Hobbies - Poetry - AnonymousGreen
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Philosophies Of Love, Three

    I lay down
    Spine arched
    When your fingers tore through me
    Chest to back.
    Then out again.
    The bubbling craters between my ribs spitting crumbs of glowing coal
    Dazzling traces streaking all the way to black skies
    The stars... were born that day.

    “Were there no stars before?” you asked.
    “No, none,” I answered.
    “Are you god,” you asked,
    “Dying in creation?”
    “No, you are goddess,” I answered.
    “I am only the one giving birth.”
    “Women give birth,” you claimed.
    “Men die,” I insisted.
    “And lovers, what happens to lovers?” you asked.
    “True lovers, you mean?”
    “True lovers, I mean.”

    I guided your fingers into my chest again,
    Then out.
    I laid your body in the flowers fields
    and in the wheat fields and in the thorns fields.
    “Gods die,” I answered.

    I cupped my hands and filled them with stars and poured them in your mouth
    Licking away the excess dripping from the left corner.
    I knew you wanted to hear more
    Avoiding interpretation, hesitation, maybe’s,
    though it was so clear...
    This time I guided your fingers into my chest and left them there.
    “True lovers,” I said, “are immortal.”



Blatant Acts Of Love

    I’ll clench my fist around your fist
    Then clench your thighs between my thighs
    And while my mouth inhales your sighs
    I’ll feed your lungs inflaming mist.

    I’ll crush my lips upon your lips
    Then crush your chest beneath my chest
    Then pluck a sun descending west
    And roll its flame within your hips.

    I’ll carve my flesh inside your flesh
    Then carve your skin across my skin
    As fingers rough suspires glean
    To paint upon your body’s thresh.

    Do clench, do crush, do carve my life,
    I’ll clench and crush and carve your soul,
    Do take my heart, I’ll take your whole,
    Then be your friend, your mate, your wife.




    your mouth, red,
    open it,
    let me count the teeth
    still carrying pieces of skin and flesh and washing away blood traces.

    yes, mine,
    reaved from incisions bordering my swollen bottom lip,
    those around my ankles,
    barely crusted gashes around my nipples awaiting the renewal of slaughter.

    your mouth, that bleeding wound yawning in your face,
    open it, lover,
    and let me count the teeth
    virgin of my skin and flesh and washing away blood traces
    before I guide them to the pristine wilderness of my body’s lands
    and beg of them the mercy of chiseling messages of love till marrow deep.



Illiterate, Not

    Tell me something sweet, I begged.
    Of course, she sang before singing
    And transposed me to her land with that laughter
    Mixed with irony mixed with laziness, with lust, with beauty.

    I closed my closed eyes and started counting the wolves
    Then the seals, then the specks of dust inside the drooping rays
    Then the times I cut my fingernails then the times I broke my fingernails,
    The times I cried, I swore, I lusted for her I loved her I forgot her.

    Many years later when I woke up and saw that only three seconds had passed
    I knew that this was all it took to sing the three words she sang,
    Yet I did not dare ask her what was it she did all these years
    While she sang I love you and I missed a life less three seconds.

    She accepted to fall asleep
    Leaving me with my insanity
    And her beauty
    And my certainty in her beauty in my her love.



Illiterate, None

    I let go of yesterday’s loves,
    All none of them.

    None? Nonsense.
    Nonsense? Nonesense.
    What’s that, games of love?
    None! Love. One’n’One Only.
    OOO... and she finally gave up literacy for a smile...
    OOO... the beauty of that smile.
    Not even one time before?
    None time before.

    No, not games of love.
    Just love.
    I started telling the story... nonce upon a time...
    She giggled. And tomorrow?
    Tomorrow I will have today as yesterday.
    I will not let go of yesterday’s loves
    All one of them.
    And the story will start... once upon a time...
    Yesterday is not ‘once upon a time...’
    Yesterday is ‘once’.
    Once’n’Once Only?
    I had to give it to her, she was bright.
    I have to give it to you, you are bright.
    Again that giggle. None of us knows.
    One of us knows.

