Hobbies - Poetry - Anonymous
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Blue In Blue...

    The blue in your blue
    The one which I knew
    Like you, like your blue.

    The gold left untold
    As moments unfold
    And memories mold.

    The blue and the gold
    Your beauties of old,
    The gold and the blue
    You adorable shrew...

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Stratums...

    You werenít born.
    You donít exist.
    You never existed except in those fertile fields of my crazed imagination
    as I let loose the galloping horses I tied myself to
    and each took its own whim and direction trying to show me
    the infinity of choice and of pain and of beauty
    finally meeting, foaming at the mouth at the other end of somewhere
    close to nowhere
    pieces of me dangling from each smelly rope circling each sweaty neck
    and yet patched-together me still did not find your equal,
    not even after I tried camels, and then crows, and then whales.
    Tired, torn.
    Gave up.
    Admission.

    Jealousy?
    What jealousy?
    Love?
    What love?
    Lust?
    What lust?
    What? Define the non definable.
    As I roam above and under and in and out and around and all over
    my lover
    and watch you one bed away, seven seas between us,
    And you roam under and above and out and in and around and all over
    your lover
    and watch me one bed away, seven seas between us,
    and we care not for the slapping bellies and groaning throats
    and sweat spills squishing across seven seas and one more
    colliding
    and sizzling
    and mingling
    knowing there is no place and no reality to take our reality
    and accept the impossibility of sharing skin and flesh and bones
    at a touch of mind to mind and thought to thought and nothingness to nothingness.

    Where is this world? you ask.
    What world? I ask.
    And you admit to a momentís insanity and return to world
    carrying groceries and smoking cigarettes
    and cars and banks and roads and sex and edible food and smellable flowers
    the only world and reality,
    knowing sanity lies in in-between worlds
    where we never meet and never love and never lust
    and always meet and always love and always lust
    and words you birth I carry and words I spit you suckle
    the lands forgotten by the once-upon-a-timers
    and unknown by the once-upon-a-lovers
    and skin and flesh and bones dematerialize into the most famous of untold stories
    carrying that uptold non definable
    into the realms of sublimity
    to reign
    absolute.

    You smile, I smile, knowing me insane, knowing you insane,
    and skin under skin and between skin and twined with skin
    and fingers under fingers and between fingers and twined with fingers
    and gasps under gasps and between gasps and twined with gasps
    and as we pull apart once more
    smeared with our insides outside after our outsides met inside
    our ravenous humanity bellowing its satisfaction,
    we return once more
    to groceries and cigarettes
    and cars and banks and roads and sex and edible food and smellable flowers
    sole owners of the knowledge
    of non definable.

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Glass Garden...

    Stepping around,
    almost no place between the thousands and thousands of flowers
    thin, fragile glass petals of reds and of yellows and of blues,
    thin, fragile glass leaves of greens and of browns and of withered,
    shards
    here and there and here
    cutting the careless heel to the depth of blood and muscle
    and the careless heel carelessly treading on
    feeding the desiccated ground its pulsating life
    and warmth
    and memories.

    I started north,
    you started south west,
    knowing the random patterns will cross time to time,
    steps falling inside steps, so rarely,
    bodies falling into bodies... ever?
    the smell of melting snow all powerful
    all encompassing
    coalescing with the fragrance of consumed intimacy
    and fractured finger bones
    and torn silk.

    I stepped on a toe... did it really happen?
    you pulled away yet grabbing my arm... did it really happen?
    we turned
    we clashed
    we crashed
    hundreds of petals exploding between us into a shower of cutting dust
    settling on skin and in skin and penetrating bleeding channels
    coloring thin veins into green and yellow and sparkle
    as rubbing flesh into flesh turned to raging fantasy
    and painful inebriation galloping ahead of ecstasy
    dragging the colorful dustcloud through brain chambers
    and eyeducts
    and out of bitten lips into thirsty throats
    scrapping delights right into the ends of nerves
    and fingers
    and soft intimate landscapes.

    You kept trekking your way
    smiling drunkenly or the other way around
    pieces of cloth and flesh missing from my attire and body clasped in your fist
    dropping in small pieces in your wake
    maybe marking the path to return? or to follow?
    looking for that exit only in order to avoid it
    and listening to my parting steps... did you hear me stumble
    again and more and everafter
    my fist clasping in turn pieces of cloth and silken skin
    matching perfectly those holes presently decorating
    the perfection
    of you?

    Din, noise, fanfares, jets, supersonic blasts,
    we cut through rows of marching humans celebrating ephemeralness
    carrying our eternal memories inside those scars
    that will keep re-opening
    each time we wander by intentional mistake into the garden
    and step on those glass flowers
    sprouting like a magical carpet from the imprints of our previous steps
    in wait for the scrapping sounds heralding once more and again
    the debacle of those never ending
    returns.
    See, my tongue is bleeding, I showed you the sparkling rainbow
    cutting my mouth into countless hemispheres.
    Countless hemispheres is incorrectly expressed, you said
    showing off your mind reading
    and sticking your tongue out to me in impertinent response
    and adamant invitation.
    Those miles separating us and we still could see each otherís tongue...
    ridiculous, impossible...
    Not really, you lashed out
    smashing me against the wall to prove your point
    and the creaking sound of broken glass underneath our soles
    and enveloping our rolling bodies
    was the ethereal music proving us both wrong...
    this was not reality, neither fantasy, nor dream,
    this was a new world
    we its sole inhabitants
    and it was the snapping tips of our fingers turning it on and off at will
    with the rest of humanity never able to explain
    those erratic flares
    in their sun.

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The Wrong Shoe...

    It was the wrong kind of shoe.
    It was the wrong material - not glass,
    the wrong color - not pink,
    not made in the Peopleís Republic of Fairies but in the other one,
    it wasnít even a dancing shoe but a slipper
    chewed by several generations of dogs.
    Sorry, left the best for the end -
    it was a male shoe.

    Just for a few nights, you said, for old times sake...
    moving into it wearing your pink baby-doll pjís,
    your clown size padded slippers with the frightening rolling eyes,
    your pillow for two (just in case)
    and blanket for one (cozier, just in case too...).

    I knew to have lost much of the touch, much of the magic...
    I still had the keys to the garden,
    you did not change the lock.
    I picked up a bunch of flowers
    crushed them in my hands
    and strew the glinting shards inside the slipper,
    over your head and inside your hair and inside your baby-doll pjís...
    it was so nice to hear you giggle
    as your eyes followed me
    and the glinting dust tickled your skin...
    do you want to glean some of it? you stuck your tongue
    baring a glinting breast there where I could not touch it
    and just watch it
    and wonder at the charms that will forever be promised me,
    unattainable.
    Yes, I answered,
    knowing this to be the correct answer
    for the few nights when you would sneak through my closed eyelashes
    into my bed
    and offer me your pink
    and our memories.

    I woke up next morning
    finding the shoe empty
    and the unmistakable perfume
    of making love to me.

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Glass Tale...

    Does a glass flower
    grow?

    Do glass bees pollinate
    and glass beetles scurry
    and glass birds chase glass worms down glass burrows?

    Yes, they do.
    Yes, it does.

    Walk the path carefully,
    it is accurately marked with glass letters on glass panels,
    see... those unforgettable glass moments
    the first letter
    the first smile
    the first blush under the veil of distance and incinerating words,
    the first poem,

    Making love for the first time
    when miles mattered no more than dust in the sun,
    the first fight, terrible, as terrible as the making up,

    The miles dying to zero,
    sight, touch, smell, kiss,
    baring the flesh, invading the flesh
    the first time,
    the last time.

    See, told you, they grow,
    look at the fields and the forests
    and your skin in front of the blushing mirror
    glass flowers and glass flowers and glass flowers,

    Leave the door marked exit open,
    one day you may want to enter this way
    same as through the one marked entrance, or emergency,
    or service only, or machines room, or by invitation only...

    Donít worry about invaders,
    there are no invaders in our garden,
    only bees pollinating and beetles scurrying
    and birds chasing worms down burrows.

    Donít inhale for as long as your passage
    or glass dust will cut your lungs to ribbons and kill you,
    donít exhale either
    as your breath will melt the glass dust into heavy blobs
    hanging on to flower heads and kill us,
    just pass through and leave the exit door open
    for as long as it takes for the garden to live.

    And how long it takes?
    Just count from one to eternity,
    starting now.

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Making Love On A Bed Of Glass...

    did you ever
    make love on a bed of broken glass
    nothing between flesh and shard
    but the bareness of skin?

    may I offer you the dubious pleasure
    of making love on my bed?

    I will glean seven armfuls of glass flowers
    seven bald patches in our garden screaming vengeance
    as I pour stems and petals and leaves upon the wooden bed
    to crush with bare fists and knees and soles
    and drag your naked body underneath mine
    to roll and yelp and howl
    your blood mixing with mine painting the transparent crystal red
    like the Niagara falls, like the Sahara desert, like the Amazon jungle,
    as glass dust covered flesh penetrates glass dust covered cavities
    and the rasping sounds are not as painful
    as the thoughts of feathered beds and pillows
    empty of glass
    and empty of us.

