Hobbies - Poetry - AnonymousGreen
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Imperfect Smiles

    Rarely did I hesitate so much
    Between the imperfect tangs
    Of wild cherries.
    One basketful overflowing with femininity
    At its roughest,
    Wine oozing honey thick between the bottom sprigs,
    Aromatic indecencies weaving their way
    through aromas of innocence
    and glittering sparks of sweat on bare skin
    Interlacing with odoriferous wafts
    of rose, and jasmine, and white lily
    spoken from red lips.

    Grace inside a breast unclothed
    With a suckling’s mouth betrothed,
    Moments past the ripping dolor
    Rapt in toothless screaming color...

    Charm beneath the rasping gravel
    Once thin woven thorns unravel,
    And the sting of biting lashes
    Dies as lust through bodies crashes.

    Pride unmindful of the glory
    Of a scarred and bleeding quarry,
    In the tender steel of finger
    Pain and love covertly linger.

    Mythical creatures,
    Wondrous in their undeclared vanity
    Thin perfumed whiffs mounting, dancing,
    Spiraling around each other
    Delicately touching
    Searching for the intimacy of shared warmth
    and naiveté and virtue
    And dreams,
    Until the sirens part
    And the siren chants follow each to its adobe
    Calling each its own sailor to a proscribed doom
    In the loneliness of past rifts
    And present promises
    And the beauty of tomorrow’s rolling rolling rolling
    imperfect smiles...




    Building my day,
    Events, needs, mortar drying up in between
    Sometimes solid sometimes crumbling.
    Wake up. Open eyes. Shower.
    Dressing. Longing.
    Longing?... this is not a brick I remember,
    Where did it come in from all of a sudden?...

    Bread slices. Door. Key.
    Longing. Longing.
    Again?... my hand misses the ignition lock
    And my sight blacks out for a few seconds,
    Blacks, blanks, blinds...

    Ignition. Longing. Driving. Longing. Longing.
    Longing. Overtaking. Radio. Longing.
    Headlights. Straight ahead. Almost.
    I pull into a highway parking place,
    Let my head lean on the steering wheel
    Minding not the honking sound... is it mine?...
    Waiting for the shiver to subside
    Letting words flow on paper.
    Bricks. Paper. Words. Poems. Rhymes. Longing.
    Finally the right place.
    Building my heart.
    I smile.

    Drive. Park. Phone. Eat. Meet. Talk.
    Bricks, routine, irrelevant,
    Grey walls, grey mortar, grey sun.

    Then for a few moments I close my eyes
    Leaving the grey reality behind
    And visit that strange brick now finally residing in my heart.
    Green walls, green mortar, green sun
    Shining on green bricks building my thumping castle,
    Paper, words, poems, rhymes, the newcomer longing...
    And I smile again, no one sees me inside there except one,
    The one sharing colors with me, the mother of my inner bricks.
    Love. You.



It Does Not Matter Your Pain

    I took your ring finger in my mouth
    And I bit hard
    Till I screamed.
    You did not.
    You knew.

    It does not matter your pain, I said.
    If real or imaginary,
    If body or soul,
    If anchored on solid rock or sinking in treacherous sand.
    I am there to soothe,
    I am there to let you sink into me
    Sucking you in like a forest mire
    Your open wounds pouring their poison into me
    As I drink it in
    To clean your pain
    Then to spit you back out on seas of grass
    Sparkling in your fresh beauty.

    You sat, thinking, suckling on your hurting finger,
    There may be sharp rocks in the mire, you said.
    Sharp rocks, and thorns, and skeletons of long dead animals,
    Which may cling to my skin,
    And claw at my flesh
    And pour rot into my open wounds,
    The medicine may be worse than the sickness.

    I sat, abashed, inhaling the truth of words
    The reality
    Of wishing and ignorance.
    Teach me, I said.
    Teach me of rocks and I’ll blast
    Teach me of thorns and I’ll burn
    Of skeletons and I’ll bury into forgotten sands of time,
    Let me pour over you
    The thickness of honey
    The sweetness of lilac bushes
    Serenity of newborn’s sleep
    Drown you inside my shield of protecting arms.

    You sat, looking at your bleeding finger,
    Remembering my scream,
    An almost smile fluttering in passing over your lips.
    I don’t know, you said.
    I don’t know to decide if you sound like a despised machoist,
    Or a body imperialist, or a male chauvinist...
    giggle... pig... giggle...
    Or like a man in love,
    Still looking for his way
    And lost in the intricacies of wounds and pains and medicines
    And millions of words you did not read
    And you wish to write.

    What would you choose? I said.

    What Is or what Would? you said.

    Is and Would, I said.

    You tell me, you said.
    And I will confirm.
    Or not.

    I took my ring finger in my mouth
    And I bit hard
    Till you screamed.
    I did not.
    I knew. Did you?

    A man in love, I said.

    Then waited,
    Watching you take my wounded finger in your mouth
    And sucking its blood,
    Letting me take your wounded finger in my mouth
    And suck its blood,
    Then laying both side by side on the white bed sheet
    And watching blood drops
    Soaking into the tissue
    And mixing into one single red stain. You said
    You will be my mire, if I be yours,
    I will be your mire, if you be mine,
    You will love me, if I love you,
    I will love you, if you love me.
    You told me.
    I confirmed.

    The ceiling, then the sky opened,
    A feather fell on the bed next to our fingers
    Dipping into the blood.
    I almost jumped, startled,
    Then looked at your serenity and stayed down.
    Now you have to believe in miracles, you said,
    You just witnessed one.
    Tell me one word, one single word, and then I sign.
    Think carefully, one single word, and I will give you a hint –
    It is not ‘pain’.

    I thought carefully, wondering at the stain not drying,
    Wondering at the pouring green,
    I stopped wondering.
    I said it.
    You signed.
    I signed.



A Spider Called Life

    I felt it sinking its mandibles into me,
    Never able to shake it down whatever I tried,
    Wiggling and squirming just bringing in shrugs of indifference
    And faster sinking poison
    Sucking my insides dry
    By the day,
    By the minute,
    Dying such a worthless death
    Cocooned in unbreakable passing moments
    An alien preying on my years and my wants and desires,
    Not even an out of this world creature,
    A native, supposed to be a friend, ha...

    I started giving up,
    Another day in slavery’s hell... what for?...
    C’mon, suck it all in one go and let go,
    Who needs the skin
    When the soul is amiss?
    “I do...” she said, “...while the soul is still in...”
    “Knowing it is parting soon?...”
    “Knowing it is living now,” she answered.

    I did not know her.
    “Do you carry this scourge on your shoulders too,
    The one called Life?”
    “I carry this Life on my shoulders,
    The one called Love.”

    I did not understand her answer, it was too philosophical for me,
    But she sounded so soft, so wishful...
    “Are you wishful?” I asked,
    “Wishful for what?”
    “Wishful for Love,” she said,
    Casting down her eyes not in shame but in pride.
    “But you said you carry it on your shoulders...”
    “The wish... not the Love...”
    “I am lost,” I whined.
    “Then let me touch your Life...
    “My scourge...”
    “Your Love...”

    She touched,
    And seasons blew into my lungs
    And children played in my gardens
    And rain poured... “Rain?...” ...on my deserts... “...oh...”
    She did not stop touching, she added a smile to it.
    “I guess we will have to learn each other’s language.”
    “You taught me already your first word, Love.”
    “I have more words I wish to teach you,
    Will you allow me?”

    “Do I have to keep my soul inside my skin for that?”
    “Is it a big sacrifice?”
    I refused to look into her eyes
    Fearing to turn into stone, fearing to turn into flower,
    Fearing to trust.
    “I fear to trust too... Please look into my eyes...”

    I looked into her eyes,
    Wandering beneath unknown constellations
    Tasting refreshing nectars from hearts of bubbling stones
    Feeling skin for the first time in my... life... I dared use the word.
    “What is your name?” I asked.
    “Your love,” she answered.
    “What is my name?” I asked.
    “My love,” she answered.
    “What is this place?” I asked.
    “This is where it all began,” she answered and took my hand
    Leading me on a path named Timeless...



My Last Poem

    Your skin will remember
    What you did forget
    And scream with the urge of repaying its debt,
    Remember will glints in the desert it knows
    When fingertips ripped it from death’s reaching claws.

    Your lips will unbury
    What your wish to hide
    The trial by fire through blistering pride,
    Unbury beneath aging layers of mud
    The lingering traces of passion and blood.

    Your heart will uncover
    What once you have known
    And carved is with silver through marrow and bone,
    Uncover a love which refuses to die
    When emerald teardrops each sunset you cry.



Morning Craves

    I miss your probing finger tips
    In search for dimples’ shallow deeps
    Still glinting with delightful brine
    And single drops of bleeding wine
          Till morning under curtains creeps.

    The silent moments at your breast
    My mouth a welcome biting pest,
    The hunger growls your belly’s deep
    A music lulling me to sleep
          While rolling skies sink into west.

    The jukebox guising royal band,
    The ribbon tying hand to hand,
    The silken kiss of gliding hips
    When dance the steel of patience rips
          And then we love till end of sand.

    The words, the words, the words, the words,
    Your trill with morning’s feuding birds,
    I miss the sound, I miss the shape,
          Upon my skin your roving herds.




    “Are you sorry,” she asked,
    “For ever falling in love with me?”

    “Yes,” I answered,
    “I am sorry every day,
    This being the reason I cannot fall in love with you
    Every day

    She smiled, satisfied.

    “Are you sorry,” she asked,
    “For ever kissing me
    The first time?”

    “Yes,” I answered,
    “For it robs me of the right
    To call each evening sunrise
    And each morning sunset
    And each kiss the manna in the desert of my life.”

    “You’re so sleek and smooth,” she said, thoughtful.
    “Are your words sleek and smooth?” she asked.
    “If they were
    Would my mouth be bleeding
    And your skin be ripping?” I answered.
    There was no question in my answer.
    “Are they thorns, then?”
    “If they were
    Would my mouth be caressing
    And your skin be shivering?” I answered.
    There was no question in my answer.
    “What are your words, then?” she asked.
    “A world,” I answered,
    “My world and I in it,
    Nicely tied with looping ribbons
    Laced with fire
    Sprinkled with dreams,
    There is a label on the box...
    Did you see it?”
    She frowned,
    “No, what does it say?”
    “Just one word, big letters,
    Wonder you did not see it till now,
    It says... fragile.”

    She smiled, satisfied.

    “Are you sorry...” she hesitated...
    “For making love to me,
    The first time
    Every time?”

    I picked her chin up
    Moving her eyes from the hair on my chest she was playing with
    To my mouth.
    She refused to lift them as high as my eyes, waiting.
    I knew what she was waiting for,
    I kissed her eyes and she laid her cheek, satisfied, on my chest.

    “Yes,” I answered, “I am sorry,
    For every first time is one time less
    In the number of first times
    We will ever make love.”

    She smiled. Satisfied.

    “Your turn now,” I said,
    “And don’t forget that I copyrighted all the ‘yes’ answers...”
    She propped her head on her elbows, looking again at my mouth.
    “No, I am not sorry I ever fell in love with you,
    No, I am not sorry I ever kissed you the first time,
    No, no, no, I am not sorry for eternally being a virgin.”

    She kept looking at my mouth.
    “I have never had a first time.
    Each time is one.”

    Simplicity. Beauty.
    I kissed her eyes again.
    She laid down her head on my chest, again.

    I smiled. Satisfied.



My Ultimate Object Of Desire

    No, it’s not what you think,
    wink, wink...

    No, it’s not
    that flaming spot
    driving lame
    my sweet dame
    when the skin’s inhaled caresses
    plaiting moans in triple tresses
    shove demented fading reason
    into purgatory’s prison
    till the buds laden recesses
    burst in summer’s ever season...

    No, it ain’t
    desires quaint
    as your whip
    curls my hip
    and my wrists in ribbons straining
    with your toes my senses draining
    dancing flesh into my stirrup
    while your nipple’s dulcet syrup
    over craving hunger reigning
    feeds my summer’s ever chirrup...

    No. It is
    to look in your eye
    as I die...



