rainbows and chirping doves thrown in.
    Or cooing doves. Or barking doves or whatever else doves do.

    I want to penetrate your body.
    I want to pour life into your loins
    while I suck it back from your mouth
    and as my cupping palms knead your breasts into lumps of agony
    your fists batter my spine into the surrendering pulp
    of minced meat.

    There is time enough for flowers
    after we die.

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Almost Lust... Ha!...

    and then, when the lust is over...
    when?
    never...
    then there is no then.

    she had a point there,
    though it wasn't clear which point
    and meanwhile she had broken my poetry spell
    with her smart-assiness.
    I kissed the bare cleavage at the bottom of her spine,
    trying to nab my waning erotic momentum.

    and lust deserts the entangled bodies...
    you mean deserts or desserts, you know, one s or two s's?
    which sounded to me like two asses.

    she had no point there,
    except being a pest.
    and my poetry spell became a dessert... oops...
    a desert
    of poetry and spell and magic.
    I slapped the spot I earlier on kissed
    and as she moaned rather than groaned I slapped it again.
    she kept moaning so I changed strategy.
    I stuffed her mouth with... something,
    to keep her busy while I returned to poetry
    but I could not find it anymore, my poetry.
    not that I did not try
    but I had additional things on my mind now
    and in her mouth
    and she wasn't any help at all,
    I mean, she was a great help
    but right now she was rather helping herself to things on her own dirty mind,
    not that I minded, I mean...
    I was losing my mind and all I wanted partially... huh?...
    well, all I wanted at all before I only partially wanted
    and will want fully after partially... help!... whatever...
    was to write a poem.
    about lust. what else is there to write about with that Stheno gorgon
    hanging on to... ahmm... me?

    I had my poetic pride, had to make it
    or burn forever in the worst of unforgiving hells,
    mine.

    ablaze in the fields of lascivious glory
    I follow the dragon's imperious gait
    and bury my mouth in the sweltering quarry
    that fills with resplendence your body's estate.

    my billowing gasps your viscera will scour
    and scourge through your flesh like a raging typhoon
    allowing your fingers my heart to devour
    as snapping incisors my bleeding lips prune.

    you snatched me away from the pit-fire's calling
    and offered your summer's encroaching perfume,
    ...

    wait!
    oh, no, what now?
    she left me hanging in the cold
    shivering with anticipation, foreboding, and other long words...
    ok, you wanted my attention, you have it.
    ...as she stopped her earlier occupation
    for a new one - sitting cross-legged, breasts dangling, eyes dreamy,
    looking into my mouth rather than anywhere else...
    oh, God, what have I done, created a monster
    and suddenly it was doing what I created it for - listening.
    what about the rest?
    what about the rest? I asked the monster.
    after,
    the monster replied.
    after what?
    after you finish.
    I cannot finish, I just lost my concentration.
    then you lost the after.
    I whined, my mind chasing a squirrel in the cage
    overtaking it twice for each of its one rotation.
    maybe after just this stanza? I tried a compromise.
    and the rest?
    she didn't look persuaded,
    but at least she hooked her legs behind my waist
    facing me gravely, as gravely as almost nipple to nipple.
    what could be more grave than almost.
    the rest tomorrow, and the day after, and after.
    and after?
    also.
    and after?
    if you insist.
    only if I insist?
    also if not.
    ok.
    so easy... I rushed before she changed her mind.

    ...
    your fever, whose philter through marrow is sprawling,
    your breast and its godly elysian bloom.

    I didnít have to rush,
    she had no intention of changing mind, or purpose, or resolve,
    she just made a slight adaptation of position
    and guided me in again.
    I meant to say
    in heaven.

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