    I will lick you clean,
    immaculate of blood, and immaculate of glass, and immaculate of slivers,
    and comb you immaculate smooth,
    and dress you immaculate white,
    then fill my mouth broken glass pearls
    and spray upon you the beauty of broken suns and of broken poems
    and of broken droplets of blood.

    no,
    you never made love on a bed of broken glass,
    else, you would not bleed
    so much.

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Love Of Glass...

    The door was made of glass
    gossamer thin, fragile,
    I was afraid to knock lest it shatters,
    I knocked...
    it did not shatter,
    it opened smoothly, not even one creak.

    I entered,
    the desolate sound of glass grass crunching under my feet
    accompanying each step.
    You were there as well
    painting glass blades,
    this one green,
    the grass did not crumble underneath you.
    How do you do it? I asked.
    Painting?
    Floating.
    Iím made of glass too, you said
    painting another blade, red,
    and offering yourself to me
    knowing you would break.

    We made love
    and you broke,
    the glass raining.
    I cried one thousand and one nights
    then one thousand and one days
    there was no day between nights and no night between days
    in your garden.
    Then you were there again
    painting a blade yellow
    offering yourself to me
    breaking
    the glass raining.
    I cried again one thousand and one nights
    then one thousand and one days
    and you were there again...

    How many times? I asked.
    As many as there are one thousand and one nights and days in our forever,
    you answered,
    painting the next blade,
    this time blue.

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Lost And Found...

    i found you
    along my way

    i lost you
    along the same way, a bit further on

    and between the two
    you taught me of birth, and life, and creation, and love, and passion, and death, and pain
    immeasurable, endless
    like my desire of you

    no, i lie of course
    i never lost you
    no more than i can lose my shadow
    my heart
    that memory of my first time ever

    it was with you,
    you know

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Knowledge...

    no,
    i wish not to cut your finger
    or bite your lip
    or criminally scratch that soft mound hosting your nipple,
    i am scared
    to see billions and billions of red glass marbles
    rolling out of your body
    and splintering into as many billions of shards
    and more
    as they hit ground
    and your skin collapses
    and all that is left of you is your incomparable smile
    and sigh.

    yes,
    you can, do not worry,
    i donít
    knowing that you will painstakingly collect all those shards
    and glue them once more into those red marbles
    and pour then back into my body
    through the scratch or the bite or the cut
    and fill once more my skin with life
    giving my smile and my sigh
    a home to hang on.

    how do you know?
    i will not have the time,
    the knowledge, the perseverance.

    i know,
    you have the love.

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Glass Worlds...

    Look! I said
    pointing to a falling shard
    burning its way to Earth.

    Are these also glass? asked the she-child
    pointing to the millions of candles
    flickering in the sky.
    Yes, all of them glass.
    And the sun?
    No, the sun is sun, I answered,
    sad at such disappointing answer.

    And this?
    She checked my pulse
    tasted my fingertips
    watching me with big, wondering eyes.
    This is glass, soft.
    This is glass too, she decided
    guiding my fingers first to her cheek
    then to her nipple.
    Yes, this is molten glass, I admitted,
    pulling my finger and watching it stretch
    until it tore away from the nipple
    both ends tattered
    and starting to mend,
    my fingertips mending first
    her nipple never mending completely.

    Oh, a butterfly, she chirped
    and started chasing it
    and I looked puzzled
    wondering at butterflies in the night.
    She touched it
    and the butterfly exploded in glass dust
    and she cried
    at killing it.
    No, you did not kill it, I calmed her heart,
    look... and the dust started fluttering
    millions of tiny butterflies filling the air
    and covering her naked skin,
    her eyes,
    glinting inside her hair.
    I see so many colors, she smiled,
    I want to touch the sun, she said.

    The sun is not glass, I reminded her,
    helping her open filigree wings
    and fly into the ball of fire.
    I never saw her again,
    I guess the sun fell in love with her
    and turned itself
    glass.

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Shatter...

    you touched your shirt
    and it shattered
    you touched your dress, stockings, shoes... they shattered
    you touched my breast and your finger shattered
    you were about to touch my lips
    and as I turned to run away
    you grabbed the nape of my neck
    and kissed me into delirium
    as all of you
    shattered.

    I sat down
    middle of the mound of tiny, kaleidoscopic glass shards
    and cried myself to death
    inhaling splinters of you.

    before falling
    into over
    I felt your heartbeat
    still living in the billions
    of shattered hearts.

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before Glass...

    there was no life
    before glass
    there is no life
    after.
    there is existence.
    breath, sex, sleep, food...
    existence.

    there was glass in between.
    fragile, thin,
    how thin?
    as thin as the layer of liquid glass
    between your eye
    and your eyelid.
    thinner.
    as thin as my lace?
    your lace?
    the one i do not remember
    the before of it
    only the after of it?
    yes.
    as thin
    as its momentary life.
    and the memory
    as thin too?

    the memory
    as thin as a tree's gnarled trunk,
    as a mountain's bulging belly
    as earth pole to pole, igloos excluded.

    and i?
    you?

    i tried to see you,
    impossible, as you were all around me
    upon me
    inside me
    my skin glinting with your shine
    yet not with your sight.

    there was no life
    before You
    there is no life
    after.
    there is existence.
    breath, sex, sleep, food...
    existence.

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Glaze...

    i squeezed you in my palm,
    first your hand
    then your foot
    then your breast and neck and mouth... oh, mouth...

    the heat unbearable
    was it my hold or your breath or both of us
    as you started melting
    drops of you raining crystals to Earth
    the tinkle of exploding beads telling me of the reality of glass
    and the unreality of dream?

    i melt into amorphousness, you said,
    as if i did not know,
    make love to me before my breast loses its rigid nipple
    and my thighs their muscled hold
    and my mouth the wonder of biting teeth.

    no, i said, i will release my hold on you,
    no, you said, hold me, tighter,
    and you offered me you breast before it lost its nipple
    and your thighs before the muscle melted away
    and your mouth with its teeth and tongue and moan
    melting straight down my throat
    and building that eternal lump inside of it.

    you melted all around me
    and inside me
    the thick flowing glass sticky with perfumes of woman
    and warmth of whispers unending
    and the finality of the ecstatic scream
    when i tore life back from death
    and your splinters chased swallows
    before agonizing back into the thin glaze
    enveloping entrails and skin and mind.

    i refused to move
    afraid the tiniest crack
    will turn you dust.

    donít be afraid, i heard a thin voice singing in my ear,
    my dust will cut into your flesh
    never far away
    from your heart.

    and when you miss my breast
    just call
    and i will melt back
    into woman.

    legend? i asked.
    love, the voice answered.

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Writing Glass...

    I wonder
    when does glass end?

    When there are no more grains
    or no more hearts
    or just no more
    heart?

    I care not for the answer
    since I ask riddles
    after I know it.

    Funny, am I not,
    asking always questions
    which end with never, or forever, or eternal,
    so knowledgeable of the response
    yet so ignorant
    of the path there.

    I fill my pen once more
    with liquid glass
    transparent
    writing my words on transparent sheets...
    glass, of course,
    they can never break or wear out
    unless
    you step on them.

    Or drop them.

    I see you walking around,
    the only one able to read inside my transparencies
    words
    and sentences
    and meanings much beyond those I know having said
    and copying them
    secretly
    to your heart.

    If your heart would be glass
    it would have melted by now
    in the warmth
    of meeting,
    luckily
    it is flesh and blood.

    Only bleeding
    at glass cuts.

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Dialogue With Glass...

    I could see you,
    or rather guess at your existence
    by the refracting light
    by the breeze suddenly diverted
    and then returning with no vengeance,
    by smell, at times smelling pink dripping spring water,
    at times just pink...

    transparent,
    you are transparent, I said,
    you are not yet you are,
    what are you? I asked.
    glass, you said
    and I heard a tinkle
    when I flipped a tiny pebble your way
    and it did not pass through.

    it cannot be, it does not exist,
    I insisted
    then I should see your bones, your blood,
    your brains...
    they are all glass,
    your heart...
    my heart is glass too, both of them.
    both of them?
    yes, the one in your chest too.
    but then your heart can easily break, I said, horrified.
    true, it did.
    the one in your chest too.

    glass? or broke?
    both.
    by whom?

    I felt something sliding in my palm,
    felt soft, like flesh, like a small hand,
    is this your hand? I asked, afraid to squeeze too much
    though I desired to,
    I did not know how resilient your fingersí glass was,
    there is no such thing as glass people, I said,
    uncertain though.
    I am not people, I am woman,
    it exists on my world.

    how many people are there on your world?
    just one,
    and I feel so lonesome.

    we walked,
    or rather I walked and you just displaced air, and flowers,
    I did not know if you walked or floated or did not exist
    except for that hand insistently squashing mine.
    the women on your world must have been a strong species,
    the woman, I mean.
    do you know to make love? I asked,
    more conversational than excited.
    we barely got to know each other, you responded,
    more disappointed at my lack of excitement
    than at my dare.
    yes, you added, disappearing.