    I closed the notebook and popped a beer can.
    The bliss of illiteracy. Not none.



Stories Of

    Stories of mermaids and stories of queens,
    Glimmering eyedust of silken skinned teens,
    Stories of sirens in crotch splitting jeans...
    None likens you.

    Stories of fairies and lithe waisted sprites,
    Amazons’ glamour and prurient rites,
    White bodied sylphs mid of star anchored nights...
    None pairing you.

    Stories of princesses waltzing the seas,
    Nails trailing stockings with genuine tease,
    Eye batting nymphs within fingertouch ease...
    None nearing you.

    Look at the crack in my lip, in my skin,
    Rough is my word when the moment turns mean,
    Thick is my waist and there’s weed in my green...
    The wonder of you.




    Limp like a peeled cucumber
    left to rot on the edge of the kitchen table,
    Sticky blobs accumulating in a tiny puddle underneath
    Sad memory to a pride once hopping mountain tops.

    Voice, eyes, shivers,
    Once the sparkle of gold before melting point,
    Now the color of dry mud
    same sparkle, same intensity, same timbre,
    Cracking into ridiculous toothless grins
    before falling prey to a horse’s unintentional hoof and dung.

    A peeling mirror reflecting a hollow mouth
    contemplating the back of La Gioconda’s head
    half way through gagging or yawning or burping,
    The once sun
    Now hardly able to warm the half cup of yesterday’s sugarless tea.

    Is the spelling right?
    Does it matter?
    Once the only word, now one more word lost to advertising
    chocolates, and underwear, and cooking books called
    My Intense Love for Carrots.

    Doesn’t it look more appealing with each passing line
    though, once deadly serious, now a joke?
    After all... everybody dies
    and no one is impressed anymore.



Moments, Now

    I wish I could write of your glory...

    I cannot, I am human.
    Humans have big eyes and appetites and skills...
    Yet, how can one describe the reality of you in five senses
    when one needs twenty five of them? maybe more...

    No, I never claimed to be able,
    I did swear to try. I am trying.

    I saw your picture today.
    It leaped at me devouring my eyes before penetrating
    and cuddling once more next to all the other images of you
    in that unique collection of repeatable colors
    and shapes and features and thirst.
    Then it restored my eyes for the next time.

    I am writing telling you I saw your picture today
    and that I wish I could write of your glory
    Wishing you to know
    Of my love.



Almost Touching

    Do not hide your curls at the other end of a phone line
    which you do not pick up.
    You cannot.
    I am there,
    I am always there.

    Remember that previous life
    When I was the cruel and fearsome dragon above the village
    And you were brought to me chained to a boulder
    for that moon’s sacrifice
    And after my hungry roar
    I extinguished my flame
    Bit loose your chains
    And lay my head on the ground in front of you
    sinking inside those green filled orbs
    while they killed me under a sea of shame and sticks and stones?

    Or that other life
    The shaggy skin hanging to the sharp ends of my bones
    A wild horse squalid unkempt ungroomed
    Not even the hungry wolves wanting to partake of my flesh
    Limping on three broken hooves when I found you
    A pool of crystalline water mid of a dying forest
    Green emeralds your pebbles and red specks of fire your fish
    And I sunk into the crumbling foliage around of you
    My muzzle not daring touch your clarity
    Dying of a thirst I was not willing to satisfy
    at the cost of those sparks of fire.

    Close your eyes
    At the end of this unpicked telephone line,
    Remember the lumberjack and the tree
    The toad and the butterfly
    The fire and the witch...
    I always was there almost touching you
    Like I am almost touching you now
    At the other end of this unpicked telephone line.
    This, just one more life mid of so many,
    In it I the poet and you the untouchable dream.

    Don’t open your eyes,
    Don’t pick up the phone
    Leave technology out of the magic
    Just listen carefully,
    Listen... do you hear the melodious wail of the dying whale?...
    This is my voice,
    Singing of distantness, of lonesomeness, of a love...
    almost touching you.