I Don’t Think I Love Her

    I turn off the radio.
    Then the little digital screen telling me irrelevancies like
    temperature, date, distance to destination...
    Distance to destination... ha...
    My distance to destination is thousands of miles, hundreds of days,
    The distance to you, your body your heart...
    I wonder for a moment – body and heart or heart and body,
    Chuckling, or actually cackling as I choke on a piece of waffle
    which I threw into my mouth and mis-swallowed.

    I finish coughing, still alive,
    My eyes tearing
    Not all of it because of the waffle...
    I miss you.

    The sky brightens,
    I turn off the lights,
    I feel like closing my eyes too but one does not close one’s eyes
    at 90mph unless...
    Unless what?
    I kick myself mentally,
    My pact of mutual respect with the lamp posts validated once more
    And I chuckle again. This time I don’t cackle.
    I touch the chain around my neck
    A pendant hanging on it
    It carries fingerprints,
    The element of crime, proof, undeniable,
    I don’t think I love her,
    I think I love you.
    You smile back.
    You like it when I think of you in terms of you,
    Present, always.

    My pen dries out, what stupid timing.
    I curse, sorry, curses are not suitable for this write,
    And finish by scratching the last lines onto the paper
    Hoping I will be able to read them later.
    If not... tough luck,
    So many of my words are gone missing
    Forgotten, never said,
    So that a few more...
    If there was a police of missing words it would have been busy just with me.
    I am running out of paper too
    So I cannot even scratch on
    I love you.




    I opened up your book today
    At page one hundred thirty three
    Where fragile scents of early May
    Disrobe a world of winter's grey
    To paint it green of lover's tree
    As if you wrote it just for me
    To call me back before I stray.

    I closed my mind to pages old
    Those seasons fore you knew my touch
    Afraid to find beneath the mold
    A beauty better left untold
    Of flavors soft as never such
    Inside that modest looking hutch
    With glints of glass... or was it gold?

    I did not peek to read the end
    I knew it floats beneath your eye
    Where armies grim the right defend
    To write a rainbow colored blend
    Where smiles the rules of life defy
    And wishes sweet stoutly deny
    The reign of fate's imposing trend.

    I read the rhymes between the rows
    Then lost in thought upon a bench
    I fell into a fitful doze
    About to let my senses close
    And let a raw and bleeding trench
    The thirst of nether worlds to quench
    As breathing fades and heartbeat slows.

    The book has dropped upon the sand...
    Was it your kiss you let me drink?
    Then with a loving tender hand
    You wrapped my wound in silver band
    And offered me the quill and ink
    "You write the end... and pray us sink
    Into the bliss of Neverland..."




    The softest spots in your body
    Do you know them,
    Did any ever told you of them?
    I did?

    True, it could have been your lips
    Suicidal prey
    Insistently bleeding dry
    Once bitten
    Dripping red with unending paint
    Drawing uni-colored fantasies on my belly
    On their way to undenied conquest
    And momentary death.

    Breasts, yes, maybe your breasts
    Sharing layers of flesh with lungs
    And breaths
    Cushions of motherhood
    And hideouts to screaming desires
    When embedded rubies rise heedlessly
    Challenging destiny
    In a self proclaimed republic of tireless blaze
    Passionate onslaught
    And never lost virginity of want.

    Or your passionate insides
    Calling out in supplication
    For the invading demolishing lust of armies
    Of pouring rain
    And flowing tiger fangs
    And tearing muscles
    While shamelessly spitting out bouquets of wild flowers
    And squashed petals fragrances
    And winged drops of boiling honey
    Till nothing is left of any tomorrow
    And now is the only moment in time which counts.

    No, it is not.
    Not your lips, not your breasts,
    Not even your passionate insides.
    The softest spot in your body is your... memories...
    When late at night
    You lie on your bed
    Close your eyes
    Stop breathing
    Die for a few moments to the world
    And infinity tenderly yawns open its abysmal richness of sensation
    Allowing you to float down
    For years
    Into the ever endless engulfing embrace
    Of your memories'




    You were beautiful.
    Turning heads till vertebrae snapped
    And teeth rattled
    And eyes switched orbs fighting over the better view...

    Male humans locked in glazed stares
    watching the military parade of your charm,
    Female humans breaking fingernails
    in fist clenched frenzy,
    Pavement stones knocking each other to pebbles
    as they rushed forward trying to act cushion to your heels...

    You were beautiful.
    I wasn’t there to die inside your beauty.
    Such unforgivable sin.

    I am there.
    So late.
    You are not beautiful anymore.
    You are marvelous.
    Oh, the pleasure of dying inside the marvel...



Abstractum Of Life

    An ocean of pearls,
    Trillions and trillions of blinking sparks,
    Hiding inside its depths the beauty of one single shell
    hiding inside its walls the beauty of one single bead of water
    hiding inside... life...
    I picked it open
    Threaded a silver string through it
    And hung it around your neck
    Sliding between your breasts
    Touching your skin with humid eternity.

    One drop of water...
    Water, life...
    You, life...
    My life.




    When emptiness invades
    Uncalled for,
    Walls tumble
    Upwards... taking away even the comfort of ruins and dust
    and dogs yapping miserably for lost masters,
    And all that is left is oblivion
    And the stank of my sweat and the bones under my skin
    and the memories straining to get away through the holes in my mind,

    I stretch out my arm, palm open, fingers taut,
    Listening for the incoming sound of warmth
    An approaching hand
    Radiating skin flavors
    And questions uncared for
    And bits of ruin and dust and reality
    Till fingers twine and clasp and hold inside the unbreakable bond
    of the knowledge of love.



Is It Lust?

    Crawling down your forehead
    Long your eyebrows
    Mingling like solitary rain pouring drop by drop
    with the water, soap, and foam on the floor,
    Your bent body inching forward on red knees
    As your hands scrub the leftovers of mud, and ketchup, and dog shit.
    The soles of your feet cracked,
    The hem of the dress wet and clinging to your thighs
    Outlining the shape of soft mounds of flesh
    Revealing without showing,
    Glints of white underwear flashing up from the wet mirroring surface.

    You hear me opening the door,
    Closing it,
    You hear me gazing with desires climbing up from my toes
    Past my loins and into my brain,
    Sparks streaking between fingernails at ends of tense fingers
    Like miniature thunder
    As I approach your prostrated figure,
    Inching and scrubbing, inching and scrubbing,
    Your waist oscillating,
    The hem of your dress pulling mysteriously higher up
    A thin line of intimate garment showing.

    I kick my shoes, socks, away
    Kneeling next to you
    Putrid water soaking into the rough cloth of trousers
    My palm sliding on the floor till it touches your ankle
    Then further on upon the flesh,
    You never stopping your inching, scrubbing
    Though your knees part a little from each other
    Inviting?... indifferent?...

    I inch alongside you,
    My hand suddenly gripping the limpness of the wet hem
    And dragging it up half your rounded spine
    Then hungry fingers grope the thin piece of cotton
    indecently hugging the desire smoldering between your thighs
    And tear it with a dry snap
    As you roll onto your back
    gliding on the soapy surface away from me
    Laughing wildly as I paddle behind
    slipping sliding slipping sliding
    Your feet kicking my advancing shoulders away
    Till finally I get hold of those antagonistic ankles
    Sliding towards each other, into each other,
    Steaming jets squirting away from underneath our bodies
    Sounds of tearing seams, zippers, buttons
    drowning in basic animal grunts,
    Body tatters knotting into each convoluted other
    at loin, chest, mouth,
    Finger muscles mincing bone into minute splinters
    As teeth clash in a frenzy of insatiable voraciousness
    Saliva streaming thickly long incinerated cheeks
    Before it drips into the soapy mire
    with the futility of a short sizzling sound.

    “Is it lust?” I ask you.
    “No,” you answer, your claws back into their recesses,
    Your fingers still knotted into my hair
    making sure my teeth never desert your left nipple.
    “No,” you repeat,
    “It is love.




    I said...

    I’m afraid of the day
    Rhyming senses will stray
    And words fading silent my sanity flay,
    When thin silver hairs
    Tying flames into stares
    Uncoil turning fever from silver to grey.

    I said...

    I’m afraid of the time
    Fleeting phrases sublime
    Will sink in the mires of mind’s clogging grime,
    When silvery stars
    Painting love into scars
    Descend into void’s unappeasable slime.

    You said...

    I’m afraid of the while
    Dusky moments beguile
    And blur your creation in silences vile,
    But know... if your pen
    Deceives now and then
    Forever you’ll own both my heart and my smile.



Monologue For Two

    sometimes angry,
    sometimes defiant,
    never in hate yet sometimes in forgetfulness
    and in pain,
    sometimes blinding, vicious pain...

    two voices unhearing of two voices
    knowing the way
    yet saying it the ways,
    tangling rules of love with rules of combat
    instilling quiet in dovecotes
    and unrest in eyries...

    A thin voice crying its thin pain,
    suddenly restoring sanity into the world
    and order as should
    and values as need
    and reality as short as no time for monologues for two,
    and as eyes ask for a final moment of warmth
    hands land softly on the soft body
    sharing their soothing power
    allowing the moment in time reach the moment in time
    when left little finger touches right little finger
    soaking warmth and consolation and knowledge
    from the one who says good bye...

    The touch persists,
    long after,
    having learned a lesson in monologues
    when hearts share one voice,
    called... so surprisingly... love...



Probably Human

    Question marks
    Preceded by questions unknown.
    Sifting through possibilities
    Single words, complex sentences,
    Clear, concise, or hesitating.
    I look up from the piece of paper
    searching for guidance
    finding none
    Then look down again adding a few more squiggles to the paper.
    My mind wanders... why is this sign considered a question mark,
    Who decided, why is it not inverted, how do you know if it is
    a big question
    or a small question,
    Written letters carry no inflection of need, abuse, demand...

    I return my attention, rather try to
    To the white space awaiting that fateful decision
    in front of the mark.
    Then click the pen shut,
    Fold the paper in four
    And seal the envelope, sending it as is.
    I do add the address though,
    Otherwise it would be ridiculous.
    More than is already?

    I wonder if I will get it back filled in before the question mark
    with the question
    Or behind the question mark
    with an answer.
    Not the answer, just an answer.
    I guess the answer does not exist.
    Just the question.
    Which I do not know to phrase.



Some Call It Love

    I know, sometimes I strike.
    My fist as fast as lightning,
    As crushing and ungainly as an elephant’s foot.
    Moments of uncontrolled blindness, distress,
    Pain spewing out before brain takes control of reins
    And the whole herd of wild beasts gallops mindlessly
    Leaving behind trodden grass,
    Broken pebbles,
    One crimpled daisy.

    Did I say I love you,
    As mindlessly?
    As furiously, as fiercely, as ferociously?
    I gather the daisy into my arms,
    Lulling it to sleep the way I would a child,
    Smoothing petals, mending a broken leaf,
    Plugging the stem between my ribs there where it belongs
    Guarding it with my life,
    Feeding it my life
    Singing to it songs of praise and prayers of forgiveness.

    Till petals soak blood
    Leaves drink thunder
    And the stem curls around my neck choking death out of me
    And life right into my mouth, throat, lungs.

    When did it turn woman?
    “I love you, silly...” mouths the daisy child
    Letting a soft tongue linger upon my lower lip
    And striking back with the power of glinting retina
    And sparkling iris.
    “I know,” I say and carry her upon my arms
    Knowing that my arms will dry
    And my bones will crumble
    And my shadow will encrust into rock
    Before I let her fall.
    “Remember” I ask, “when I told you I will always catch you
    Before you fall?”
    She does not answer. She remembers. She never forgot.
    Else... where from all the love, and trust, and forgiveness.
    “Remember” she asks, “the redeemable promises I entrusted
    With you?”
    I do not answer. I remember. I never forgot.
    She does not have to say it, I know it.
    They will never be redeemed. Because there will never be need.
    It is not promises between us.
    It is wildfire.

    And then there was sun.
    Some call it love. We do.




    I visited your words,
    That museum with its glass boxes randomly arranged
    In shapes and colors flowing off your senses
    And its unnumbered exhibits...
    Your pain, love, hesitation, cry, dream.
    Your words.
    My Florence.