    I stopped, afraid to have lost you forever,
    waiting for a miracle.
    the miracle... no, your hands slid inside my shirt a moment later
    and the smell of pink invaded my mouth
    together with your lips and your tongue
    and I felt a sharp pain into my lip...
    sorry, an old unhealing wound, you apologized,
    continuing the invasion
    now hips, probably, pushing against my hips
    I tried to find your breasts
    I did
    I am afraid, I wailed,
    donít, you said, squeeze...

    we rolled on the grass
    and then we stopped rolling
    and we made love
    and then we rolled again laughing and crying
    and then we stopped rolling and laughing and crying
    and we made love again,
    all the time wondering if you could not see me
    the way I could not see you.
    and when the dream is over?... I asked
    not willing to receive an answer.

    *

    I kneeled in front of the empty bed,
    picked the palette in my hand
    and started with the fingernails, nacre.
    I want to see you, I demanded.
    then the magic is over, you warned me.
    I want to, I want to, I want to, I insisted further like a spoiled child
    watching fascinated those floating fingernails
    touching my brow, resigned.
    I added the pink to the fingers,
    the gold to the hair,
    the cherry to the lips and the strawberry to the nipples,
    the burnished copper to the ringlets, one by one,
    adorning the crossroads of your body,
    and then finally, oh, finally,
    the blue blue blue to your eyes...
    oh, god, but you are Woman, I admitted
    pulling back in adoration and dread
    seeing the color wiping away in two traces beneath the blue,
    were these tears rolling? I couldnít see, I couldnít paint,
    goodbye lover, I saw you lips moving
    but the voice was in my head
    and you pulled out from the insides of the paintís thin crust
    and were gone, somewhere,
    and the crust crumbled into a tiny variegated mound
    and I sank my face inside it trying to inhale traces of you.

    oh, I cried, oh, I cried so much,
    and the hammer started banging against the glass
    in my chest...

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Ships...

    then,
    when icicles break
    and glaciers explode
    and frozen continents sink
    and all which is left
    is glass ships
    carrying the somnolent, tired cargos
    of the last of humanity's dangling hearts of long gone dust
    bodies,

    i will wander around for your dust
    and your heart
    to understand the flesh that once was
    and hear the slow, incipient boil
    of merged particles
    which should never have been anything
    but we.

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It's Nothing To Do With Walrus...

    It's nothing to do with walrus.

    Not with waffle, with wonder, with woman,
    not even with Wonder Woman.
    Not even with extraordinary, though it starts with an e
    and ends with a y,
    like you.

    What a mess, no?

    No.
    No. Don't expect logic or reason
    but rather paradox and impossibility and passionate absurdity
    don't expect desire
    but rather mad desire and insane desire and paralyzing desire
    when I walk your halls
    and smear the mud of my mindprints on your transparent glass walls
    and the fat of my fingerprints on your transparent glass skin
    and the saliva on my lipprints on your transparent glass memories
    and bang for doors
    and locks
    hoping to never find them
    but break them, and the glass
    and watch thin bloodprint lines
    squiggle their way down gravitation's vectors
    to reach the puddle at your feet...
    hey, what is the hue
    of your beautiful blue
    when reflecting in ink
    of effervescent pink?

    I lurk in your corners,
    is darkness enveloping me or following me?
    its brittle dark grey exploding
    from time to time
    when the crystal of your teeth
    bites into the flesh of laughter's goddess
    and her tasteless blood is contaminated with your crystal
    resulting in crystal sounds
    and you laugh so marvelously
    that grey turns breaking glass
    and you cut me out from your halls
    and seed me into your wombs
    together with your lusts
    and loves.
    Or womb. Or lust. Or love.
    You
    choose
    I
    drown.
    Smiling. Both of we.

    I roll and revel in your fields,
    smelling the woman and smelling the flower
    picking my teeth and cleaning my fingernails and trimming my hair
    with slivers of colored glass
    undressing and washing and perfuming my body
    with drops of crawling glass
    waiting for your visit
    when I will serenade you with the most inane of poems
    and you will show me that your fingernails and your teeth and your regards
    are sharper than any glass
    yet your depths are deeper and softer
    than any sun.

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Tools Of Flesh...

    It takes a thousand hands
    and a thousand times as many words
    to turn me pale candle,

    she said.

    All I had was one finger
    and a few letters of the alphabet.
    I did not use them wisely,
    merely put my heart into them.

    It takes one finger, yours,
    and a few letters of the alphabet, yours,
    to turn me incandescent forest,

    she said.

    It was not enough for me, forest.
    I wanted sun, I wanted suns.
    I ground my heart to glass dust
    dipped my finger into it
    and poured the rest into my words.
    She licked my finger,
    then guided it inside her mysteries
    unraveling worlds for me,
    she drank my words
    then let me taste the drops of blood and honey
    dripping from her tongue.

    It takes one finger, ours,
    and a few letters of the alphabet, ours,
    to turn me incandescent sun,

    she conceded.

    I gave up on suns,
    sun is fine
    and I let her burn me.
    There is no such fire, I knew.
    There is such fire, I found.

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Your Transparency...

    I look through you
    to your insides
    uncovering the way to tornado's haven,

    your transparency ending there where your heart starts
    and your blood barks impatiently
    for relief
    around my tide
    and above my howling moan of achievement
    of death
    and rebirth,

    your transparency ending there where your thighs start
    and glinting graffiti paints itself
    crawling down your inner skin
    giving in to gravitation
    and begging for absolution
    at the end of my tongue
    and the beginning
    of my body's desire,

    your transparency ending there where your mouth starts
    and white tools of war decapitate my fingers
    while a muscled snake
    coils itself
    around my countless tentacles
    letting red gate keepers
    suck out my entrails
    and vigor
    and blessed emerging unconsciousness,

    I look through you
    to your fire
    and I dive into the siren's call.

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Stepping...

    Stepping on broken glass,
    the crunching sound of broken dreams and lives
    loud beneath my leather boots
    and weight of body and passing time
    and youth.

    What has youth to do with it?
    she someone asks
    and I know it has nothing to do with it,
    it has to do with imminent death
    and its oncoming march
    and youth is just a milestone
    overturned somewhere
    along the way.

    I take off the boots
    take off my clothes,
    the crunching sound now dulled
    by the pillow of flesh shaping itself around the shards
    and absorbing the pain
    and the splinters,
    thick blood coagulating around them
    like mortar
    bringing the treasure of devastation
    to heart chambers.

    Your poetry so dark,
    she someone says
    covering her eyes with metal sheets
    once I open my chest
    and let her see
    the glint
    inside.
    Is this the sun?
    she someone asks.
    This is you,
    I tell someone she.

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Nipple Of Glass...

    I bit it,
    hearing the crunching sound
    and knowing of the pain to come -
    your demolished femininity
    now sliding like miles of razor wire
    down my throat
    making sure I never forget
    your pain,
    my pain.

    Your body
    coiling around me
    asking for more,
    insisting,
    and as I chanced my way to the second nipple
    I felt nails breaking under my skin
    and teeth shattering upon my bone
    letting glinting shards slide down my body
    cutting memories
    in the art of my need.

    Nippleless, nailless, toothless...
    what is left of me
    for you to love?

    you asked.
    The rest of your glass, I answered,
    taking a torch to you
    and melting you
    into the shape of forever.
    Then I took the torch to me
    melting us both
    into the shape of us.

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After So Many Years And One Death...

    there is no door out
    matters not how much you or I or we may be searching,
    no way back
    not even at a ridiculous final price to pay,
    no sideways path
    except towards that one point of altercation
    where all which is left is blank eyes
    and sharp odors of unending love making
    and mouths bathing in a saliva
    sizzling on the melted glaze
    of twined teeth.

    I pull my fingers away from your nipple
    daring not to watch the blister
    and hear the sigh of your breast.
    Song, not sigh, you correct me,
    pulling your hand away from my blisters
    and guiding mine back to yours.
    Where is your hand gone? I ask,
    devastated at the lack of pain
    and you amply compensate
    with a fist closing once more its muscled trap
    around my shamelessness.
    Come, I beg.

    we shut up,
    letting our bodies talk with the language of skin
    and exploding muscles,
    and as glass winds try to tear the grip
    your hair sews itself into my chest
    and my nails sew themselves into your hips
    and nothing but a cosmic upheaval
    can severe
    the ties.
    Making love, it cannot be eternal, you say.
    Birthing love, it can, I say.

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shortcut...

    we tried love.

    our own reality show
    with a limited public of two
    in between the confined walls of a rectangular screen
    and an elongated handset
    and a crowded cabin
    and bodily narrow passages of life.

    other words and rhymes and punctuation marks
    applauding and cheering
    hearts exploding and bleeding
    at times... blood.

    we invented the word,
    burnt all thick dictionaries and shrink definitions
    and unpopular beliefs
    and created it anew.
    we call it love, improperly.
    it is not,
    it does not exist
    we use the word as a shortcut
    to what does. exist.
    i don't wish i had the language,
    i want no one to know
    i want no earthliness to mar its purity,
    like the invisible face of god - see it and die
    yet... unseeable
    and god it is not
    as many would die for the right
    of one glimpse.

    i had that glimpse
    of love
    and i live to tell the story.
    maybe this god is more forgiving?
    maybe it is not a one god but split,
    between man and woman
    together
    love. the word.
    not the reality.
    the reality indescribable.

    i entered the cage
    willingly,
    glass all around me
    for you to see my outsides,
    my insides
    my intangible sides.
    you entered the cage
    willingly,
    glass all around us
    for no one to see
    but us.

    love is not a god,
    it is a shortcut
    to the entity
    which is
    us.