    "How was your desert?" a colleague asked,
    queuing for the elevator.
    "Not my desert, her desert," I corrected him.
    He eyed me obliquely.
    "So how was her desert?" he mocked me in a friendly way.
    "I left my heart there," I answered,
    getting in with him and three others.
    "I thought people leave their hearts only in San Francisco,"
    he laughed loudly, expecting me to join.
    I did not.
    "No, mine is in her desert."
    I guess I sounded too serious.
    The elevator stopped,
    some people left, new came in.
    He moved cautiously away,
    making sure there was an elderly gentleman between us.
    "I guess she is rich to own a desert,"
    he was still trying to catch up with his earlier joke, uncertain.
    I did not really hear him, not conscientiously.
    "Yes, she is rich,
    with colors, with songs, with desert flowers..."
    "And sand..." he felt safe behind the elderly guy.
    "And freckles..." I complemented
    catching him off guard.

    We reached the ground floor.
    "Hey, careful, she may let your heart dry out in the sun."
    I opened the car’s door.
    "Yes, she may," I answered,
    starting the motor.
    "Nobody can. She may."
    I closed the door and eased myself out of the parking,
    hitting the radio’s ‘on’ button.
    She was singing.
    Every single time I turned on the radio she was singing,
    I never asked myself why. I knew.
    "Nobody can. She may,"
    I repeated, accelerating.
    "And if she does,
    I wish her no memories.
    Only freckles to her skin
    And sunrise to her hair
    And nightingales to her lips."
    I hit the highway.
    "And lilac to her desert."




    Will miss me.
    You don’t know now,
    You will know then
    You will miss me.

    The hours
    Filled with my vain attempts to phone you
    Now empty of that strident ring meaning “...him again, shit...”,
    The minutes
    On those rare occasions when in your car you would accept my call
    And at my request you would sing to me and even say “I love you”
    At the end of it. At my request.

    The poems
    Did you think about the poems I daily wrote in my car
    Counting truck wheels and lampposts and oil puddles just missed,
    The letters
    The long and the short always ending with the fire of declarations
    Rich in adjectives and in metaphors and in letters like “l” and like “o”
    So many times unanswered.

    The piece of metal
    Carved, holed, fitted around your finger,
    The piece of ribbon
    Once around our arms, now in my treasures box
    Next to your letter, your strand of hair,
    Your drop of blood marrying mine.

    Close your eyes
    Or you will see
    Your eyes don’t see.

    The hug on the bridge,
    The walk on the dark path towards the sea,
    The mosquitoes infested clearing,
    The moment you slid on the stairs,
    The fudge I never tasted,
    The handhold across the table top,
    The chain you lost,
    The last tip,
    The last gas station,
    The last embrace.

    And if your miss me is just a drop
    In the sea of I miss you
    You will die.

    You will miss me.
    Please, don’t.
    Because I love you.




    Gone is the magic
    Gone is the chant
    Flutters the music down grasshopper’s rant,
    Crumble the petals
    Beneath linden trees
    Rotting cathedrals to sunbathing fleas.

    Hovering sunshine
    In luscious runes
    Dwindles to flickers submerging in dunes,
    Eyes laden twilight
    Once shying in tear
    Dull through the boredom to heart rending jeer.

    Once through my whispers
    The wind carried sighs
    Branding tomorrows in yesterday’s ice,
    Once you were smiling
    Once you were proud
    Time my old lining was dressing your cloud.

    Now is my lonely
    Now is my sad
    Yearning for silver which once I have had,
    Now is my crying
    Silly and old
    Sifting through hours for seconds of gold.

    Lover oh lover
    Oh lover so dear
    Foolish your questing and reeking of beer,
    Told I have many
    And told I have oft
    Thorns rip my belly and bitters my soft.

    Greys in my sunsets
    And reds in my strife
    Come with this story I’m calling a life,
    Time has been cruel
    And miles played a joke
    Now we are saddled with yesterday’s yoke.

    Yet, do remember
    And damn you if not
    All I have granted and more than I’ve got,
    When before heaven
    And ready for hell
    Love I have given beyond you can tell.