    I was alone,
    Moving along the corridors on the tips of my toes
    Like an overweight male ballerina
    Pulling out scenes from another life and dancing them,
    Laying my cheek against them,
    So soft... the occasional shard drawing a blessed bleeding line
    Across my skin.

    There were emergency hammers everywhere
    With notices attached
    “In case of emergency please do not use...”
    I had a glass key in my pocket,
    Unique, irreproducible,
    You gave it to me... use it with care... if you wish to...

    I used it with care, opening a box,
    Touching its art with reverence, adoration,
    Then carefully laying the words back
    Locking the door and healing my wound
    Before I moved on to the next one.
    Funny, your art, yet I found so many corners there
    Reminding me of the shape of my fingertips,
    Whispers I did,
    Dried out pieces of skin... did they match the scars on my lips?

    I looked each time back, asking for permission
    Before slightly re-arranging the exhibit,
    A comma forgotten in haste,
    A missing word, a missing letter.
    Sometimes crying over wasted memories,
    Sometimes smiling at a finger pointing to my ribs
    Ready to tickle or to rip...

    I locked the last door, the last exhibit.
    I locked the museum’s gates.
    Left town.
    Back to your eternal never to be touched again naked beauty.




    I’d love to glide my finger round
    Your sole, as it deserts the ground
    To reap the crumbs of steaming earth
    Then seed three times your ankle’s girth
    In lustful mirth.

    I’d like to slide it up your thigh
    Until a soft impatient sigh
    Acclaims its trace inside the dell
    And leads it to sweet fire’s well
    Its thirst to quell.

    I’d wish to let it reach your chest
    And watch my lusting mouth at rest
    As air invades your hungry lungs
    And ripples ride your ribcage rungs
    And bleeding tongues.

    I’d crave it paint your pouting lips
    And rove around uncounted trips
    Till water’s eyes the pain refresh
    And red turns boiling blistered flesh
    And skins enmesh.

    I’d dream it wag a magic wand
    And dress its skin a silver band
    Awaking spirits summer rife
    And runes translating word to life...
    Like man, like wife.




    I slid underneath the dry leaves carpet,
    Death’s endless colors rustling majestically above me
    As thin dust poured into my nostrils
    Counting time.

    Life rushed by indifferently,
    Boots thumping nearby yet somehow missing me again
    Dogs preferring a rotten tree trunk to my steaming mound
    Sniffing away, disgusted.

    I felt rain crawling through the putrefying foliage
    Marking with mud traces the most delectable portions of skin
    Paths for armies of worms to start a triumphal march
    Days later.

    I did not cry, leaving the ungrateful job to the few frogs
    In search for a kiss and for a kingdom
    And mistaking my unshaven face for the beautiful princess
    After all, what do frogs know?

    Why did you interrupt my gratifying hallucination
    When you kneeled next to the motionless shape
    And started cleaning its face, chest, loins, mind
    In caressing movements?

    Because I love you?...

    You always have the most inappropriate of answers I thought
    Dissatisfied with your absolute knowledge of me
    As reluctantly I smiled my dirty naked shape into your lap
    And went to sleep.




    Sometimes I feel heavy
    Like an elephant,
    My brain the color of his skin
    Sinking in a sensory deprivation mire
    Its thousands... billions?... of suction cups
    clinging to his skin
    Dragging him down to terrible suffocation death
    In a void rich in exotic minerals
    called nothingness, absence, turmoil...
    Turmoil?... what kind of a mineral is that?

    I try to dance,
    Elephants in a mire dance, didn’t you know?...
    The accompanying music the sloshing of skin cells
    and brain cells and memory cells
    Trying to escape the terrible wet embrace
    Yet inexorably working their way down
    to impending doom
    Such an ungainly dance, so much beauty
    in the gigantic muscular mass
    Imagining memories of dancing floors
    Snow turning skin clinging to neck,
    Warmth turning flame turning thigh rubbing against thigh,
    Dreams turning breasts,
    Lips... what turns into lips?

    Hey, do you know that elephants cry?
    Everybody thinks it’s crocodiles, ha,
    Stupid, ignorant, conceited humans,
    Elephants cry when sinking into mires, dancing,
    I swear you could even see them smile,
    Just try...
    Skin turning snow,
    Thigh back to flame back to warmth...
    what was there before warmth?...
    Breasts into dream wafts,
    The quiet so quiet, absolute...

    I hear a song,
    I blink away the mud
    As smoke thin fingers pick me by the ears
    Two each side
    And start pulling up,
    My bones emerge from the morass hanging limp
    Like wind chimes,
    “Wind chimes?...”
    She shakes me slightly and I hear the bells...
    “Hmm, needs some tuning...” she adds
    And she keeps me hanging by one ear
    As her other hand lays petal next to petal next to petal
    Till the blanket is thin enough and wide enough
    And she lays me down on the blanket on my back
    And picks each and every bone in my body
    Holds it flute like against her lips
    And Zephyr obediently escapes her mouth
    Tuning each to melodious perfection.
    “You miss one bone, here,”
    She says pointing to my ribs
    Then she curls and she curls and she curls
    till she finally fits in,
    Warm, snug, perfect.

    “Hey,” my turn to tell her, “elephants do cry, you know?”
    but she is silent.
    “Hey, you forgot to tune yourself,” I tell her
    as she snores lightly, sighing, happy,
    but she is silent.
    I do not dare move...
    I close my eyes and start tuning her breath,
    Gently, after all I love her, “...do you know?...”

    And the words start rolling,
    and rolling, and rolling...



Eshet Chail

    biblical term: a most valorous woman

    The day behind you,
    When is the day behind you,
    midnight or later?
    Or is this later actually earlier?
    When does the day start at all if it doesn’t end?
    You sit for a moment on the wooden kitchen chair,
    Your muscles hurt, your back hurts,
    You close your eyes trying to recollect the day’s images
    At times mixing them with yesterday’s
    And with tomorrow’s...

    Waking up, waking up everybody,
    Then waking up everybody again,
    Yawning, you try to resuscitate yesterday’s painful bones
    in the few blessedly intimate moments in the bathroom,
    Impertinent knocks on the door
    “Mom...”, “Mom...”, “Mom, I have to...”
    Does it sound like two, three voices out there?
    Sounds more like one hundred.
    You open the door and let the stampede crush your feet
    as they fight for the right to pee first...
    Kitchen... breakfast... sandwiches for the day
    “Mom, where is my shirt?...”
    “Mom, I need a new notebook... I need two dollars...”
    “Mom, he hit me...”
    The bus, where is the darn bus?
    Of course, you don’t use damn in front of the kids
    or the dogs or the parrot
    Though you already feel like quoting all four lettered words
    you once read in the men’s room once when you needed to go
    on the highway and the ladies room was flowing over...
    You’ll be late for the bus, move your butt, take the money,
    You forgot your book... you run shouting after the bus
    as faces giggle back at you from the rear window
    and the bus disappears around a corner.
    You shiver in your pyjamas and oversized bunny slippers,
    the morning gets chilly.

    There’s still the dog to feed, such a bad habit,
    Then the other dog, the parrot,
    Luckily I don’t have to walk the parrot, you think.
    As you return, breathless,
    A coat thrown over your pyjamas and still in your bunny slippers,
    Your cheeks flushed
    And the dogs yapping all the way at some imaginary cat,
    The door clicks shut behind you
    a new generation of noises assailing you.
    One kid of the... darn, how many do I have? feels like thirty three...
    stayed home sick
    the loud music in her room killing every living plant
    within hearing range.
    No, you don’t use damn always darn around your kids...
    sounds like déjà vu?...
    even when thinking around them.
    The baby is up, pampers, milk, where are your shoes,
    your binky?...
    knowing darn... he-he... well most of them end with the dogs.
    I have to buy shares in Binky & Co. you think
    kissing the baby
    and doing your best to dress one handed and not fall over.
    Your foot misses the right entry to the panties once
    You almost give up on them altogether and go panty-less
    when you finally get it right
    And hobble your way in jumping like a goat
    The baby in your arms giggling and exercising its right
    to shave your head using an economical system
    of no cream and no knife but rather weeding with small
    Darn, I look like a monkey, look at my legs,
    have to shave before they throw me in jail for indecent exposure...
    You prefer not to remember struggling into the damn bra
    and the rest of feminine amenities,
    Some of tissue, some of grease, some of paint and dust and mist...

    What was it? you ask yourself, what was next?
    as your fleshy bottom starts feeling as rigid and numb
    as the piece of wood supporting it.
    Oh, I hate grocery shopping so I won’t remember it...
    Tiles scrubbing, dish washing, laundry, dusting,
    Preparing lunch, preparing dinner, laundry again,
    Pies and rolls and stuffing and gravy and green beans and red beans and...
    No, this was the food not the laundry...
    The principal calls... your kid hit someone...
    Your neighbor asks to loan your land mower,
    Your neighbor rings again asking if you have gas for the land mower,
    Your neighbor returns your land mower forgetting... ha-ha... to clean it,
    Third laundry shift... when will they invent disposable garments?...
    The principal calls... you forgot today’s PTA meeting,
    The physician’s office calls... you forgot to come...
    Damn... oops... darn... another appointment in one month?...
    You scream at them and then you are sorry and call them to tell them
    you are sorry but you get an answering machine...
    Almost time for the kids to come home,
    The kids come home
    Hungry like three locust waves
    leaving the killing fields of the kitchen
    worthy of a Pulitzer Prize in disaster photography...
    At least they play with the baby
    though in one year they will all be deaf
    as they enter the “music chamber”
    at least you have time now to
    mow the grass then
    tiles scrub... yes again, dish wash... yes more,
    laundry... yes once more as well, dust... so much dust in this world,
    You try to find some time to talk to them
    Help with homework between one arcade game to the other,
    The dogs invade the house
    Muddy paws all the way to the kitchen and back
    The parrot screams its head off...
    “To bed, everyone to bed...” it’s you, not the parrot
    Yet you do not scream, you sing...

    The day behind you.
    The wooden chair in the kitchen your best friend.
    You open a drawer and pick up a book and read a few pages
    some quality time for yourself,
    a few minutes
    quiet, peace,
    You take a piece of paper and write a few lines,
    Words playing in your head all day long,
    Hopefully you remember most of them...
    Soon it is laundry time again...

    You smile,
    No one sees,
    You do not complain.
    This is my life.
    I better get ready for another slice of it.

    You dream of princes, and frogs, and neverlands.
    Oh, yes... and no laundry...


    I close the window
    And part mumbling to myself...
    Eshet Chail,
    Yes, definitely Eshet Chail...




    my hands hovering over you
    never touching,
    just molecules of air separating us
    your mind guiding your senses
    where are his hands... now?

    Are the current eddies around my shoulder blades his passing hand

    as it pulls awake the mindless armies of living sand teeming under my skin

    drags them out of the apathy of their blood vessels shelter
    and sends them crashing against my pale skin barrier
    mountains mountains mountains
    short thin bristling hair swords cutting tunnels out to the light
    gloriously screaming for his blood
    in a madness of hunger and abandon and desire?

    Or is it the shadow passing my closed eyes
    asking permission to land
    without words or warning
    upon the undefined topography of my body
    my flower fields a frenzy of tumultuous sprouting fragrances
    my caverns honey flooded
    lace clouds melting against my ridges
    every corner a bundle of nerves ready to drop down its flags
    and slogans
    and dress ribbons and ribbons and ribbons
    decorating ankles
    opening in a delirious embrace
    to the liberating conqueror?

    Maybe the warmth soaking into my nipples
    and cutting a rugged path with the machete of my imagination
    trough the jungle of my entrails
    slicing slicing slicing
    straight into my loins
    where it ignites the long sleeping volcano
    into a beast of spitting steam and liquid flesh and squirming skin...
    is this his hand?...

    my hand touching you...




    biblical term: a prayer to be kissed each time you pass it by

    Mezzuzah, I say.

    Hilul Hakodesh, blasphemy!
    I can hear yeshiva bochers biblical scholars say
    Looking angrily my way
    And trying to give me the bad eye, Ein Hara,
    While at the same time keeping at their daily Pilpul splitting hairs
    On some confusing ruling the wisest of my people of once Hazal
    Once ruled
    In some once upon a time written Talmud pages.
    I look at them, smiling, thinking about rules of god ownership,
    How wrong, how confusing,
    How irrelevant.