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i wish me...

    i wish me the glass gardens
    of your flesh
    to stomp around like a joyful elephant
    knowing
    nothing will be broken, neither trodden,
    nor shattered,

    i wish me the glass gardens
    of your mind
    to sow the glass seeds and water the glass sprouts and pick the glass roses
    imagining
    the flesh thorn pricking my little finger
    to suck heartbeats,

    i wish me the glass gardens
    of you
    the beauty of your stained glass framed by the poison of your lead strips
    inhaling
    the few moments of real life
    you own the secret to.

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The Miracle Of The Roses...

    And then there is the miracle of the roses
    and girlish pink
    and sunset amber
    and a trio of nightingales accompanies a duo of larks
    cutting into the green of leaf
    and the thickness of cobweb
    as the world succumbs to a deluge of Blue Ringtails
    and Black Torrent Darts and Ebony Jewelwings,
    mystical.

    Brutal,
    the all subjugating hunger
    vicious, beastly, rude,
    rapacious fists form mighty chelae
    grabbing ladings of cranial hair
    and pectoral mounds of flesh
    and screaming threads reluctantly slipping out of seams
    as abdominal muscles contract
    and loins contort in the glamorous frenzy of unfettered tornados
    slashing the flesh
    and igniting the lungs
    before that fulminating roar telling all
    of the end
    of all worlds.

    And of hunger.

    And then there is the miracle of the roses
    and girlish pink flows back in the valleys
    and sunset amber underlines once more horizon's inverted smile
    and a trio of nightingales accompanying a duo of larks
    bathes in the green of leaf
    and chases trills in the thickness of cobweb
    as the world succumbs to a deluge of Cairns Birdwings
    and Pipevine Swallowtails and Small Coppers,
    mythical.

    Listen... do you hear flaming glass melting back into blistered skin?

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Poor Eros...

    Eros
    might have been a god or a godling or a godly craftsman... ha,
    Eros
    was an innocent suckling,
    at best - a first grader
    before he visited your mind and mouth and skirts.
    to leave drunken with knowledge
    he never possessed
    nor could, even after.

    I saw his trail,
    followed it
    unclear if these were tears or sweat drops or sun beads
    and tasting when I didn't swallow and swallowing when I didn't gulp
    and gulping the rest like a horse after a trip in the desert
    looking for the taste I knew,
    now out there
    to cover the world.

    poor Eros,
    poor world,
    you fed them all of you
    except
    that which you reserved for me and me only -
    that hypnotic, exotic, erotic...
    charm.

    I broke the bottle
    poured the ambrosia down my throat
    together with the glass shards and the escaping vapors
    just making sure
    it stays this way.

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Palimpsest...

    Layers
    popping up time and again
    steamrolled, quashed, carved out,
    yet popping up,
    time and again
    from paper's fiber and cloth's stitches and skin's cells
    overriding reality and nature and wish...

    Is there such a word as eternality?

    How many fingers,
    how many palms and kisses and skin grafts
    have steamrolled and quashed and carved out
    mine?
    Molesting, demanding, arguing with sweat and grunts and demands
    your shape deforming under the weight of flesh
    other
    and of lust
    other
    and of nights shared
    with other.

    Yet
    popping up time and again
    the glass flour escaping those inerasable layers
    sowed by the weight of my flesh
    and of my lust
    and of my never shared nights.
    Your nightly bread,
    my nightly nightmares,
    our nightly knowledge.

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Bottled Memories...

    My collection.

    I opened the door to the cabinet, slowly,
    afraid any tremor might shatter my collection,
    my treasure, my bottles.

    This one,
    carrying traces of your lipstick
    when you gulped hungrily
    to fill up your bodily thirst
    after filling up your bodily need
    with me,
    pink, your lipstick traces,
    still carrying the smell of your mouth
    when you laughed when you cried when you gasped
    when you swallowed whole pieces of me,
    I near my nose to the bottleís rim
    keeping safe distance
    afraid to get sucked in and be locked forever
    in a world of memories
    and fragrances.

    The other one,
    where you flicked your cigaretteís ashes in,
    hating your smoking
    envying your cigarette and your ash and your smoke
    willing to give up life
    for those moments between avid lips
    inside billowing lungs
    getting lost inside smarting eyes
    and parts of me falling to the bottom of the bottle,
    still there, grey, refusing to crumble
    memory of fire inerasable.

    The stinking bottle,
    capped and sealed hermetically
    where we peed together
    like the world's last and greatest of retarded kids
    the invisible, once yellowish vapors
    turning us into raging beasts
    the bottle overturning
    as we emulated its gyrating movement
    and hearing it spill its contents
    as I spilled into you
    and you spilled over me,
    I shake the bottle slightly
    there is still memory inside
    lapping at glassy entrails.

    The one heart-shaped, trite,
    even more so than a snowing glass-ball,
    the eau de cologne squeezed to its death and last drops
    as you kept pouring and shaking the bottle
    on our skin
    and our intimates
    claiming it made gliding smoother, and tastier...
    ha, I remember the taste, do you?
    as I lick the edge of the bottle,
    bitter, your sugary insides missing
    and the memory competing the stale wine
    of the present.

    I keep pulling them out
    to range them on the table
    dry petals breaking underneath, staining the tablecloth,
    sticking to wet spots underneath my eyes,
    the brown square one we watched the sun through
    the cracked one you dropped when I kissed the back of your neck
    the never opened one
    probably crawling by now with botulinum bacteria,
    I start blowing softly across the gaping mouths
    a lullaby cacophony of memories
    marred only by the breaking of sound
    as I blow across a closed bottle top
    and as I blow my nose
    from time to time.

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spillout...

    split
    the sky
    with your index finger's manicured nail
    then let it slide further down
    splitting my forehead
    my chest,

    these are not angels
    spilling out from the sky
    though they are winged and fire sworded and haloed,
    they are tailed and clawed and roared too
    swooping down you like heaven's fierce army
    to warm your bath and blow your skin dry and lullaby you to sleep...
    i wrote them there
    inside a glass jar i allowed you to shatter
    with your fingernail,

    these are not brains neither wisdom words
    spilling out from my forehead
    though they are defined and spelled and articulated,
    they are coarsed and rawed and indecented too
    swooping around you like psyche's ferocious cohorts
    to soothe your yearns and nurse your languishes and palliate your pines...
    i rhymed them there
    inside a glass bowl i allowed you to shatter
    with your fingernail,

    these are not ribs neither lungs nor sighs
    spilling out from my chest
    though they are murmured and passionated and desired,
    they are lusted and raunched and wantoned too
    swooping inside you like flesh's feral hordes
    to nourish your passion and nurture your desire and coddle your delirium...
    i scratched them there
    inside a glass heart i allowed you to shatter
    with your fingernail,

    sew
    the sky
    with your five fingers' soft fingertips
    then let them slide further down
    sewing my forehead
    my chest.

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Marbles...

    I collected the rain,
    as much as it fitted in my cupped palms.

    I knew I would find them there,
    not in the puddles, not in the gutters...
    there, in my palms.

    I let the water seep out,
    then the hail, then the pebbles,
    there were not many of them
    small, cool, transparent,
    I found just three.
    Glass marbles.
    This was all you sent me.

    I locked the room, locked the house,
    locked the city... touched the first.

    You materialized,
    your eyes wild with excitement unborn
    your arms reaching for dreams unknown
    your body shivering for touches uncraved, yet,
    "two more to go..." you laughed
    as we discovered love.

    In the morning you were gone,
    not even the marble,
    just a bud of glass denting the linen.

    Feverish, my skin burning,
    my flesh a hell my breath a desert
    I couldn't resist
    locked the world... touched the second.

    You materialized once more,
    birthing the excitement in fury
    knowing the dream's intensity
    craving for the touches you learned, before,
    "one to go..." you whispered
    living the love.

    You refused to go with morning, you couldn't stay,
    the marble gone as well
    into a rose of glass with sparkles of red.

    I watched the sun,
    ascending, descending, ascending...
    I didn't have to count the knowledge,
    I counted the fear
    feeling the weight of that last marble
    in my pocket.

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The Last Marble...

    I pulled it out from my pocket,
    shivering with fever
    with fear... I couldnít resist the call
    be it even death... I touched it.

    She didnít appear,
    I just heard her laughter
    sharp, clear, exploding together with the glass into... glass,
    thousands, millions of shards
    shaping themselves to thousands, millions of minuscule marbles
    their insides boiling with rainbows
    and forests
    and rocks melting into leaves
    and sunsets...

    I started sinking in a sea of marbles
    each one I touched exploding anew
    then anew,
    the beauty, the fire... enough of them?
    I heard her voice
    and I tried answering but the marbles started pouring inside me
    choking me, loving me...
    enough of them? she asked again
    and suddenly she was there
    and the flood stopped
    as we floated upon the clinking, endless expanse
    holding left to right hands.