    Doubt it not ever,
    Do send me your rhyme
    Love love love love you I’m naming this crime,
    Look at the rainbow
    And count all its hues
    Magical, endless like my I love you’s.




    definitions -

          Softness, warmth...

          A newborn chick's down
          but the lowest of sandpaper grades
          And the sun’s glow
          just a poor neon lamp white with green envy.

          Softness, warmth... you.

    biography -

          I was born.
          Many things happened after.

          Then I fell in love with you.
          Then I fell in love with you.
          Then I fell in love with you.

    making love -

          A legend
          as persistent as the story of the Grail
          or Nessie
          or the curse of the Pharaoh.
          As inexistent.

          Until we met.

          I wonder,
          will We be demonized or idolized
          for wrecking the legend into reality?


    betrayal -

          are proven to be just...



Randoms, One

    in collection: experimental

    Tell me how much you love me.
    I am afraid to.
    I beg of you.

    I had no choice, I could not refuse her anything,
    I whispered in her ear.
    She started melting, singing, smiling.
    I cried,
    Cursed be love
    Stealing my lover.

    I lay down next to her waiting for her to cover me, caress me,
    Drown me...



Randoms, Variation

    in collection: experimental

    The day the sun refused to shine
    I knew something was wrong.
    I could not watch calmly flowers die, children cry,
    I pulled at your sleeve...
    please... smile...
    Luckily you loved me.
    Luckily the sun did not know it.
    You smiled.
    The sun shone.



Randoms, Two

    in collection: experimental

    It is so easy to follow your dancing feet in the desert...
    I follow,
    Crushing a blooming flower under my foot,
    Then another, then another...
    My God, you danced so much,
    So many flowers in the desert...



Randoms, Three

    in collection: experimental

    If you don't come tonight
    the night will be eternal,
    If you come
    I doubt that I'll wish it to end...

    It never ends.
    I wonder why.



Another Talks

    I left the cell phone on,
    also the laptop.
    I emptied the mailbox, the one at my gate,
    the classical wooden box with my name on it
    and a few visiting spiders. Out of town spiders,
    I know the locals.

    For what? For maybe a phone call.
    Or maybe a message,
    Or even the good old fashioned letter, stamped,
    a bit crumpled, a bit wet.
    For a word from you.
    Knowing not when is the time to give up,
    is it when all hope is gone?
    All hope is never gone, it just gets kinked and chipped.
    Of course, a gun shot to the head may change things drastically,
    not the hope, hope is a survivor even in absence of a carrying vessel.
    But it certainly would curb pain’s kingdom.



The Beginning Of Death

    what is the sound of a breaking idol?
    one made of finest porcelain
    trimmed with thin crystal streaks and emeralds and silver?

    what is the sound of a dying love’s wail?
    when angel impostors undress wings and halos
    and uncovered flesh demands its lustful rights and suitors?

    what is the sound of a dying lover?
    waking up from his dream amidst the leftovers
    of crunching porcelain bits and fading wail echoes?

    it is the sound of innermost layers of throat ripping apart
    and breaking nails tearing through ribs and reaching for heart
    and bones smashing to splinters as knees fall to their death,

    the sound of shoes grinding porcelain and crystal and emeralds to dust
    and fists shredding wings and halos to fleeting slivers
    and betrayal whispers changing all of world’s colors to grey.

    the red, the white, the...
    oh, gods of all hell and heaven help me say it...
    the... green.

    and this is just the beginning of death.




    The bitterest of poisons, the slowest of most dreadful deaths,
    Inflicting it, knowing the pain,
    Then shriveling inside alongside your victim,
    Do you?
    Shrivel inside seeing your once upon lover’s throes
    His bleeding guts reaching to eyes
    The bones breaking in his arms and ribs and legs
    And sticking out through skin awaiting to be pierced?

    Do you?
    Hear his screaming question and misapprehension
    Of the disrespected altar
    And withering vow and shredding ribbon and crumbling rose
    Carrying the seal of blood?
    Hear his promise to never stop loving you
    While howling his endless trek on the burning coals you seeded his way?