    Remembering a story I once read about an illiterate boy
    Succeeding where the greatest of rabbi’s failed
    To open the gates of heaven to prayers
    By whistling irreverently and blasphemously
    In the synagogue
    The true prayer which lay at his heart
    And he did not have the learned words to voice.

    Remembering a poem I once read of a modest daughter of my people
    Who chose on committing the abominable crime of
    Taking her own life
    In order not to commit the abominable crime of
    Living in sin unmarried
    Deciding for god
    Making god’s choice for god.

    Remembering sights of my childhood
    My parents in fear of worship lest they end in a dark cell
    Or I end in persecution at school,
    In fear of placing the symbol of our belonging – the mezzuzah
    On the door,
    Hiding it out of sight
    But not out of reach of the eager hand looking forward
    At an unclear blessing
    And at the soul of a whole nation.
    Colored by layers of childhood awe
    And so many years since.
    My grandfather, the oldest man in the world,
    Climbing slowly up creaking stairs polished at ends
    And deeply eroded at middle
    Walled on both sides by walls made of dry horse manure,
    Finally reaching the entrance door
    Taking out with hands shaking with age and veneration
    A sacred piece of hand written scroll
    Rolling it
    And fitting it inside a hollow piece of wood
    Which then he nailed to that hidden spot on the wooden door frame
    He hardly could reach up to.
    Then kissing it. Then my father kissing it, then my mother.
    Then everyone looking at me
    The three foot tall brainwashed red hearted child communist
    One party no god no religion no tradition,
    Not telling me what to do
    Waiting for me to do it.
    I don’t remember hesitating
    My left hand covered my head
    As I stretched on tips of short toes till my right fingers reached it
    And then brought them back to my lips,
    Not god but my god, not religion but my religion,
    Not tradition but my tradition,
    Not pride but my pride, not reality but my reality,
    My mezzuzah,
    My symbol of resistance, of belonging,
    Of growing up into the unpleasantness of the world
    Ready to come to grips with my roots
    And bleed if need be,
    Changing at one finger’s touch from child to almost adult.
    I do remember shaking, like my grandfather,
    Understanding it was not age
    But love unending.

    I look at you,
    With my mind’s eye,
    Stretching on tips of worn out toes till my right fingers reach it,
    Your cheek,
    And then I bring them back to my lips.

    Mezzuzah, I say.



A Stranger’s Tears

    Freezing rain.
    I am driving fast
    Preferring risk to sleep,
    The few screeching almosts’ induced adrenaline
    Keeping my eyes open.
    “Drive safely,” you said, meaning it.
    “Love me,” I said, meaning it.
    “I do,” you said, meaning it.
    “I will,” I said, meaning it.

    I even stop at a parking place to write these words,
    So unusual of me.
    I do know my limits though -
    Sleet and speed and writing do not inter-marry,
    And I promised you...
    I always keep my promise.

    A car stops next to mine.
    There is a woman inside, alone.
    She turns on the overhead light and blows her nose,
    She is crying.
    I turn away my head in haste,
    Hating to intrude on such an intimate moment,
    A stranger’s tears, clawing at my heart.
    I return to my piece of paper
    Hardly seeing
    Not turning on the light so as not to embarrass her.

    My love,
    I have seen a stranger’s tears
    And they clawed at my heart.
    If I ever see your tears
    I will let the claws sink in
    And rip it out of my chest...

    Shudder, waking up,
    The car next to me gone,
    My earlier scribbled words on the seat next to me,
    I start driving again
    My mind clear
    No need to hurry anymore.
    My heart quiet
    No beat.
    For how long already?
    I know I have to do something or within a few seconds I die...
    Then I remember,
    We swapped hearts.

    I stop the car at the road’s side
    Pick up the piece of paper
    And correct it.

    And rip it out of your chest...

    I feel the beat again.
    I start driving.
    The message waiting on my computer’s screen at home.

    I believe you never will.
    I believe you love me.



Perfection Variants

    Looking sideways,
    Watching your profile and trying to imagine
    how you look like when looked at straight on.
    I know how, still, I am imagining,
    Taking the asymmetry of your half face’s features
    and mirroring it in my mind to complete the drawing
    and for a few minutes I feel like God, The Creator,
    Creating a mythical creature from just hints, and wishes,
    Images bouncing off dreams unfulfilled
    Or undreamed yet.

    Perfection, I am allowed,
    As God I am allowed to imagine perfection,
    Draw it, mold it, let there be...
    “Let there be what?” you ask, turning your face towards me.
    I probably said it aloud, trapped in my dreams of
    power and immortality and... smile?...
    You smile at me,
    Your teeth slightly irregular,
    Your nose slightly squashed,
    Your cheeks slightly puffy,
    Your eyes slightly squinting,
    Your smile... blistering my skin.

    “I was wrong,” I answer enigmatically
    Drawing a cross upon my imagination.
    “What about?” you ask.
    “Wrong about perfection,” I answer,
    “Perfection is a matter of definition.
    Mine is the strictest definition of all.”
    “And I guess I do not fit in?” you ask
    not sarcastically, just curios.
    “True, you do not fit in.
    You define it.”

    Your smile quiets into slightly curved lips
    As you look at me trying to get the catch,
    the joke, the subtle mockery.
    “OK, I give up,” you finally sigh, “what is the catch?”
    I watch you again,
    Your slightly irregular teeth,
    Your slightly squashed nose,
    Your slightly puffy cheeks,
    Your slightly squinting eyes,
    “You are so imperfect,” I say,
    “Am I the first one to see your absolute beauty?”

    You gave up trying to understand me a long time ago.
    You know what I mean to say.
    You know beyond.
    “You mean to tell I am perfect is what you try to say?”
    And I am thankful for you not trying to mock me.
    “Yes,” I answer,
    Wondering how did you guess this time.
    “I know,” you say.

    I still have a problem classifying the smile which followed,
    Somehow it did not fit into any of my preconceived definitions.
    What name do you call a perfect imperfection?



Softly... Softly...

    Lie down on the ground
    Softly... softly...
    Airy arms of dying tornadoes guiding you
    As dry leaf crumbs shiver in anticipation to... the touch.

    Long blades of grass confine you to the green prison
    of their cutting edge
    As they unbutton your shirt
    And unweave your dress
    And your lace snaps fluttering into ribbons, ribbons...
    Thin invisible cuts drawing bleeding red shapes
    of imaginary flowers on the white of your skin
    and red on the red of your nipple
    and red above the sleeping green of your iris.

    My skin, do you feel my skin
    as it clothes you with the rough texture of its robe
    And I roll around you, and around you,
    The flowers copying onto my skin,
    The bleeding traces copying onto my skin,
    The myriad of cuts copying into my skin,
    I, your brother in love,
    Your brother in pain,
    Your lover,
    I, you...

    My fingers, do you feel my fingers licking away your wounds
    Hungrily tracing your skin’s art
    and changing it into memory,
    Fingertips rubbing in the salty sting of thin blobs of perspiration
    soaking into the lush of valleys abundant in raw flesh
    In a desperate attempt to efface the lingering bitter poison of life
    with the melody of words hanging onto runes of ineffaceable love,
    I, your mate in love,
    Your mate in pain,
    Your lover,
    I, you...

    Morning comes.
    Spiders have dressed us transparent habits
    then discreetly retreated to shadowed burrows
    wondering at the mindless folly of lovers,
    Tiny lilac flowers carrying tiny bunches of glittering dew bouquets
    stick miraculously to our nakedness
    wondering at the inebriating fragrance of lovers,
    Lost stains of dawn finally find solace inside the tinkling drops
    changing the morbid colorlessness of crystal
    into the exploding fervor of kaleidoscopic miniature galaxies
    while wondering at the devastating inferno of lovers.

    And flesh melts inside the shiver of skin
    And flesh flows into flesh
    And flesh rivulets braid with flesh rivulets into a mighty river
    flowing into the sun
    As we merge into an unending euphony
    forever remembering the shared ecstasy of pain,
    Forever testing the limits of human beauty
    and tasting the unimaginable blends of human tenderness.



Underneath And Beyond

    I love your voice, I told you,
    Sweeping out of way protests and giggles
    And indecent remarks comparing it to... whatever...
    As I forced you to sing to me
    off key off scale off music,
    The gates to my auditory system busily stripping off
    your blush, your bashfulness, your grocery lists,
    your menstruation discomfort,
    your layers of calloused years,
    My eyes closed
    My hearing nerve ends stretched to molecular thinness
    looking for
    finally finding
    the real
    naked... you...

    Did you really think you could hide it forever
    mindfully or mindlessly
    the beauty?

    That purity of tone,
    Like the innocence of birth
    Gliding upon those nerve-end forests
    Then penetrating inside, nesting, curling down to sleep
    Finally having found the rhyme
    to their forgotten childhood whispers
    inside the embrace of my affection...

    I love your skin, I told you,
    Threatening with corporal punishment of said skin
    Any disrespectful remark or allusion its way
    As I yanked out of you permission for my blushing fingertips
    to scavenge it greedily for lost treasures,
    The gates to my sensory system busily smoothing out
    your wrinkles, your birth stretch marks, your laundry blisters,
    your arrogantly disobedient muscle shiver,
    your layers of fearsome memories,
    My eyes closed,
    My sensing nerve ends stretched to immaterial thinness
    looking for
    finally finding
    the real
    naked... you...

    Did you really think you could hide it forever
    mindfully or mindlessly
    the beauty?

    That absolute marvel of touch,
    Like a feather’s detached vane
    Indomitably easing its way on my epidermis’ inner side
    Searching for its final dwelling of unabsolvable pleasure
    Finally having found the rhyme
    to immeasurable desire
    inside the unconditionality of my love...


    “There are only two senses here,
    Aren’t you going to verse your way through all of them?”

    “Of course I will.”
    I took a piece of paper and wrote a word on it,
    Folded it carefully and handed it to her.
    She looked at me, tearful,
    Took a piece of paper and wrote a word on it,
    Folded it carefully and handed it to me.
    A duel to love and death,
    We knew it.
    “Tenderness,” I answered.
    Tenderness is not an answer to When?” she said.
    “Infinite,” she answered.
    “Infinite is not an answer to Why?” I said.
    I was old fashioned, I let her open my note first.
    I opened her note.
    “Some questions have no answer.”
    “Some answers need no question.”
    “Your tear... was an answer?”
    “My tear... needs a question?”
    “Love wins.”
    “Senses so many in love.”

    I lay the notes side by side
    And started the rest of our life.
    Infinite Tenderness.



I Wishes

    in collection: sillies

    I wish my words
    Like none before
    Unwritten be in lovers’ lore
    My summer screams
    Inside your chest
    The smiles to guide your heart to rest.

    I wish my hand
    With thieving stealth
    To steal all ancient worded wealth
    And on your eye
    To sign my name
    To verses rich in liquid flame.

    I wish... alas
    That Shakespeare guy
    His Juliet the sweet and shy
    Has gone beyond
    Mere mortal’s reach
    And matters not what I beseech.

    I wish... the other one
    Called Poe
    His blabbermouthed spooky crow
    And Annabel
    The sweetest Lee
    Such minstrel I will never be.

    There’s more
    Like Heine’s Loreley
    Old sailors’ hearts her evening’s prey
    Or Homer’s
    Penelope guile...
    I’ll never own such class and style.

    The giants rule
    And rave and roll
    The gods from Pluto way through Sol
    With human seed
    Admiring stare
    Into divine and splendid flair.

    I wish... then smile
    The moment gone
    A tender crave assaults my dawn
    They may have touched
    Sweet glory’s hue
    Yet guess whose arms are holding... you?



Rambling Quest

    in collection: sillies

    I had my cup of herbal tea
    Then picked my Chevy jalopy
    I loaded it three blades of grass
    One broken magnifying glass
    Then went to pee,

    A rusted spade, a wooden rake,
    A culinary risk called cake
    A flashlight (based on what I knew
    It worked OK in World War II)
    A wooden stake,

    Some garlic... wait, you’re off the trail,
    It’s not vampires that I tail,
    Just let me finish loading in
    Some chains, some planks, some cheapo gin,
    And off we sail.