    Then we joined right to left hands.

    Then I spit the few hundreds of marbles from my lungs
    and we joined mouths.

    Shall we join further?
    I heard her breathless murmur
    talking with my tongue clutched inside hers.

    Never made love on a sea of marbles, I thought
    afraid to answer
    knowing she knew the answer already.

    I tore her open,
    penetrating her body with the fierceness of a dragonís claw
    pouring a river of melted glass into her womb
    as she devoured the insides of my mouth
    and our hands crushed to thin glass dust
    the steel
    of our nipples.

    Call me, she left her message upon my lip
    dissolving into the sea
    and I knew I had no choice but to call again...
    I touched another marble...

    I had trillions to go, why waste life?

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The One Moment Of Death...

    The hearth, red,
    reflecting in the glossy pink of your lips,
    in that barely visible humidity
    lining the top of your thighs
    as they part, slightly...
    or is the hearth a poor reflection of those flames
    lambent upon the inner walls
    of your passion?

    ďIt is a poor reflection,Ē you pull me over
    above
    inside
    and I see glass drops leaving your eyes
    on their way to explode on the chilly tiles
    as I pour my fuel into that inferno
    consuming us.

    The one moment of death Ė
    crowning a lifetime of inexistence
    until the one moment of life there, inside you,
    to die.

    I carry you to the bed,
    covering you with wet blankets
    to protect the walls, the room, the house from lingering fire
    and I watch perplexed the charred stain
    mid of the floor
    barely resembling your contorted shape.

    Glass shards glitter around the darkness of coal
    sending clusters of sparks to those bodies
    we call
    stars.

    I blink.
    This is not an illusion.

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Drawer...

    you sift through your underwear drawer,
    carefully,
    disturbing first the white silk
    then the poem,
    moving the laced black satin out of the way
    to find the poem underneath
    the one laced with word and rhyme and triple periods,
    a few cottons, pastel hued, the softness of down between your fingers
    and the runes I wrote upon the texture
    as you stretched your ass in the air
    offering me the view of Eden found
    and the papyrus of paradise lost,
    the pink bra... between the textile and the inner padding
    a short poem spiraling outwards
    just there
    around the spot where your nipple will fit in
    again and again
    for a lifetime of sighs and smiles and passion remembered.

    you hesitate,
    after laying all of your feminine delicate adornments
    on the bed,
    eyes sparkling and lips murmuring some of the words you read
    as you peel off the bottom of the drawer
    the last pair of panties
    that singular, strange, solitary texture
    weaving the glass fiber with the silver thread with the dried petals
    with memories.

    you pull them up your thighs
    smoothen them upon your flesh
    the second time in your life
    after that first time when I guided them the same way down
    vowing not to make love to you
    if I ever break any of their crystalline web...
    I did not.

    break.

    I made love to you.

    you pirouette in front of the mirror,
    dance,
    tiptoe, laugh,
    then slide your hand into the waistline
    and pull savagely...
    millions of glass drops raining upon the floor
    there where you step
    and tiny red drops stain the white tile
    and carpet.

    no one, not even you,
    will follow in your footsteps, you murmur,
    lying on the sparkling bed
    and covering it with thousands of red stars
    drying as fast as they soak into the linen.

    *

    you wake up,
    sit cross legged on the floor
    a mound of sharp crumbs to your right
    and slowly and patiently start lining them all together
    back into fiber and thread and petal
    knowing that when you are done
    you will remember the one poem you just smashed,

    the poem of fingers.

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Pink...

    Pink
    your panties
    your bra
    your shirt pink with its white polka dots
    and its eight nacre buttons...
    I know, I counted cursing each of them
    though less and less as I reached towards the last one,
    your skirt, your flowery tennis shoes, your stockings
    the left of which I ruined in my impatience
    promising you to replace the smoothness of nylon touch
    with the silkiness of finger touch...
    I guess I made my promise true, didn't I?

    White
    your skin
    pink
    your flesh
    those selected few spots I usurped
    with the might of king and the wail of beggar,
    yes, I know, I own some pink spots too
    and you offered me to investigate
    describe
    then usurp in your turn
    with the might of queen and the wail of woman
    eye for eye tooth for tooth
    pink for pink
    love for love, passion, lust, wildfire.

    I dressed your pink insides
    with your pink outsides,
    kissing each as it disappeared inside its textile cage
    your fingers all the while running errands through my hair
    down my back
    searching for my teeth on a mission for yours,
    I counted from eight down to zero
    the buttons...
    your nipples, they show, I mentioned,
    your lust, it shows, you grinned
    snubbing my clumsy attempts at decency
    and tearing us back into our natural pastels
    the litter of garments bedding our twisting whites
    and twined pinks.

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Of Memories...

    I remember
    when we were the last humans alive
    on a planet fallen prey
    to fire,
    ours.

    I remember
    when we pulled away from the other
    licking the dripping life
    knowing the wound
    never heals.

    I remember
    when focusing eyes told us the fire has abated
    and the world is back to its hum
    yet thunder
    refused to lie to sleep.

    I remember not
    ever wiping my insides
    clean,
    did you?

    Memories take the shape of the glass container
    hosting them.
    I broke mine
    to remember you differently each eye blink,
    not to change you
    but to preserve
    your inexhaustible rebirths
    of innocence.

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Conversion...

    You murmur,

    you convert my flesh into a Gordian knot of desires and frustrations
    and thrills and trills
    dying to die the painful death
    of whispering between your lips
    and whipsawing between your breasts
    and whining between your thighs
    withering into a clumsy mess of undisentanglable
    whorls.

    You listen,

    you smile at the sound of dripping skin
    filling your hungry pores with dandelionís heart bitter milk
    and pine sapís glutinous honey
    honing the razor of your glass sword
    with fingertips glittering with the dust of fine diamond words
    as I thrash inside my corporeal confines
    waiting for the coup de grace
    to cut the pea sized knot of that primal undefined matter
    into a universe.

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Book.Books...

    I read of your naked beauty.

    I read of your beautiful nakedness.

    I read of your beauty. Of your nakedness.
    In words that could not be misinterpreted, disinterpreted,
    needed no interpretation
    only knowledge.
    My words. Written long ago when I knew.
    I still know, knowledge does not change,
    not when it is written.
    By me. About you.

    I wonder about meanings.

    How come even meanings stayed unchanged
    when winds rushed so many times around a rolling Earth
    and so many generations of butterflies and flowers died
    before rebirth
    before redeath
    before rebirth?...
    is meaning something to do with knowledge?

    I print the sentences,
    cut out the words and let them fall randomly
    then pick them up at random as well
    witch Ė truck Ė smile Ė smile (there are more of this) Ė one Ė ditto...
    I sweep them all in a pile
    and put a match to them, I know them all by heart
    no need for the physical manifestation of memories.
    I close the book. I close the books.

    I lay my head on the physical manifestation
    of your breasts
    and close my eyes.
    I hear the sound of breaking glass.
    You did not break the books to forget,
    you broke them
    to prove that you do not need them
    as you start singing in my ears
    witch Ė truck Ė smile Ė smile...

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All I Cannot Remember...

    There are moments
    when I flash myself inside your flesh
    trying to remember all I miss
    then missing all I cannot remember
    then mixing between the two
    knowing that somewhen I will never have reason for one or the other.

    I never counted your toes, do you know?
    I never ascertained your belonging to the ten digited human race
    by counting left to right
    then right to left
    then trying to fit roses between those of the left
    and kisses between those of the right.
    What does it feel like
    to have thumb and forefinger
    encircling your ankle?

    I never unzipped you.
    Never zipped you either.
    Never pulled around your brassiere
    and down your silk stockings
    and out of way into the ripping valleys of hell
    your lace panties
    demolishing the unforgivable out of industry
    to uncover the out of unsatable hunger.

    Never washed you clean, oh,
    never washed you clean.
    Of that torrid human slime
    lubricating the marvelous machinery called body
    which, moments before the wet cloth revealed the skin underneath
    engulfed us in the odoriferous sensations
    of the burning forest around
    and inside our shared empires of skin,
    our flesh a dying army of slaves,
    our breath the visiting death.

    You never offered me a half empty glass
    the rim carrying your lipstick,
    awaiting the moment I lay a full empty glass on the night table
    our tongues searching desperately the other missing half
    down each otherís throat
    to find only glass dust
    crunching between teeth
    and chests
    and howling belly orchestras.

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Send In The Cows...

    Love
    is not an art.
    Love
    is art.

    Art
    has nothing to do with love.
    Art is love.

    Humans crowd our existence
    all those marching from the statistical impossibility of their existence
    to the absolute certainty of its end
    filling up the alleys
    and the valleys
    and the galleys
    tiptoeing there where they should gallop
    and dancing there where they should dance yet not yet
    following the dictates
    of othersí senses,
    yet not theirs.
    Yet not now.