    Do you?
    Have an answer to the question - did you ever?
    See the blank stare petrified inside wondering - did you ever?
    Feel the tremor in his hand, one inch any which way
    Making it impossible for him to hold the pen and write - did you ever?

    A voice which lost all articulation bare imbecilic grunts,
    A fear of getting the answer to - did you ever?
    And face the long death knowing the truth,
    Loneliness, terrible, loathsome,
    Feeling like a fly in St Peter’s dome with the church bare of humanity,
    Decorations, paintings, echoes, light.
    Eternal night.
    Buried alive.
    And still thinking of you as the summum of creation.
    Imbecile. Loving you into your betrayal,
    Knowing there is no way back.
    Was it true love I loved her? he asks himself.
    No, it is true love I love her, he answers. I always will.
    Even through the reality of being quartered alive
    And forbidden to die
    When saying... Goodbye.





    I am trying to stay alive
    trying to remember not to forget to breathe,
    Difficult when you have to think of it
    and force yourself to pull in your chest and push it out again,
    Hesitating each time you do it.

    How long does it last?
    I don’t know, I have never been in love before,
    I never lost a love before,
    I never died before.



Missing Lives Department, Inc

    Where did it all go?
    When you were looking at my blurred web-cam image
    and you were repeating... so handsome... so handsome...
    When you were gazing up at me from that one inch distance
    and after the fifteenth time and for the fifteenth time
    you were repeating... I love you so much... oh, I love you so much...
    When you were showering
    asking impatiently... so, are you coming finally in?...
    When you told me... jump!...
    and we jumped together into the beginning of a new life,
    I knew it was forever,
    You, did you already know the ridiculously short span of forever?

    My mind,
    playing back images, like all forgotten lovers throughout the ages,
    finally... I guess we did not make history.
    I always claimed I knew better,
    I wonder if I should have looked in the mirror before claiming anything.

    I look now –
    Still handsome I think, though grey,
    Still powerful I think, though paunchy,
    Still young beneath my age and wise beyond it I know,
    and now miserably wiser.
    So what was it which made you turn your head
    not my way but away from it?
    Was it the call of young and stupid momentary lust,
    A match suddenly ablaze,
    stinking of phosphor and dying within seconds?
    Versus the rumbling volcano long asleep and slow to wake up
    yet eternal in his returns and devastating in its might?
    Was it the smoothness of skin and narrowness of waist
    smugly and confidently falling asleep immediately after the hurricane?
    Versus the wrinkles coming of a life of smiling
    and the short hairs which life placed close to my ears
    and the muscles around the waist hidden by an additional softer layer
    and the endless patience of caressing your skin forever
    after the hurricane?
    Was it the lack of commitment and promise
    with the only talent an undeniable physical presence?
    Versus the trust, the promise,
    the physical presence of a handhold above all other
    and the talent in the word being the nest to cuddle your heart,
    Did you give up so easily on the nest for your heart?

    How do I write it without sounding trite, stale, corny?
    I am trying right now,
    I may be failing, I don’t know, there’s no one to tell me.
    You have gone.
    Can I use the words I love you when all love is gone
    and the acrid smoke of betrayal infests my lungs?
    You wouldn’t believe it.
    I can. I just did it.




    I took the silver ring off my finger
    reading those words I did not understand
    yet knew their say,
    my ancestor’s say of immemorial times
    tying lover’s truth to lover’s truth in unbreakable bonds,
    Ran the red ribbon through it
    then picked the exiting end and ran it through again,
    Placed it on a thick piece of metal on the wooden bench
    and tied the ribbon firmly in place so it couldn’t skid.
    I was going to smash my ring, my only ring, whom I lovest,
    my love, my only love, whom I lovest,
    following the command of life almighty
    in an act of blind brainless obedience.