    Oops... sorry, ‘twas my tire’s screech
    Forgot to load my limping bitch,
    She bit my... hmm... then took her seat
    Next to the jar with (I’m NO twit)
    My pet the leech.

    What am I searching? You won’t guess -
    A stone, and nothing more nor less,
    Not real stone though, rather gem,
    It’s not a joke, I am, I am...
    But I digress...

    Well, off we go... from Pole to Pole,
    I dig through cave, through field, through hole
    Through sea, through mud, through windmill rows
    All I did find was Miss Monroe’s
    Eternal mole.

    I counted grains of sand way east
    I kissed a hairy farting beast,
    I fought three sharks off ocean’s beach
    Who tried to eat my sweet dear leech,
    And long’s the list.

    I was about three quarters south,
    You see, this cop, a blabbermouth
    Decided I can’t dig my worth
    Mid of the highway heading north
    The friggin’ lout.

    He locked us in his stinking cell,
    Ha ha, I dug myself a well
    And picked my bitch, my leech, my itch,
    My rake, my cake (just one of each)
    And ran like hell.

    Oh, gods of random’s dreary farm
    Just there, beyond the reach of harm,
    I saw it glinting like a star
    (Now, isn’t this kinda bizarre?)
    A... freckled arm?...

    I started digging frenzy full
    My chin a mess of dripping drool
    My dog above the massive stone...
    “Hey there, let go, it’s not a bone
    You furred bitch fool...”

    Oh, finally, my quest is done
    No need to keep this madman’s run
    I hugged the stone and smelled its cracks
    (I do belong to World Wide Wacks)
    And called it hun.

    I knew inside the rugged crust
    Under eleven layers dust
    A monster diamond hides in wait
    With emeralds adorned (as bait)
    In rubies lust.

    Thus hidden from the masses view
    I started chipping mud and goo
    My finger slipped, the blade scratched deep,
    A bleeding stone?... that’s kinda creep
    And kinda new.

    I had no choice, to try and seize
    The value – went to Tiffany’s,
    The stone (was heavy) broke the scale
    They kicked me out, I heard a wail,
    Or was it sneeze?

    Was getting weirder, out of reach,
    I eyed my stone, my dog, my leech,
    Then squeezed those mounds of function queer
    “It’s tits, you moron, get us beer...”
    A stone does speech?...

    Well, as it turns, with my queer luck
    She used a word which rhymes with... duck,
    She slapped my face, then kicked my butt
    That redhead freckled woman mutt,
    I hit the muck...

    “A diamond, ha, that’s what you search?...
    Wait till you taste my three foot birch,
    I’m trinket, man, and proud to be,
    My tits, my ass, and all of me,
    And love’s my church.”

    The truth - my dog my leech and I
    We know, beneath the wink of eye,
    You see, no diamond’s worth to me
    Like skin and flesh upon this... she
    To love and die.



Parting, Kind Of

    The butterflies in my belly
    the size of a baby pterodactyl
    And as ravenous,
    Armies of nerves fighting a desperate battle
    to subdue the rebellion
    and its ulcerinogenic sympathizers...
    In vain,
    Tomorrow is Alka-Seltzer day,
    I wonder - if I drown in it
    will it be considered suicide or accidental death?

    “Don’t worry,” she said.
    “I don’t,” I lied,
    “You are a great driver but there are those other criminals,
    murderers, Sunday drivers, grannies, lizards,
    convicts and escaped lawyers... or is it the other way around?”
    “I will be careful, I will not read while driving,
    not phone, not write, not smoke pot...”
    she winks.
    “Did you take extra shoes, extra pants,
    extra panties, extra toilet paper?...” I rumble on,
    not really listening.

    The day arrives,
    I rest behind, enveloped in the stinking gasoline smoke
    inhaling deep into lungs the residue of her last movements
    I try to follow the car by foot
    persistent in my intention to rest inside the bluish stank
    but morning’s currents of air dissipate it through bushes and flowers
    and I am alone with a piece of folded paper in my pocket
    on an empty derelict road.

    “My love,
    By the time you read these lines I will be three minutes away...”

    how did she know?...
    “...and you will be chasing my car’s smoke
    as if it was mating pheromones...”

    was I that transparent?... I thought I played indifferent...
    “...don’t forget to shower daily, change socks,
    change underwear, water the cactus, feed the dog, cat, mouse...”

    I smile.
    She loves me,
    My God she loves me...
    I spit on the text and smear it all over the page
    Watching the ink float up,
    Then stuff the open paper inside my shirt,
    The written side against the left of my chest
    And rub it at length so that the ink will stick to my skin.
    Then sit on a nearby bench closing my eyes.
    To be loved by her...
    I wonder,
    How is it not to be loved by her?

    I look at the world around me in pity,
    in pride,
    and whistle my way home
    still rubbing the piece of paper to my chest.
    I feel like rebelling... I don’t think I will shower
    till she can wipe it off herself.
    That will teach her responsibility...
    she must return safely otherwise I will go on dirty blue forever,
    and she will not allow it to happen, will she?



Scenes, One

    a glass of beer,
    tastes like malt, burnt sugar, yesterday.
    I start sipping slowly,
    then down it in one single angry movement
    wiping my mouth with my sleeve,
    alcoholic dampness lingering on my lips.
    where are yours –
    to lick away my memory
    into my present?

    I miss you.



Scenes, Two

    I munch a chocolate piece,
    Half me, half you... that’s the way we did it
    A boxful, till tummy aches sent us rolling
    Into each other’s arms
    Shivering with pain, ecstasy,

    Disgusting, you said
    As I forced a kiss upon you
    Stealing a piece straight from your mouth
    And as you were stealing it back from mine
    We offered each other
    Sweetness unheard of,

    The last dregs slide down my throat
    Lonely in the loneliness of my saliva.
    My tongue remembers battles
    The victory in defeat
    Choked battle cries as the enemy breaks through rows of teeth
    And wounded, lies to sleep inside my mouth
    Bleeding side by side with mine.
    I miss you.
    So much



Scenes, Three

    I walk, knee deep in fallen leaves,
    I didn’t do it for years now, many,
    Kicking them wildly with both feet
    Listening to the swishing sound
    swish... quiet... swish... quiet...
    Giant me
    I close my eyes... oh... such a mistake...
    Should not have done it...
    You are by my side...

    Logic, damn you logic,
    Telling me of my delusion
    Gripping my entrails and squeezing mightily...

    I fall on the rotting bed,
    Curling into a ball
    And I don’t care that passers by look the other way
    As I sob noisily
    Rolling and rolling
    Way past the place where you are not by my side...



Treasure Room

    I unlocked the door to the room,
    Then unlocked the door to the safe,
    I took out the small steel suitcase
    and composed the lock code,
    Then removed the key from around my neck
    and unlocked the little box inside,
    Picked the stubby cylinder and unlocked one of its extremities
    with the same key.
    There it was... almost.
    I unrolled the worn out sheet of paper on the table
    And there it was.

    “Hi...” I said.
    It did not respond,
    A strand of hair cannot respond.
    Even I know it.

    I took it with me to the bathroom,
    We showered together
    Then I dried it carefully with the fan,
    No tooth brushing necessary,
    And laid it on the pillow next to mine
    after kissing it good night.
    “I love you...” I whispered
    so as not to wake up the dog
    otherwise he would ask for another tour around the block.
    I covered it with the small baby blanket size zero
    which I bought it specifically for this,
    And turned off the light.

    “Good night, my love...”
    Whispered again of course.
    I succeeded not to sob.

    I woke up and prepared breakfast for two,
    Two cups of coffee... one never knows,
    At worst the dog will eat it.
    I opened the curtains
    and let the morning’s light reflect from the reddish strand
    now a bit disheveled...I wondered,
    don’t remember being that wild this night.
    Of course it didn’t eat its portion of scrambled eggs,
    This finished with the dog.
    The dog drank the coffee as well.

    I washed, dressed, walked the dog,
    Then picked up the strand of hair smoothing down its curl
    And started counting the knots.
    One, two... one hundred thirty nine.
    Then I picked it carefully between the adequate finger tips
    and knotted one more knot underneath the rest.
    One hundred forty.
    Soon, my love, before there is no more place,
    My fingers will curl mightily around another thin strand
    And as pouring passengers stream around us into the terminal
    Rip it off your scalp
    Allowing you in turn
    To shred my lips’ flesh, my spine’s skin, my life’s meaninglessness.
    For the next time.
    Till there is no more next time.
    Till every morning there is no more coffee left for the dog
    But for my tongue to lick it off your lips.
    I miss you.

    I kiss the strand of hair and roll it back into the sheet of paper,
    Then slide it into the stubby cylinder
    and lock it with the key around my neck,
    Put the cylinder back into the box and lock it with the same key
    hanging the key back around my neck,
    Place the box inside the steel suitcase
    rolling the combination lock,
    The suitcase into the safe, lock the safe,
    Lock the door to the safe.

    All my life,
    All my love,
    Locked inside my treasure room.




    day ends.
    you claimed the karaoke.
    i claimed the slow dance.
    then we claim bleeding chunks of salivating flesh
    as we roll the night around us
    and blue flowers keep exploding underneath splitting skins
    illuminating the pain of retreating fangs
    and sheathing claws.

    these flowers need tending... you say as i caress your breast,
    they will die till next time, i hate death.
    they will not die, merely soak back into your blood... i answer,
    they will remember life.

    who are the beasts
    growling as they scavenge the fields of the other’s body
    till day starts?




    The liquid mix of hell and sleet and flying ice
    hits the windshield,
    At one hundred miles per hour
    that’s what the end of the world sounds like,
    Wipers flap uselessly,
    Senses tense on guessing the way,
    My muscles pieces of iron,
    A vision... out of the sudden nowhere
    A face smashes against the armored glass
    Obliterating my view
    Crashing the wipers inert
    The red streaks of fire dangling from the scalp to the face
    at war with the howling hurricane
    trying to hold on to pale cheeks surrounding scarlet stains
    While the mouth approaches the invisible barrier
    and finally sticks to it
    like a one armed octopus fighting for its life,

    My body jolts forward
    mocking inertia’s mathematically assumed superiority
    tearing through the butter of the safety belt
    And my mouth sticks to the counter side of the vision’s mouth
    vibration conquering the molecular invincibility
    of the piece of rigid plastic between us
    Fire demons dancing on each side of the shield
    inside the hollow created by those mouths
    till the glass finally melts sucking inside our lungs
    Coating our inner organs with the burning poison of civilization
    as our mouths glue to each other into one wormhole continuum
    and hands crash through the leftovers of the disintegrating curtain
    And fire shoots inside our bones
    while hell and sleet and flying ice mix with spilling fuel
    and none ever knows where our souls descend
    when the huge ball of fire lifts the carcass of the car high in the air
    and drops it way into the counter-sense lanes of the highway.



Dementiality, Two

    Making love above the drawer holding your intimate garments
    The femininity soaked in the intricacies of transparent weave
    clinging to the intricacies of shivering skins
    Hands flailing
    The wailing sounds of ripping lace and tearing silk
    and shredding nylon spit lumps of spicy gossip upon the walls
    When a demented fist smashes through the drawer’s bottom
    as brain slices boil into oblivion
    And we remain forever locked, limp, breathless.

    Making love on the kitchen table
    Amidst the sounds of cutlery striking the floor like raining metal
    and knives slashing unfelt through cloth and skin
    Wine bottles roll over smashing to bits
    mixing with oil and vinegar and mustard
    The acrid smell penetrating through eyes and mouth and skin
    into lungs reluctant to shrink in horror
    At the end of the long wait leading to that indecent scream
    Leaving us forever locked, limp, breathless.

    Making love on the bathroom’s cold tiles
    Feet kicking broken the massive sink
    while fists grab at plastic curtains ripping them off rings
    Inefficiently trying to ward off steely water needles
    drilling holes in arms and spine and feet
    In a mindless effort to keep shreds of sanity
    before finally giving in to shared romping dementia
    When we accept death forever locked, limp, breathless.

    After the goodbye,
    And the hole in my mind bigger than the hole in my body
    And together bigger than a yawning, bored god’s mouth
    And my shrill scream unending.