    There is no equal
    to the opening top button of your shirt
    not in sun not in mind,
    there is no equal to the manner
    you cry
    knowing the knowledge you know
    and the wishes you wish knowing you shouldnít
    carrying the single touch into your single death,
    there is no equal
    to your eye fixing the landscape
    no one else lets you see
    I let no one see
    your top lip hiding underneath a tongue avidly looking for sustenance
    before finding it before losing it
    before your teeth lock around my eye
    making me see the whispers you sigh.

    Motors, and steps, and slamming doors and creaking beds
    and cows roam
    while the only poets of life and body
    live the endlessness of years in seconds
    and the eternality of carnivorous beauty in drops
    teeth interlocked in the spasm of consummation
    and the agonizing multiplicity of flesh
    about to emerge back from poetry
    while motors, and steps, and slamming doors and creaking beds
    and cows roam.

    We fold our poem
    and mail it mouth to mouth
    not wondering anymore
    about the stamps we lick into each otherís skin.

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Nerd...

    True
    there were kisses before.
    There were kisses after
    as well.
    True. Certainly.
    Yet none
    the kiss.
    Before. Or after.

    Virginity before and after.
    And hell in between.

    What philter
    smeared your lip on mine
    turning the complexity of tricuspid valve
    and atrial septum and left ventricle and aorta
    into the brittleness of gossamer glass,
    the new profession of love nerd
    born. Once.
    I will die with it.
    Or rather it will die with me
    like never was
    except for words and words and words.

    My heart will never break.
    It will shatter
    driving generations of pathologists insane
    as they try to recompose the fact
    and the reason
    not knowing the reason to be woman
    the fact to be kiss.

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look at you...

    look at you
    through my eyes, lady,
    as if they were the clear of glass
    and you resided inside the orbs... as you do.

    look at you
    and wonder not
    at unrecognizing that feline shape
    letting rainbows spark between the nibs of its claws
    and dropping petals
    from the roses blooming in its cheeks.

    look at you
    and wonder not
    at colors draping the figure in waves
    and music enshrouding the colors
    and fireflies painting in the music
    their glitter.

    look at you
    and wonder not
    at halos and comets and unicorns
    in and out of your hair
    and skin
    and mouth.

    look at you
    and accept the irreality
    as the only reality which counts
    in me.

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After...

    After the muscles' frenzy
    decayed into limp satisfaction,
    after the gasps became breath
    and blindness just lowered eyelids
    once again,
    after
    we refused to pull out
    to pull away
    to pull textiles there
    where the fashion was burnt skin just moments before
    and the jewelry pure liquid
    and growling desire.

    We leaned back into the cushions
    smelling, smiling, savoring,
    watching each other in the windshield reflection
    knowing to be the only humans
    on the planet
    ever.

    "There is only one time
    the first time,"

    you said.
    "There is only one time
    the one time,"

    I said.

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Awayness...

    nothing won me the right
    to your words
    than words,
    mine

    and meaning,
    and meaning the meaning. desires
    are endless
    realities
    none
    memories
    only a few worthy of the painís beauty
    fantasies
    as many as desires
    and then the one more for the button I wish missing.

    I donít care for your flesh
    I rave for it
    following its call till the sand is ankle deep
    then waist deep
    then mouth deep
    knowing you will come swimming through the dunes
    your tail slapping a glossy trail
    as the sand solidifies into glass
    embracing, burying us
    in the act of love
    and abandon.

    I donít care for your flesh,
    I sing myself its runes
    and let the echo
    reach your hiding
    to tear your clothing to tatters
    and knot around your nakedness
    memories of my arms.

    I donít care for your flesh
    I only wonder
    the words it is writing
    each time your hand touches the spots
    mine did.

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cycle, re...

    i am waiting for an invitation
    i know will never come.

    i shower,
    brush my teeth,
    change my underwear, my overwear,
    smear my suede shoes with shoe cream... sorry,
    the result of excitement,
    sit down,
    wait.

    i shower,
    brush my teeth,
    change my underwear, my pajamas,
    kiss the pink words once written, tuck them under the pillow
    sleep,
    dream.
    yes, pink dreams.

    food, drink, women, work, words
    one way trips to the sun
    uncertain i wish to again allow gravitation to pull me back
    to shower
    brush
    change.

    i shudder, waking up in a snowed field,
    thin steam rising from the puddle underneath us
    as we bathe the otherís body in our caresses
    and touches
    and the water ignites
    and the snow turns ashes as our bodies turn visceral
    brains contorting alongside bodies in devastating conflagration
    as we donít make love,
    we create suns.

    i fall asleep anew.
    i shower,
    brush my teeth...

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Like The Striking Of A Match...

    Does it matter how old we are?
    Does it matter how young?
    How beautiful, ugly, healthy, sick, tall, small?...
    it did not matter before we met, and after, and much after,
    will it matter ever?

    We created worlds,
    we smashed worlds, we dreamt, we cried,
    how many loafs of bread did you cut since?
    As many as I drove miles?

    Life, like good liqueur stirring in an ever spinning glass
    kept throwing us together,
    if smiting like steel balls
    to evade again each to a random new direction
    if squashing against each other like rotten tomatoes,
    like honey drops, like fingers sliding in between fingers
    and crushing.

    How many lovers did you have?
    How many did I?
    As many as the times we watched the same sunset
    through different windows from inside different arms
    knowing that this sunset will always be ours, us, we, one?

    Ours. Us. We. One. Sunset.
    How would future historians rate sunrise, corona, apocalypse
    against this sunset?
    Like the striking of a match.

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To Remember...

    there is always
    the first moment,
    the jolt,
    the broken glass that can be repaired
    yet not turn whole again
    ever.

    there will always be a leak, a stain,
    inerasable fusion scars to diffuse the light in remembrance
    and you are scared to bend lest the next clack is final.

    did you feel it
    that first time?

    your vascular system all built of thin walled tubes
    and you were never aware of it
    until they shattered
    leaving you with scrapping sounds in your veins
    and tiny coagulating drops in your tears
    for a lifetime.

    I walk along gilded paths,
    pebbles turn gold at my touch and petals flutter away at my kiss
    and from time to time I cough,
    dissipating the mist of red droplets
    and the shimmer of glass turned dust.

    I don't have to remember you
    to remember you.

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a memory of...

    so hard
    in your softness,
    so much harder than
    in your hardness,
    the down cutting the diamond
    till all that rests
    is diamond dust,
    and down dust,
    and those memories never to die and those never to be born.

    I cry, reading your words,
    not like a baby
    like a grown-up,
    like a man,
    never regretting the was
    ever regretting the never going to be
    never regretting the was that is always going to be.

    I live in circles,
    of love, of day, of work, of sweat, of lust
    passing through the butter of life
    and from time to time encountering the passage
    of a mindless razor
    or an exploding galaxy,
    my inner self a scarred battleground
    wounds dried out, smoke dissipated,
    a lost cut seeping blood
    with no cessation.
    so damn short, so damn deep, so damn hurting,
    so blessed with the memory of that pink hued fingernail
    which sank to the root
    its root
    there.

    pain is not a curse.
    pain is a memory
    of love.
    stupid. how can there be a memory of love
    when love never ended.

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about eternity...

    you donned your deadliest of weaponry,

    your wet t-shirt
    stretching into invisibility there where it matters,
    your false eyelashes
    blinking on and off those suns blue, those pearls rolling,
    your mini-skirt
    revealing your details of sculpture for the reveling mine,
    your smirking mouth
    the one which taught me that kissing is an art I failed at, before,

    then you un-donned it all
    to feel just for this once
    what dying
    was like.

    and you couldnít return from the ďover thereĒ,
    no more than I could.

    are we eternally dead
    or eternally living
    now?

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Romulus...

    The forest
    is so tall
    that roots grope drunkenly to clouds
    while treetops drag on ground
    where squirrels roll watermelons in circles
    and yellowish, newly hatched chicks
    ride fox cubsí backs
    looking forward
    to a swim
    in the river.

    I move carefully among the thousands of glass lianas
    hanging all the way down to my chest
    and as they move they touch each other
    with the beautiful, monotonous clinking
    of hollow wind-chimes.
    Am I alone in this wondrous place?

    Suddenly I hear other chimes moving my way,
    melodious, enravishing,
    and I see you parting the glass curtains into vibrating ribbons
    until you reach my stay
    where you go down on palms and knees
    and I crawl underneath you,
    Romulus underneath the wolf bitch
    suckling from her teat
    his creation.

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Paint...

    I wanted to surprise you,
    waited until you fell asleep
    and started painting the world your color,
    all of the world.

    It wasn't easy with just a few hours to do it in,
    had some problems with the rivers,
    with dragons insisting on keeping their green of scale
    and old ladies insisting on their blue of hair,
    with music,
    and then there was the whole of the North Pole...
    I succeeded, with seconds to spare.

    You opened your eyes,
    I waited, all ready for praise and eternal sex,
    then you swiftly closed them,
    your terrified gasp cutting through me.
    Uh... uh... it didn't sound so good...