    I picked up the five pound hammer
    and lifted it above my head
    stretching to my full six foot height
    plus three foot of hand muscles knotted in steel loops
    waiting for the one deadly discharge,
    Opened my mouth ready for the scream and the kill...
    an angel’s hand touched my shoulder
    lay not thy hand upon the ring... she said.

    Why she? I wondered in my mind,
    untying the ring and placing it back on my finger
    kissing the ribbon and placing it back in its box
    picking a coin and placing it on the thick piece of metal
    and hammering it into thin death with uncounted blows
    till the hammer’s handle broke
    and I fainted in a shapeless heap on the floor.

    I woke up with dusk
    knowing that life works in impenetrable ways
    yet it would not allow me to sacrifice my ring, my only ring,
    my love, my only love.
    Or was it she?
    The memory or the presence?



Only You Will

    Sitting in front of a keyboard,
    Punching keys with my clenched fists
    Not afraid to break anything
    except the heart I keep locked in the left fist
    and the knuckles missing the surface from time to time
    and hitting savagely the marble table top.

    Are the red drops around the keyboard
    and splashing on the screen
    squeezing out of the beating contraption once populating my chest?
    Or are they the splintered bones of smashed knuckle joints
    coagulated upon marble shards
    carrying leftovers of once upon a time caresses dragging along your skin?

    I gave you love, did you give me sex in return?
    Damn you if you did.
    Did you give me lies in return?
    Damn you if you did.
    Did you give me pain in return?
    Bliss you if you did.
    Did you give me memories in return?
    Bliss you if you did.

    Did you give me love in return?
    I will never know.
    Only you will.



Happy End

    I don’t know to write poems with sad endings,
    Or stories,
    I never knew
    And if I tried, there always had to be some glory in the sadness,
    Or I would die before ending my write.
    I am a happy end man,
    A romantic.

    I did not see this end,
    The end.
    I should have but I could not,
    My personal blind spot of happiness
    Happily in love and blind to sad ends,
    So short my sad imagination.

    This is a reality write,
    Like all my writes only this one more so.
    I write a few words, pace around for a while,
    Erase, write, bellow, pick a knife and break its blade on the wall,
    Insanity in love, is it also insanity in life?
    I am sane enough to ask the question at least.

    Just back from a bout of howling.
    You cannot call it crying, or wailing, only humans cry and wail,
    Romantics howl, romantics kill, romantics die. Disturbed souls.
    I pull away the cover from the pillow which smothered the sound,
    It is tattered,
    Torn to shreds by uncontrolled fists and body convulsions
    lasting for hours.
    There are red stains on the pillow,
    soaked in through the blue-red-yellowish cover,
    From a bleeding nose, from bloodied lips bitten into insensitivity,
    from my sudden cough bringing up spasm residues from my lungs.
    There is no blood in my tears. That would have been a poem.
    This is a reality write.

    I came down from the plane,
    An empty airport, late.
    Waiting impatiently for a figure, steps, a rush of satin my way,
    It came, you fell into my arms, I kissed you savagely...
    You knew already of the bad end, I did not.
    I was floating in reality dreams. My reality. My dreams.
    No longer yours.

    Another break, sorry,
    Went to the kitchen and started hitting the wall shouting die, die, die...
    not to the wall, to me.
    Will try to make as few of these as possible,
    As much as I can control what my fingers and my brains collude.
    My father has gone to the hospital for an eye operation,
    sorry, cannot go with you... I said sunk in my own miss you misery,
    My mother in law has gone to a clinic for a sudden amnesia attack,
    sorry, cannot go with you... I said sunk in my own miss you misery.
    I was waiting for their return
    and all I could think of was you, the hope of our love, my own misery.

    You allowed me to caress you all the way to the hotel,
    You even caressed yourself my face, my neck, my lips,
    one hand holding the steering wheel the other squeezing mine
    between CD changes,
    Sing for me, I pleaded, and you sang. Oh, I love your singing so much.
    You did not want to make love,
    You hesitated, dragged your legs,
    I forced you... did I? I don’t remember,
    You still enjoyed it, we did it several times,
    You still loved me. I was sure then.
    I am sure now. That you did not.
    You were giving me the beginning of my last memory.