Wear Your Colors

    Wear your red shirt,
    the one sewn with the whistle of my breath
    as I lay my ear against your chest...

    Let the warmth of inner cotton coat the shiver of your flesh
    Knitting drops of sweat through cobwebs in a bone-deep slicing mesh
    Floating down from marble shoulders till beyond the mountains range
    Priding tips of glowing embers spewing death in sweet revenge.

    Wear your green skirt,
    its buttons pieces of my broken bones
    as I squash your thigh against my ribs...

    Sheath your hip inside the pleasure of forgotten hugging art
    Strange delights bemoaning slumber thieving time from lusting heart
    Bashful chants inside the valleys robbing dreams of rightful lust
    Leaving long delightful traces bearing hues of sweet disgust.

    Wear your white skin,
    damaged beyond recognition by scavenging fingertips
    as layers of it amass underneath my fingernails...

    Dip your body in my senses chasing tribes of howling hordes
    Way beyond demented pastures weaving verses into swords
    Shed its failing crumbs of passion deep of desert’s roving dunes
    With my flares of sunrise teeming in your green and sweet lagoons.



Dementiality, Three

    Roll me in guitar wire, you asked,
    Roll and roll and roll...
    I did not ask,
    I bought miles of it,
    Undressed you
    And rolled you and rolled you and rolled you in it.

    Between your toes,
    Round your ankles, up your shins, up your thighs,
    Rolled around your hips and waist...
    Your chest too?... I asked.
    My chest too... you answered.
    Round your chest, envious of the wire touching your breasts,
    Loosely around your neck,
    Your eyes?...
    My eyes...
    Cocooning your head, lips, eyes...
    Are you there? I asked.
    I love you, you answered,
    now undress, lie next to me, and close your eyes.
    I undressed, lay next to you, and closed my eyes.

    I heard the sharp breath intake,
    Heard the zing of a snapping wire
    Felt the bite of the sharp end into my skin
    I wished to scream...
    Then I heard it, the first note...
    The scream froze in my throat
    As the sound slid over my skin, inside my wound,
    Coagulating into... was it summer?

    I heard the second snap, the second bite, the second sound...
    I gasped,
    Not at pain... at beauty,
    The beauty of the second note, of the after beginning,
    of genesis past its prime,
    How did it sound that first note, that genesis at its prime?
    I could not remember as a third note bit the air and my flesh,
    Then a fourth, a flow,
    The flow surging, a flood,
    How many coils did I wrap around your body?...
    Many?... Thousands?... Sufficient?...
    Sufficient to turn the flood into a sea, the sea into life, life into love?

    Seasons started crawling inside my veins
    fighting desperately for the first row,
    Tigers growled between skin and flesh
    preying on the dust of blood,
    Rolling stars around me claimed a place in my universe
    born, dying, reborn,
    The music seeping into my brains
    Coating my marrow, enveloping my memories...

    Stop!... I whispered... I wish not to die...
    Just as the last snapping sound hit the last island of sane skin
    And curled itself around my finger.
    We are married... you said,
    Thousands of raw gashes around your body.
    We are married... I said,
    My body a pulp of raw slices.
    We hugged,
    Blood finding countless ways to stream inside our fused bodies,
    fused veins,
    Fused hearts.

    I love you, like music before being sung, you said.
    I love you, like ears waiting for music to be sung, I said.
    Yet I sang to you, you said.
    Yet I heard you, I said.
    Do I love you less now? you asked.
    Do I love you more now? I asked.
    Yes, you answered.
    No, I answered.



Softer Contentions

    I gave you an apple.

    I guess there is no softer spot
    Than mid that isle of oozing rot
    Surrounded by the sunken wreath
    You carved with hunger’s ridden teeth...

    You look at the apple in your hand,
    Then poke your finger middle of the rotten stain
    Pushing half way through to the other side.
    You are so wrong,
    Your art,
    Your heart...

    I gave you a scrap of paper.

    I guess there is no softer smile
    Than mid that sweet deceiving guile
    Immersed in splattered savage scripts
    You kissed with passion’s bleeding lips...

    You look at the scrap of paper in your hand,
    Then choose several scribbled lines
    And overwrite them with thin arrays of letters.
    You are so wrong,
    Your rune,
    Your june...

    I gave you a patch of skin.

    I guess there is no softer touch
    Than mid that dream you crave so much
    Still floating in creation molds
    You hide between your spirit’s folds...

    You look at the patch of skin in your hand,
    Then unseal the gates to green floodlights
    Watching as it uncoils into an opening petal.
    You are so wrong,
    Your glove,
    Your love...



Once, Two

    I was human.
    I watched birds singing,
    Trees budding,
    Sun shining...
    I was an observer
    Walking through life like a hot teflon blade in soft butter
    Nothing sticks, nothing rests
    And even the butter halves fall back together as if I wasn’t.

    I wasn’t.

    I am poet.
    I am the feather carried into the ocean’s reflection
    hanging by unseen strings above my forest
    about to be pierced to death by my lark mother’s enchanting trill,
    I am the leaf struggling to open its one winged glory
    awakened from slumber by zephyrs flirting mid of my forest
    about to be hugged to death by my tree mother’s smothering shadow,
    I am the flame lost depths of earth’s disintegrating crust
    floating upon eternal hell’s fires underneath my forest
    about to be incinerated to death by my sun mother’s devastating flare...
    I am a partner
    Hanging to life like teeth to a lover’s lip
    Grabbing all, hoarding all,
    And the bleeding lip refuses to heal smiling as if I am.

    I am.


    Death, why do you use death in your metaphors?
    Because it is the after life. Because it is the before birth.
    Because it is absolute, final, irreversible. Eternal.
    Like your love for me?
    Like my love for you.



Ideal Woman

    We sit facing each other,
    Not as newborn naked, no,
    We weren’t as hairy then... well, I certainly wasn’t,
    I mean I don’t mean you were, I mean I am now
    I don’t know if you were,
    I mean... ok, sorry, don’t know what I mean,
    I mean we sat facing each other,
    A bit of bulging stomach
    A bit of limp muscle
    Eyeglasses... no, not when we make love,
    They would explode...
    I have a small pimple on the side of my nose,
    Imagine, at my age...
    And I watch you slowly putting on that worrying diffident look...

    Describe to me your ideal woman, you challenge me
    Punching me in the stomach.
    It may have been a friendly jab but it hurt,
    Especially since it may be flabby but still muscled
    Into instinctive self protect.
    You don’t mean it, I say.
    I do mean it, you say and I know you do mean or else...
    And I better not play games or lie or else...

    You see... I start, hesitatingly.
    Don’t...you warn me, no hesitation there,
    Spill it or else...
    Third time or else and this time vocally so,
    Doesn’t leave me many options, does it?
    OK, you asked for it, I challenge back.
    Yes, I asked for it, you answer,
    Laying your head in my lap
    Oblivious to events happening in that area as soon as you do it
    And guide one of my hands to your breast
    Forcing two of my fingers around your nipple.
    I know what you are doing, this is your truth machine -
    I lie and you know it before the words spill out.
    This is also your safety net,
    To absorb your pain once it will erupt,
    As you know it will.

    The ideal woman, lets see, I start cautiously,
    Dragging my legs, hoping you stop me. You don’t.
    Definitely Naomi Campbell’s body, definitely.
    You nod your agreement, as serious as if it was Sunday prayer,
    Your eyes closed.
    The neck... I think I would take Audrey Hepburn’s neck
    And the eyes of Michelle Pfeiffer, or maybe Liz Taylor,
    Something in between.
    Also the mouth, hmmm...
    Something between Marilyn Monroe and Julia Roberts.
    The nose on the other hand will be that of Barbara...
    What?... Why?...
    It comes with the voice.
    Oh... nervous giggle, ...also with Omar Shariff’s moustache?...
    My confidence mounts steadily.
    Hair, what about the hair?... you ask,
    Your mouth undecided yet which way to curve,
    Your nipple still absorbing the sensations from my finger tips,
    Uncommitted yet, still testing.
    Kim Basinger? I ask. Would you go with Kim Basinger
    Or would you prefer another one?
    It is your woman, not mine, you answer, a bit tense,
    Do I hear hesitation?
    OK, Kim Basinger it is, and I want also some fingernails
    to go with it all.
    Fingernails? This surprises you.
    Yes fingernails, I say, I insist to be allowed to choose
    my own fingernails.
    Those of Liza Minnelli in Cabaret.
    Liza with a Z Not Lisa with an S ?... you ask.
    The same and one and only, I answer.
    Green?... you ask.
    Green I answer.

    I feel something happening inside your nipple,
    I ain’t sure but I think something strange happens there,
    A certain beat, rush, a worrying stiffness, a pulse...
    My fingers squeeze involuntarily... you moan...
    Pain or ecstasy, pain or ecstasy?...
    You sit up again, facing me,
    Ensuring that at no time my finger hold on your nipple gets loose,
    And look me in the eyes.
    I do not cringe, I do not fear, I know.
    You know.

    I look at my creation with unseeing eyes,
    Penetrating through you
    Molding upon you the body, the colors, the appendices,
    Arms, eyes, hair... the rest,
    The beauty of my creation, oh, so exquisite,
    So incredible, so strange...
    So... remote,
    So... cold, meaningless, irrelevant, artificial,
    So... not you.
    So not you, I say, surprised to hear my voice
    as I focus my eyes back on you.
    My ideal woman, you asked?
    As I start erasing from the picture eyes, and mouth, and skin color
    Adding eyes and mouth and skin color
    And my eyes brighten up
    And your eyes brim with overpowering humidity
    And your fist softly pushes up my chin
    into mouth closed position
    wiping the drooling liquid slowly sliding down
    Then eyelashes flutter rapidly before my unblinking fixed stare
    And finally your mouth decides on its final curvature, ends up,
    As the same hand closes your fingers around those of my fingers
    clamping your nipple
    And squeezes till tears stream from your eyes.
    I feel the steel between my fingers beating, beating, beating...
    I’ve never seen you as happy in my life.

    You, I finally mange to say, my ideal woman.
    I know, you answer, now I know.
    We’ve never made such wild love ever before,
    my fingers not releasing even for one single second their vice hold
    on that burning, burning, smoldering nipple




    Clumsily trying to unbutton your shirt
    unzip your jeans
    Trusting I could control my movements
    so easily.

    Failing to. Unbutton, unzip, control.

    Ever present tenderness allows for several blessed moments
    lust’s beast out of its cage
    And my teeth bite angrily in one sharp snarl shirt and bra out of way
    unleashing pride of breasts upon my world
    My fists tear zipper teeth into chunks of metal scattered on the floor
    peeling scarred cloth from your hip
    And apocalyptic revelation unites our disintegrating pieces of flesh
    into that one shared moment of absolute peaceful solitude.

    Ever present tenderness takes over once again locking the sated beast
    back into its cage
    I remove garment leftovers from the pale nakedness of our bodies
    knowing no mending possible
    Then a towel soaks the warmth of water until the caress it carries is softer
    than my rhyme laden heart
    And as you fall into the bliss of lover’s sleep I clean all your wounds
    till none left.




    That perfect cocktail called your body
    In that perfectly amorphous glass called your skin...
    Strange ingredients mixing their virtues according to time of day,
    My palate’s needs,
    The unexpressed wish of my wandering fingers
    And your poetry’s secrets unshared.

    I dip my finger in your milk, the one next to it in your ink
    And after I taste the sweet and bitter with my tongue
    I start painting my body finger-wide stripes
    Over, all over, all around,
    Thin lines long my fingernails,
    Infinitely delicate lines upon my irises,
    My body lying limp on the bed
    And the private pedestrian crossing for your ballerina toes
    and skinned fingertips and bony knees
    Safely lost inside the urban jungle of my body
    For you to walk on, jump, crush
    As I squirm in the delights of acting the pavement to your soles...