    What have you done? you asked,
    eyes tightly shut, fists clenched.
    Painted the world your color, thought you'd like it, I wailed in distress.
    Fire, rainbow, butterflies... all?
    I nodded,
    then remembering your closed eyes I mumbled a barely audible 'yes'.
    Why?
    To please you.
    I tried to take your hand but couldn't open your fist.
    I wanted the world to be your beautiful color.
    You sighed, took my hand and crushed it in yours.
    Please, I don't want my color, I want our colors.
    I cried.
    But why?
    You touched my face and tasted my tear, the color of your color.
    Because even your tear tastes like my color,
    and your voice sounds like it,
    I feel like I am alone in the world, my world, lonely.
    I want to be in our world.

    Are you sure? I tried once more.
    Yes, you answered.

    It took me days.
    It was immeasurably more difficult to re-invent colors,
    and tastes, and sounds,
    it took me days
    and you didn't open your eyes
    even once.

    It's done, I kneeled next to your bed.

    You opened your eyes hesitatingly,
    your smile spreading into the world
    your warmth following.
    Thank you, you murmured,
    our colors, our tastes... also the dragons?
    Also the dragons
    And the North Pole?
    Even the polar bears.
    You crawled into my arms
    burning each part of me in contact with you.
    Lover?
    Yes... I answered cautiously.
    May I ask you a favor?
    Anything, I rushed to answer.
    I do not mind one color not to be ours, you whispered.
    So, maybe my effort was not wasted, after all.
    Which? I asked.
    Love, you said,
    and I felt a mountain landing inside my stomach.
    Love? Which color do you wish love to be? I asked,
    ashen faced and rigid muscled.
    Love. I wish it to be your color,
    and you snuggled even tighter into me, falling asleep again.

    The mountain turned sun
    as I started rocking you
    and butterflies landed upon your eyelashes.

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wxyz...

    those so called four-lettered words
    composing our scripture,
    describing eden
    with our mouths the flaming preachers
    and our bodies the foot stamping congregations
    until the apples hiding in naked loin orchards
    sate the preachers' ravenous appetite
    and we wake up, there,
    where sweat is the wine
    and copulation
    the morning prayer.

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t color...

    distance.

    that solid glass wall
    transparent, invisible, impenetrable,
    not even mud sticks to it
    not even bleeding knuckles and crashing bones pass through,
    or pass in.

    there is a thin layer of void,
    slicing the thickness of it like a blade
    all the way from the infinity of it to the infinity of it
    and paint pours through a tiny hole wherever unseen
    filling it with all known hues of grey
    from t milky through t murky through t muddy
    until final t black is reached
    when visions blur and disappear
    on the other side.
    gone.

    visions. vision. gone.

    I pummel the wall with the inefficient hammer
    composed of words and punctuation and curses
    and finally
    I ram it with my forehead
    and for a moment short
    tunnel vision clears the crystal
    and I see beauty on the other side of distance.
    then, red drops absorb in the immaculate surface
    and t color pours back into the cracks
    healing, curing, killing.

    t, like time.

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Climbing...

    I climbed the wall,
    not daring to look down - not because of fright of heights
    but because of fright of seeing the distance unchanging,
    I groped the soapy surface
    pedaling my way upwards through absolute immobility of position
    waiting for muscles to fray and to burn and to disintegrate
    then finally slide back down
    dragging the rest of me
    to the base of the glass
    and it all.

    When did your hand sneak down, there, into the sea of sweat
    to pull me out of my clothes
    and drag me half way up again
    laughing at my nakedness
    and encouraging my garrulity
    claiming words are wings
    which we might share
    until we meet there, on the top of the wall
    and drop the wings
    never willing
    to be able to fly back down.

    Hey, I know all you wanted was my body,
    same like I wanted yours,
    and my heart,
    same like I wanted yours,
    and my soul and my rhyme and my silence
    same like...
    only half way left now up to infinity
    and I will keep chiseling flowers into the glass
    to support my toes
    and tears into the glass
    to support my flowers
    and nightingales into the glass
    to support my tears
    and a bed for the nightingales to nest under
    and for us to nest above.

    I forgot my hand inside your shirt, around your life
    you forgot your hand inside my belt, around my life
    we gave up our one season
    for our one moment,
    and the sun never knew it was once candle
    and the candle will always know
    it was once sun.

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Isaac...

    I stopped wondering.

    I kept turning the pages,
    listening to the clink of glass
    as today fell on yesterday
    same sound as yesterday falling on the day before,
    my eye able to penetrate every which depth of those passed
    yet unable to see even inside the single depth
    of tomorrow.
    Strange memories book
    this one.
    Neither could I turn back and touch once more
    the texture of those flesh adornments
    garishly decorating the in-between pages gone and lost
    and unforgotten.
    Funny, isnít it,
    how time dead long ago
    still lives in that ever rotating carousel
    wearing our brains
    to dust.
    Never out of fuel, grease,
    never out of guests sitting on the knees of previous guests
    layers over layers deep
    each and every tugging at each and every corner of my body...
    skin, lips, tears.

    Tried once
    in a moment of frenzy and madness
    to use a hammer
    both ways.
    Yesterdays
    tomorrows
    all.
    And she said,
    lay not thine hand upon the book, neither do thou any thing unto it...

    I let the hammer fall
    and watched it sink into the skin of Earth
    with the rest of my bones
    continuously raising images of my flesh
    cutting through the life
    of hers.

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Dance, One...

    Did you ever dance
    barefoot
    on a marble floor
    strewn with broken glass
    yet
    not even one drop of blood trickled down the shiny surface,
    as you were
    floating?

    You did. I know.

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Dance, Two...

    I watch the tips of toes
    stretched ballerina style
    sinking in those air cushions carrying you so easily,
    and I follow the mirror-clear reflection from the floor
    carrying my eyes up ...down?... the artificial you
    past your ankles
    past your calves, knees, thighs,
    there
    where all ends and all begins
    and artificial you reflects back inside the flesh of real you
    filling the skin of real you
    floating, encircled by my arms,
    as my bare feet leave red traces
    all over the floor.

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Dance, Three...

    It wasnít love making,
    it was dance,
    the music written on the tiny surfaces of our finger tips
    and toe tips
    and tongue tips,
    the music played with the tiny surfaces of our finger tips
    and toe tips
    and tongue tips,
    the violin wail dying inside the one cymbals strike
    which shattered the glass
    and strew it
    all over the floor.

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scratches...

    scratches,
    from two to twenty two, or four, or thirty four
    taking all fingernails and all fingers and toes
    by two's and by three's and by...

    and tooth marks?
    tooth marks?
    as many.
    or more
    from as many teeth or more and as many or more mouths and...
    there is only one mouth.
    are you sure?
    I checked with my finger, with my mouth... she was completely wrong.
    but you don't argue with a Cerberus
    who thinks itself a Woman.
    was Cerberus a bitch?
    now, this was a question that only a woman could ask.
    no, wrong, only a Woman.
    so after all, my fantasies had some truth to them,
    or was it the truth that had some fantasy to it
    and the red traces trickling along the convolutions of my mind
    was that one reality
    I had lived so little in?

    I am not so sure I want to break the transparent wall
    between me and the world,
    no, not afraid of the shards.
    rather afraid to learn that my scratches
    and tooth marks
    were never there.

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Everafter...

    The stain of steam
    upon the windshield
    looking upon the blinding immaculacy of snow.

    We did not see it.
    The stain, the windshield, the snow.
    The heel of my palm crushing the tip of your nipple
    your insides crushing those of my daring outsides
    visiting the incense-filled adytum,
    an eternal flame about to burst
    and rip stain and window and snow
    out of existence.
    Ripping us out of existence
    too.

    We found our way back to Earth, slowly,
    knowing the tremor in our bodies will never cease
    neither after
    nor everafter.
    Was it the reason for spring following?

    I try to write.
    Both hands holding the pen
    and that tremor still there so many years after,
    as I knew it would.
    Everafter
    is a long time in hell.

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Passion...

    remember
    the night to come,

    when i tear open your door
    and i tear open your shirt
    and i tear open your body
    and you bite chunks off the sun and swallow the fire
    and me.

    remember
    the moment to dawn,

    when you bury your breast in my mouth
    and i bury my seed in your field
    and our nails turn claws burying finger bone into vein
    looking for the source of blood
    through endless layers of skin peeling back
    beneath scorching caresses.

    remember
    eternity is built of single moments...
    or is eternity one single unending moment?...
    or does a mortalís one moment of magic count against all of godís eternity?...

    when years of wait die in seconds of passion
    and seconds of passion die in years of wait
    to die again in seconds of passion
    to die again in years of wait...
    scrap from underneath your fingernails that immortality
    i buried there
    when you dragged my living carcass torturing it
    back into life,
    touch it to your lips.

    death never dies twice.
    Passion
    never dies.

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wondering...

    if your flesh
    was glass,
    I'd let it pour down my throat
    dragging behind it all that blood and fire and death.

    your glass is flesh,
    and I let it pour down my throat
    dragging behind it all that blood and fire and death.

    I always wonder at times
    and at times I always wonder
    and always and at times and at all those other times left over
    how would you look like
    dressed in transparent white.

    and I never wonder again
    until next time when I wonder
    because I know.

    is there such purity
    as it would have been?

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wraps...

    like trying to wrap rain drops
    in little envelopes of glass,
    or waves
    in eternally metamorphosing large sheets of glass
    and watching the effort go to waste
    as drops and waves and glass
    all break in sounds of crunch and splash and sigh...
    my sighs, at failing the impossible
    yet trying once again knowing you would expect me
    to try
    and I would,
    too.