    I dip it again, five fingers this time one after the other
    Picking honey, tear, blood, wine, ice pearls melting reluctantly
    in stubborn refusal of accepting the reality of warmth,
    Then I hold all fingers above the milk and ink stripes
    And let them drip an irregular mix of explosive pellets
    Elongating all the way to my skin then splashing lazily
    When they relinquish the welcoming convenience of fingertips
    for the refreshing adventure of mixing with the milk, and ink,
    and each other in a thick kaleidoscopic slush
    crawling down my ribs,
    My body lying on its back
    While puddles of your life’s pleasures and memories and pains
    Evaporate into magnificent bubbles accompanied by rhythmic thumps
    Exploding at your delighted screams of surprise
    As I abandon reason for the benefit of insanity at your side...

    What about my passion,
    aren’t you going to dip your finger into my passion?
    you ask,
    So softly that I do not hear the words.
    But I know the words as I lick one of my fingers clean
    Then dip it in the incandescence of your dementing passion
    And as I pull it against my eyes I see winters melting
    And summers slamming into the oceans
    And mountains disrobed of their megalomaniac dreams
    When beads of renaissance wear their galloping hooves
    Raiding the distance from my finger to my chest
    And smash down through my prostrated body
    Beyond the carapace of my ribs
    Past my lungs, heart, spine
    And screamingly chase ecstasy into my body then out of it
    As I pump my useless fluids feeding the oven exciting me to death...

    May I have my life back? you ask, hours, years later
    As you start licking across the striped pattern
    Making faces as the various tastes hit your taste buds
    And shivering ecstatically each time a piece of my skin peels off
    and penetrates your carnivorous desire.
    You can have it all back, my life too, I answer,
    Shedding my skin running mile by running mile
    And when my flesh lies there in its ugly exposed rawness
    You dress it in your milk and ink
    and honey and tear and blood and wine and ice
    and saliva and sweat and secretions and fat and sebacic acids
    and your life and your life and your life
    and your love and your love and your love
    Until all I am is just one of the flavors
    In the cocktail of your body.

    Just one of the flavors? you ask, inspiring me into your nostrils.
    The only flavor, you state,
    As I finally find my nestling place inside your lungs’ lining.



Passionate Moments, Eight

    My face drowns in your hair,
    My teeth touch your scalp
    Tasting portions of you

    My palms cup your breasts,
    Fingers search for expressions
    Sunken in your wants
    Long ago,

    Bare thighs against flesh,
    Shapeless warmth flows
    Penetrating secret pathways

    Voices awake in sore throats,
    Wordless songs surge
    In the bellowing clamor of
    A duet,

    Tenacious quiet ensues,
    As the only skin alive
    Is the one surrounding



Winter Soliloquy

    I sat down on the bench,
    Right side of it, close to the edge.
    On my knees a huge flowers bouquet
    But I mean... a big huge flowers bouquet...
    An incredible mix of shapes and sizes and colors... mainly colors
    All the pastels and oils and crayons imaginable
    and combinations and shines...

    She sat on the left side of the bench,
    Close to the edge,
    When did she sit down there?...
    White, white... never saw such white ever before,
    Not even in my bouquet... and I looked it over carefully
    three times.
    Her lines were as sharply defined as if created by scalpel
    yet the only way I could see any of her features
    was by interposed shadow.
    There were no hues in that white of skin,
    Hair, eyes, lips, garments... did she wear any garments
    or was she completely white and naked?...

    “My sister would love you,” she said.
    I think her lips moved, judging by the shadow butterflies
    which seemed to flutter around the place
    her mouth was supposed to be.
    The air around her was hazy,
    as if several molecule layers froze into absolute immobility
    Though I believe there was some motion underneath that skin boundary...
    Was it a clear colorless fluid streaming there
    of kinds unknown
    Or ice crushed into fluidity by powers unknown to me?
    “Your sister? Who is your sister?
    Why would she love me?”

    “My sister Summer.
    She would love you because you hold a bouquet of paper flowers.
    She believes flowers look best alive,
    When you cut them they die, only humans are not aware of it.
    All that is left is the skin, the soul is gone.
    Humans are selfish.”

    “My lover thinks the same,” I answered.
    “Do you have other sisters?”
    “Summer is the one dearest to me,
    Though we hardly meet, if at all.
    Spring and Autumn are the other two, brats,
    Crazy, childish, wild,
    They never decided what they really want to do with their lives.
    They are closer to me but not as dear as Summer.”

    My eyes started getting used to the blinding whiteness,
    Identifying underneath it the delicate features of a young girl,
    I think she was wearing a long gown, I am still not so sure.
    Such an unimaginably beautiful face, such sadness,
    I wondered how I could identify sad
    without being able to identify eyes.
    “How old are you?” I asked.
    “I am young, fifteen days,“ she answered.
    “Do you ever get old?”
    “No, I die young.
    But it does not matter
    because I get reborn again in one year’s time.
    The tragedy of my life, never able to die.”

    “I know of many who would gladly swap places with you.”
    “No, you don’t know of any such.”
    A round transparent pearl dropped from her eye
    Hitting the wood of the bench underneath her with a cloudy hiss
    Passing through it and burying itself somewhere in the depths of earth
    Leaving behind a small explosive geyser that quieted within seconds.
    “May I sit next to you?”
    “No, you will disintegrate.
    Don’t you ask yourself why I am here?”

    Truth is I did,
    I expected her, my own her, to appear any moment now
    Yet I was trapped in the mystery of this appearance
    And could not detach myself from it without knowledge.
    “Yes,” I admitted, frozen into anticipation
    And smiling to myself at the use of frozen in my mind.
    I think she breathed,
    I could swear she did, does winter breathe?
    the imaginary garment stretching on her young bosom
    and a comet of ice sparks escaping her mouth
    to get lost in the thin playful breeze.
    “How old do you think I am?” she surprised me with the question.
    “Fifteen days, you said.”
    “Times a few billions of years... how old does it make me?”
    She stopped for a moment,
    As if hesitating to share herself with a human,
    Then continued.
    “I see the winter in your hair, strands of it pushing through,
    I see it in the corner of your eyes,
    Yet there is so much sun in your heart, green, hot, devastating...
    Something I will never know.
    I, immortal winter , envy you, in your winter’s mortality.”

    Another flood of pearls dug a wider hole underneath her,
    Ice-spark comets escaping in painful fast succession to the air.
    “You see... I am in love with Sun.
    If we touch... we die, we’ll never know what love is.”

    “Help us?...”


    She kind of landed out of nowhere straight into my lap,
    My human whirlwind,
    Flushed, laughing, kissing me with the ferocity of a young tigress
    And crushing the paper flowers in my bouquet to pocket book thick.
    “Oops...” she laughed at the sound,
    Pulling the mess from underneath her,
    “...oh, paper flowers underneath my butt,
    I love you I love you I love you...”

    She screamed delighted, burying our heads in the bouquet
    And getting my face utterly wet with kisses and licks.
    “Tell me, love were you missing me so much
    that you started talking to yourself?...”
    “...and what is this steaming puddle under the bench?...
    you peed or something?...”
    shrieking delight anew.

    I bent, my green love hanging to my neck,
    Dipped my finger in the puddle and tasted it,
    Then forced it between her lips.
    “Mmm... cool... sweet... aromatic... almost like me...
    Waiting to make love...
    How did you know?”

    Her eyes glazing, dreamy,
    Her hold on my neck strangling,
    Her teeth pushing suddenly into the flesh of my lower lip.
    “My love...” I asked, “...would you mind?”
    “Would I mind what?...”
    “Making love the four of us... I, you, the winter and the sun?...”
    “You are crazy, my winter love...”
    “I am crazy for you, my sunny love...”

    I placed a white sheet on the bed,
    White... so white... immaculately white and so much more...
    “I’ve never seen such white before...” she said echoing earlier me,
    Watching it settle on the bed surface
    As a shivering flurry rippled through it for a few seconds,
    Touching it in wonder
    And pulling the fingers back swiftly “...so cold... fire...”
    I opened the windows wide letting the sun in,
    Warm... so warm... perfectly warm and so much more...
    “I’ve never seen such winter sun before...” she said,
    Watching rays hovering above the bed sheet
    Almost touching yet holding back as if in sacred contemplation,
    Letting her hand cross through the beaming glory
    And pulling it back swiftly “...so hot... fire...”

    She looked at me, lifting that annihilating, forest deep regard to my face
    “What is happening, my love?...”
    She asked.
    “Do not ask, my love... do not ask...
    Let’s make love...”
    I answered.

    We lay on the bed
    undressing each other
    watching each piece of garment disintegrate
    either in the puff of smoke
    or in the dust of ice
    the moment it left the touch of our body
    our eyes’ gloss thickening
    minds sliding steadily down the savageness ending incline
    of not caring not wondering not asking
    as the large sheet of whiteness rolled itself around us
    again and again
    a triple roll then triple again
    sticking to our skin with its tiny invincible claws
    crawling inside our body
    aspiring to its empire
    the warmth of the enveloping sun sinking into the fibers
    its own claws joining the invading armies
    and setting their frozen hearts ablaze
    till ice suddenly flared into self consuming conflagration
    searing paths of flowing frost deep beyond the insides of flesh
    the trepidation inside the bloating ball of boiling desires devouring us
    swelling as pieces of flesh mixed with pieces of bone
    mixed with pieces of hell embracing a frozen eternity
    and then finally ripped our embrace apart
    as we ignited, fulminated smearing our seething insides
    upon walls, mountains, worlds...

    Touching my charred eyebrows, eyelashes,
    Removing blackened pieces of fallen plaster and molten glass
    from my chest.
    Regarding that unacceptable rainbow in a clear blue sky.

    She looked at me, lifting that annihilating, forest deep regard to my face
    “What happened, my love?...”
    She asked.
    “Do not ask, my love... do not ask...
    Our love is now encrusted into eternity...”
    I answered.



Love, I Guess

    undress, my love,
    yes, as naked as my eyes’ desire,
    then lie down on the raked foliage of ages
    steaming with a miasmic mix of rot and putrefying leaves
    and resurrection.

    i will show you a miracle
    only you can achieve
    once you sink into my flesh’s embrace
    and your skin’s fragrances crawl inside the humid mound
    carrying my venerating touch.

    i pick up your body,
    whispering in your ear promises to end of time
    no, not to end of love, there is no end of love,
    to end of time,
    then i sit in my lazy chair carrying you in my arms
    showing it to you, the miracle.

    see the patch, there, where your spine tensed and squirmed
    with mine, earlier,
    watch the rot and the putrefying leaves soak your skin’s leftovers
    and your satisfied desire,
    watch the flurry of birth, following,
    watch our wedding bed budding into the green of tomorrow’s season
    and tiny white flowers bursting into morning’s trill
    and your skin blooming into the garden of my senses...



The Last Season

    December comes, its stride has gained the size of passing years,
    Thin strands of silver in my hair adorn emerging fears,
    The mirror edges peel away, inane its vain attempt
    A lifelong twin’s decaying flesh to bar from life’s contempt.

    Upon a time my seasons passed at crawling minutes pace,
    Invincible beyond of reach my mighty April race,
    Then June has come, the minutes changed to hours, then to days
    As August touched my limping gait and slowed my savage ways.

    All seasons gone, just one more heave until the age of dusk
    Rings at my door to ask its dues, my crumbling mortal husk,
    And by the time the tinkle’s done and fades to roads unheard
    December dies in misery and steals my life, my word.

    “Upon a time?” I hear a shriek, a whirlwind picks my mind,
    A monster green of eye and gaze and curses unrefined...
    “Upon a time? Upon a now!” she rips my chest apart
    And sows a herd of mustangs wild between my ribs and heart.

    December comes... who gives a hoot?... whence this benighted sneer?
    Two prancing steeds of blazing tail towards a sunrise veer
    And as the morning’s chilly breath cuts paths through Eden‘s sky
    We have one season’s lifetime age to live before we die.




    Oh, tenderness...
    Those so called bards
    Who claim to own God’s spoken shards
    And in a flood of lines absurd
    Have mocked my right to sing your word
    I guess that none of them has been
    So close to your cherubic skin,
    My girl...

    Oh, dew...
    Lone tear of dying night
    A modern poet’s landscape blight
    Where pastels have no right to live
    And rasping sounds are heaven’s give,
    I know they think a cough is song
    You were not there to show them wrong
    My bride...

    Oh, love...
    The word of rhymes so few
    And scoffed at by that vocal crew
    Who, lacking inspiration gust
    Paint golden hues on scraps of rust,
    They never knew, they never will
    The bliss you pour inside a quill,
    My wife...



Cucumber Love

    The rest of it... too...
    Now turn around so slowly
    as I bathe you in long stripes of lustful tongue’s prayers
    Glinting paths running all the way toe to scalp
    and back
    and back again
    Till all your specks of dust ride my tongue like an ant’s hill
    and thirst husks my throat.

    Worry not
    of the cloths I burned,
    Roll inside the sand till you are dressed in the beauty
    of the desert you so loved before loving me
    Clinging deliriously to your wet skin
    in ever flowing motion
    as we walk home
    to undress you again.

    Not the shower,
    My body drowning in sweat’s oncoming gale
    rubbing it off you at sounds of scrap and pain
    and delightful moaning
    Till my tongue dutifully back on duty finishes the assignment
    almost ripped off my mouth by your convulsions
    of ecstasy
    and beauty.

    I will dress your wounds
    with thin fresh slices of cucumber cool
    and as your blood mercifully soaks drops of green potion
    I will soak drops of green life
    into my cracking fingertips.




    to pick the lights from the trees
    and to hang around your neck,
    to pick the lights from the gardens, from the roofs,
    from the passing trucks
    and to hang around your neck,
    to pick the lights from passers by,
    from dogs’ tails and snowed hats and cheek flushed kids
    and... “...to hang around my neck...”

    “how did you know?” i asked,
    upset, my feathers ruffled,
    “now i cannot surprise you anymore,
    words, desires, you know it all...”
    “true,” you answered, confirming my fears
    and i cowered into a corner
    waiting for the snow dust to crystallize into a thin, shiny coffin
    around me.
    “true,” you repeated, kneeling next to my prostrated figure
    and blowing the whiteness away from my eyebrows.
    then away from my tightly pressed lips.
    “i know of all your words, desires, i know of it all...”
    then you sat next to me, hugging my neck
    and whispered into a melting storm of flakes...
    “what i do not know is... will you keep telling me... again?...”
    i opened wondering eyes
    and hurried to swallow the blob rolling down
    before it reached your upper lip,
    it was cold, blistering my tongue and throat.
    “do not surprise me, ever...”

    to steal the toys from the trees
    and to stuff in your pockets,
    to steal the toys from the gardens, from the roofs,
    from the passing trucks
    and to stuff in your pockets,
    to steal the toys from passers by,
    from dogs’ tails and snowed hats and cheek flushed kids
    and... “...to stuff in my pockets...”

    we smiled, together.
    yes, again, then again and yet again...
    for as long as you wish me to...
    “hmm... this is going to be one long ‘as long’...”




    I carry the blisters your eons of sin
    Inside counted hours have carved in my skin
    While witnessing walls crack to rumble of stone
    In envy of lust hugging splintering bone.

    The pain, oh, the joy in that mighty embrace
    The teeth in that cauldron severing your face
    Ferocious beasts cutting pleasures in flesh
    As flailing desires skimp sanity thresh.

    The howl growing thick in the billowing throat,
    The tightening muscle of heart’s bloody moat,
    My spine falling prey to your weapon of war
    As swallow turns dragon and angel turns whore...

    Oh, beautiful maiden asleep on my chest,
    Asleep is the cherry adorning your breast,
    The sated desire now curls in your green
    And bliss wanders slowly beneath lashes thin.

    Your blisters I’ll lick into memories sweet
    As rhyme turns your evening to lullaby tweet,
    My scars will turn letters then flow to my pen
    With feathers immortal I’ll pad our den.




    Your mouth opens,
    Petal after rosy petal,
    The muscled pistil hesitatingly licking its lips
    Wetting them with aromatic salivating dew,
    Testing the breeze’s refreshing intensity
    And pulling back in, alarmed,
    Then suddenly your hand grabs the nape of my neck
    Forces my mouth to open as it meets yours
    And stamen mates with pistil
    And saliva turns wine
    And our spinal stems twist, bend, curve,
    Till we collapse rolling in the welcoming undergrowth
    Where nature triumphantly takes its course
    Threshing glinting skin against glinting skin
    And reason loses its way in the mist
    As predator me sucks out the liquid pollen
    Of you...



Green Buttoned Shirt

    Wear your green buttoned shirt
    Of so many whites
    Your red threaded skirt
    Of one thousand nights
    The silver laced shoes
    Of glittering dance
    And tenderness muse
    In rock melting glance.

    Let the hair touch your brow
    With two rolling curls
    And tapping heels plow
    With gracious twirls
    Your eyelashes spruce
    With glimmering shields
    And butterflies loose
    In daffodil fields.

    Tame my shivering hand
    As green buttons rip
    The lingering brand
    As hungry teeth nip
    When shoes join the skirt
    As mouths misbehave
    And we roll in dirt
    In ecstasy’s rave.




    It is not as soft
    As it should,
    As I wish.

    Take my words, lover,
    Peel off the chemistry of the ink
    And the physics of the sound
    And the literacy of the meaning,
    Keep on peeling
    Inside sciences known
    And beyond sciences unknown
    As deep as your reason allows
    And your imagination rides,
    Go there
    You will find it.

    My lover,
    I followed your word
    I followed your wish
    And beyond the last door I opened
    There is nothing.

    Did you touch nothing?


    Touch nothing, lover.



    Many, many years later...
    I wanted her back...
    I kissed her.

    What was this world you sent me to, lover,
    Of softness unreal, unknown, undefined,
    Where no senses and all are but one
    interminable, unbearable softness like... nothing?...

    This is your secret.


    The place you sent me to
    When your mouth poured into mine
    the nectar of your stolen apples.

    I did not know this softness exists.

    Neither did I,
    interminable, unbearable like... nothing...

    Lover mine...


    Join me there...

    Her fingers pulled an apple from an invisible pocket
    And she bit into it,
    And as her mouth was feeding me its nectar, its life, its memories,
    We fell asleep.
    We never woke up.




    Silver knives
    Cutting my flesh
    In so many different ways,
    Missing you.

    “How old is this cut?” you ask me.
    “One minute old.”
    “And this one?”
    “Two minutes.”
    “Is this one three minutes old?”
    You keep inspecting my skin
    The damp cloth in your hand mopping freshly bleeding traces
    And coagulated clogs of old
    And scars well dried by now.
    “There are so many thin cuts in between,
    Almost invisible,
    What are these?”
    you ask.
    “These are the seconds,” I answer.
    “Are there cuts thinner than seconds?”
    “There are. Thousands.”

    You watch fascinated
    As an invisible blade keeps plowing the tiny traces
    Right there under your eyes,
    You squeeze dry the mop in your hand,
    Empty the overflowing barrel
    And keep wiping the skin with lengthy moves.
    “But now I am here,” you murmur in wonder.
    “I catch up with a past when you were not.
    I miss the lost days,” I respond.

    You cover me with the white bed sheet
    Up to my chin
    Leaving my right shoulder uncovered,
    Randomly strewn red blotches flowering timidly everywhere.
    “Why did you do that?” I ask wondering aloud.
    “Why did I cover you?”
    “Why did you leave my right shoulder uncovered?”

    You start undressing,
    Garments falling to the floor
    with a swish
    as they slide along your skin
    hitting the cold tiles with the finality of a wave
    breaking against the shore.
    The most ephemeral of lives
    The most eternal of sounds,
    I almost doze off into the beginning of a dream
    when I hear your voice...
    “Because it is the only unblemished spot on your body.
    Why is it left untouched?”

    I look, surprised myself at the intact skin on my right shoulder,
    “I guess it is my spot of hope,” I venture.

    Your last garment falls at your feet
    and Venus steps out of the mound of jeans
    and cotton and silk and lace
    in that ascending order,
    My breath stolen by the invincible twin gods of gasp and awe
    watching the tapestry of tiny cuts
    covering the skin
    which covers your beauty
    You slid under the sheet alongside me,
    Your skin cool, fresh,
    Your smooth left shoulder against my right one...
    “Your shoulder...” I say, “...it is unblemished...”
    “I know.”
    I hear the clink of metal as fingers twine into fingers
    and vises take over the hold.
    “It is my future...” someone says,
    I guess it was you
    As shoulders turn one
    And flesh turns one
    And minutes turn years.


    “Do you remember?” I ask,
    My wrinkled body hosting the passing years in its folds
    as I kiss your smooth left shoulder.
    “Not even one cut,” you answer, scanning my right shoulder
    as we make love for the uncountedth time.



King Bore

    A kingdom...
    The kingdom I miss,
    The life... oh, the life I miss.

    The loud lazy yawn on the pillow next to me
    stretching through shoulders, elbow, all the way to fingers
    groping in vain for a hammer to hit the alarm clock with,
    The blurred sight of bouncing naked buttocks
    stumbling ahead of me to a bathroom
    where they sit with a sigh of relief on the toilet bowl
    thanking me with closed eyes for not forgetting to lower the seat
    on the cold porcelain rim
    while I curse my way through a forest of brushes
    and bottles and jars and powders and small soap bars
    and big soap bars and lavender scented medium soap bars
    in my vainglorious search for my one overused tooth brush
    and squashed tooth paste tube... oops,
    tastes like lilac scented dog shit... mistake...
    used your shaving paste...

    The shower...
    Let’s not get into the porn details of the shower...

    I dress,
    Watching you jump and stomp and squiggle
    and kick and squirm and squeeze
    with queenly grace
    into your faded undersize queenly jeans,
    one button pops... the second one holds...
    the delectable smug satisfaction on your face
    ...it holds, see?... you beam
    as my hand fails to penetrate between the trousers’ upper rim
    and your skin.

    The parting kiss,
    Another adults only scenario
    which would not have been mentioned
    if it was not for my fearless hand
    refusing to desert the battle field beneath your majestic t-shirt
    fighting the overwhelming odds of bites and moans and laps
    and smooches
    and queenly fingers groping for my unmentionables...
    We (even single kings are we) jump into the carriage
    proudly projected forward by a herd of one hundred fifty
    magnificently coughing diesel horses
    belching bluish clouds of stinking smoke into neighboring kingdoms
    watching in the rear mirror my ever diminishing queen
    chasing neighboring queen’s chickens out of our courtyard
    our dog chasing you and snapping at your ankles.

    Work. Start. End. Back.

    I smell your kitchen wonders eleven blocks away
    work Inc forgotten and boss Asshole forgotten
    and client Bitch forgotten,
    My mind obsessed with the assailing smells
    and shapes and colors and tastes real or imaginary
    filling up the table in a mixture of
    olive oil dressed salad and sliced roast with potatoes
    and green beans and mushrooms and red... red?... peas
    and white bread and brown buns
    and cheese cake and something that foams like beer
    and looks like wine and tastes like flat Pepsi
    you force me to drink straight from your mouth
    and the melody, oh, the music of you
    chattering away your day of chicken shit cleaning
    and laundering and the kids preferring grandma’s food to yours
    (no wonder)
    and grandma’s hospitability for said kids
    (mmm... that’s some news...)
    and mowing the back yard’s lawn and groceries outdated
    and the letter from the tax office
    and the handsome new postman
    and I finally shut you up crushing my mouthful of red... red?... peas
    into your mouthful of fried potatoes
    and the resulting dish is manna for the gods...

    Much, much, much later...

    The king and the queen put on a minimum of underwear
    wash and dry the dishes
    and he sits in front of the TV while she falls asleep,
    her head in his lap,
    a smile slightly drooling the beauty of satisfaction
    upon his stretching... again... garment.
    They both know of the rest of the night.

    We walk... do we?... sideways all the way to the bedroom
    Waddling like a four legged giant Donald
    Refusing to unclench at knees, belly, chest, screeching teeth,
    Loosing some irrelevant garments on the way
    And as we fall on the bed
    the ceiling implodes
    dragging with it roof, leaves, clouds, sky
    soaking into our flesh with dead stars and cosmic dust
    and imploding galaxies.

    We don’t make love,
    We love.


    I hear the neighbor’s chickens cackling in my yard,
    The loud lazy yawn on the pillow next to me
    stretching through shoulders, elbow, all the way to fingers
    groping in vain for a hammer to hit the alarm clock with...

    My boring kingdom,
    Oh, the beauty of life...