    I try an even more terrific feat,
    covering your body with huge fields of gossamer thin glass,
    undressing you first, naked, more naked than the day you were born
    when you didn't yet own the naked soul
    you now do,
    and I pay special attention to your toes wrapping each one separately
    after kissing each one separately,
    and to your thighs and your tiny curls wrapping each separately
    after kissing each separately,
    and to your nipples
    refusing to wrap until I have no choice
    after kissing each blue from red hundreds of times
    and you beg me to continue before the blue turns red again,
    bleeding,
    and to your lips... the first I ever kissed,
    the last I ever will not.

    you smile
    and the cracks flower at the corners of your eyes
    and the masterpiece snows around you in glittering powder
    as it explodes as one single piece
    dissipating into enigmatic words forming around your flesh.

    we don't cry,
    we knew,
    and you watch me silently
    as I rub the microscopic needles over my glistening skin
    before I penetrate your welcoming hunger
    knowing the bleeding spots are not only
    skin deep.

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Late Night Visions...

    When flakes of snow turn crystal bells
    And sing the white upon the dells,
    I see your face inside the smoke
    And in the waning greyish cloak
    the blue of wells.

    Your fingers land upon my arm
    And endless shivers slowly farm,
    Then end the trail inside my mouth
    To feed my never ending drought
    your endless charm.

    I close my eyes to beter see
    That angel sitting on my knee
    Who fans her lips upon my nose
    Before around my lips they close,
    then all of me.

    Then I betray the gods of love
    And steal from them the magic glove
    To carry you through heaven's door
    And burn your flesh upon the floor,
    my gentle dove.

    Each morning with the break of day
    I look into the sun and pray
    To once again invade your skin
    And when I ask to feed you sin
    you say I may.

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Fingers...

    You could squash an elephant
    with your little finger, I said.

    You could easily squash me
    with your ring finger, I said.

    Before you squash any
    just let me squash your nipple
    between thumb and forefinger, I said.

    You left one finger out of your epos, you moaned.
    Out? I wondered
    and expected a blush
    but not the blush.

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Fridge-Magnets...

    The sea could be blue,
    Some wish might come true,
    A love may be choking in layers of glue,
    then there's you.

    What's that, some kind of fridge-magnet rhyme?
    Well, sounded like this also to me. Had to try again.

    When throbs wrap your breasts like a summer night's dew
    And thirty three rainbows with strawberry's hue
    The paleness of cheeks early mornings imbue,
    there's you.

    Mmm, that's kind of better, like a biiig magnet. Try maybe... again?
    Hmm, that was encouraging, though a bit... demeaning. Let's see...

    When thighs knit in loins threads of shivering magic, unrolled from a fantasy's silvery clew
    Before joining lions in rampaging fury through hellís gaping gates into fireholeís brew
    And claiming all sunsets in one sweeping bellow to floodgates embracing desires anew,
    you.

    I... I... I...
    I've seen fishes doing better than that. Though the ensuing fire-hail was human indeed.

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Memories Cave...

    probably a hundred years from now,
    maybe less, maybe more,
    surely some time...

    still looking for my way there,
    all that artificial light
    and muted voices
    no electric guitars, no dog barks, no butterflies
    and "Forbidden" signs everywhere
    (luckily not inside my head, there is same forbidden space there
    even for "Forbidden" signs)
    and soft walls...
    what the hell (pardon me) is the difference between paradise
    and asylum, even the colors are similar.

    true, no electro-shock therapy,
    I found there were worse things than electro-shock therapy,
    things like no-time
    so there isn't something to look forward to its end...

    a hand slides inside mine, a nice shock this one, finally...
    "where were you?" I ask.
    "where was I when?"
    "a hundred years or so, Earth years,
    maybe less, maybe more."
    "I was busy, searching."
    "you found?"
    "yes."

    you pull me,
    beyond the rows of smell-less flowers (out of consideration for allergies)
    and lukewarm brooks (out of consideration for throat affections)
    and plastic bees (to make it feel more Earth-like)
    past the huge Cerberus ("plastic too, I checked", you giggle)
    I help you push open the heavy doors into the darkness
    they click shut behind us
    and diffused light turns on instantly...
    "where are we?" I whisper.
    "memories cave," you say loudly, "here you can scream if you wish."
    I didn't necessarily feel like screaming
    though you did, and a few crystals shattered.
    "oops... well, they will never need them anyway..." you laugh,
    pulling me by the hand on the narrow, glittering path.
    "what is the glitter?"
    you touch a leaf on the side of the road,
    it shatters to glittering dust,
    you touch a flower
    it shatters to glittering dust,
    "these are memories people don't care about
    temporary, irrelevant."

    "and if they shatter?"
    "they don't care. they don't know.
    but I don't think anyone else found the door,
    they were afraid of the Cerberus."

    "weren't you?"
    you stop, your hold tightening,
    your eyes glittering
    and it is not with crystal dust.
    "I had a dream to follow. I knew."
    I don't ask what you knew.
    I know.

    we keep walking,
    no-time here so time is no issue,
    "it took me many Earth years to find it,
    it will take many Earth years to get there."

    Earth years... so irrelevant, can be a hundred, can be a thousand,
    your hand hold is what counts,
    maybe a thousand is actually better, I think mischievously
    squeezing your hand till it is supposed to shatter
    like the crystals.
    it does not,
    you are not a temporary, irrelevant memory.
    we walk.

    we arrive.
    "this is the patch," you say,
    pointing to a bed of flowers and grass not different to the others -
    crystal glass, crystal flowers.
    "yours?"
    "no, neither yours, I don't know where these are,
    wasn't looking for them.
    ours."

    "why?"
    "why what?"
    "why were you looking for ours, not for yours, not for?..."
    "I wanted to know."
    "know what?"
    you don't answer.

    you unshoulder the heavily hanging bag,
    the one that I offered to help with when we started, so many years back,
    and that you refused.
    you untie it
    and pick out... a sledgehammer?...
    you lift it... "hey!" I shout in fright, "hey..." I whisper in wonder
    as all I can hear is tinkle... tinkle... tinkle...
    as you smash it down again and again and again
    and not even one single crumb of one single crack jumps off the flowers.
    only bells, tinkle... tinkle... tinkle...
    I am too shocked to ask.
    "our memories," you say, "solid crystal. like steel."

    I attack you,
    drag you down, rip your clothes, bite... deeply...
    "are we allowed to make love in paradise?" I whisper,
    barely able to control my shivers.
    "this is not paradise.
    this is a shared venture - paradise and hell,"
    you explode in laughter
    and I almost tear your tongue off
    as I smother your mouth
    and ransack your body again, and again, and again...

    "our memories, we broke them,"
    I feel like crying, picking up crystal shards from your back,
    thighs, belly,
    "how?.. how?..."
    "no, you silly post-human,
    we are building new ones, this is not breaking, this is re-shaping."

    "and when will they become steel again?"
    "depends."
    "on what?"
    "on what we do next."
    "you mean tomorrow?"
    "there is no tomorrow in no-time."
    "so... there is a very long 'next' coming," I smile suddenly,
    finally getting off my post-human limitations.
    "yes, some fools call it eternity."
    "and you, what do you call it?"
    "I? I call it love," you say,
    and the sounds of smashed crystal blend to interminable perfection
    with the sounds of your interminable sighs.

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In A Black And White World...

    In a black and white world you are not the color,
    you are the liberty
    to invent, create, give birth to color,
    to pour it in molten glass and drip it in glowing ore
    and think it in kaleidoscope before letting it burn inside emotions,
    with emotions, slice emotions into tiny fragments of second
    which envelope dreams
    and desires
    before they have a chance to die out of the world.

    In a black and white world you are the window
    suddenly imploding under the onslaught of melodies we never heard
    yet always knew,
    notes and murmurs and chirps bleeding along the sharp shard edges
    as the uniqueness of red passion drips
    and the pool of that indescribable uniform red
    reflects a hands hold, a lips hold, a thighs hold
    when we prefer to drown in the red of passion
    rather than breathe in the black and white
    of world.

    In a black and white world
    I enmeshed myself in layers of steel, three,
    and layers of void, thirteen,
    and layers of frozen pain thirteen and three hundred
    and never knew that skin is glass
    and glass thins to brittle
    and your end of finger penetrates the steel and the void and the pain
    reaching the glass of skin and the brittle of glass
    and I turn flaming flesh searching for the fate
    of flaming paper... ashes, gladly dying in that holocaust of emotions
    your end of finger
    carries.

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smiles...

    darkness
    descends like a groping hand,
    each finger a scythe
    each fingernail the hungry, thirsty blade
    looking for absolution
    through savagery.

    I reach out to welcome the invader,
    just about to touch...
    and a thin layer of melting glass covers my skin with whispers
    and the blades bounce
    and I see the blue in the darkth
    as it gathers me gently in its silk
    and carries me away to the flowers bed we seeded so long ago.

    didn't know
    I could still smile.
    did we seed smiles too,
    now ready
    to be written?

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