    We saw each other so little,
    so many the reasons, the excuses,
    so little the time and few the moments.

    The last day. You were sated. Was it the other?
    We lay naked in bed, you were so beautiful...
    Hug me, you said, you may never see me again,
    And I felt like whipping you at such blasphemy,
    Not knowing you knew I was nearing the end of my last memory
    And you were giving me one last sweet present.

    We parted, though fate played a dirty trick
    and for a few more minutes we were united again.
    The trip, the airport, that last hug ripping me apart,
    The end of my last memory...

    And here I am howling my life away again,
    Hardly seeing the keys and having to retype each three times.

    I did not know it was the end of my last memory,
    I am blind to bad ends, I know I repeat myself,
    Romantics do not get senile, they only get lonely.
    It was just another happy end, though sad,
    And about to repeat itself till there would be no ends anymore
    but simply togetherness, till death do us not part,
    till the final happy end.
    You knew.


    I sit back now, typing with one single finger,
    My other hand continuously busy smearing my nose on its sleeve,
    And know that if I knew about him
    I would have found him, killed him.
    No, not you, of course not you,
    Not an ant, not a spider, not a snake. But him. Blank mindedly.
    Then drilled a 9mm tunnel through my own brain.
    Consequences irrelevant.
    Now I know more, terribly more.
    Now I know there is you. I still love you.
    Now I just howl, looking for my happy end,
    Knowing it will never come.




    I had no flowers.
    You gave me one flower.
    I asked you – what does it get to have three?
    You said – love.

    I loved you.
    You gave me three flowers.
    I loved you for thirty three.
    Then for three thousand three hundred thirty three.
    I should have known better, it was too much,
    No one ever loved you for three thousand three hundred thirty three,
    You could not count numbers unknown to you,
    You thought it was a joke. It was not.
    I still had only three flowers.
    Then others got three flowers as well.
    Then I had no flowers at all.
    I could not protect them,
    Your flame thrower burned my flowers to cinders
    and my hand to the elbow.
    And my eyes to tears.

    Others still have three flowers.
    They loved you for three. Only.
    Lucky guys.
    You were happy and this is what matters.
    I love your happiness.

    I carefully swept the fuel smelling cinders into an empty tin box,
    Closed the lid,
    Bandaged the stump the best I could
    and left town.
    No need to tell you I loved you more than three thousand three hundred thirty three,
    You will not understand anyway.



The School Of Life

    The first subject was love.
    I passed with flying honors,
    Their best student ever,
    I got the first ever gilded diploma and a book of synonyms.
    I did not know this was the key to a curse called life,
    It was not written in their registration brochures.
    I fell in love with the teacher of course,
    Which was neither written in the registration brochures
    nor part of the curriculum.
    But it was unavoidable –
    The best teacher and the best student... what could you expect?

    I flunked miserably two other courses,
    Hate and revenge.
    Either the teachers were not good enough
    Or the subject did not fit my mental crevices
    Or both.
    They kept warning me that I will need it to balance the love course
    Or they take no responsibility to my life,
    They even tried to call my mother.
    They found out she was dead and they stopped insisting.
    I did have to sign a paper though
    relieving them of any future legal obligation.

    There were some other courses,
    I performed there my most mediocre way
    simply because they did not talk to me
    but I knew them to be necessities in life.
    They had funny names like “teacher’s pet” or “rubbing elbows”.
    I did do good though at trust, giving and taking.
    Maybe too good.

    I did not know of the final course,
    It was kept secret, each year it was different, some years none,
    each student a different subject,
    Part of the mysteries of life, they said, to keep you on your toes.
    It is too late to keep me on my toes, I responded,
    I’m way past midlife crisis, just give me my diploma and let me go.
    But they smiled smugly and did not answer.

    I was already putting in practice my best subject till now – love,
    I was flowing with it, living in it, wallowing in it,
    I was painting suns each day and seeding gardens each hour,
    Love was my rule, my law, my commandment,
    My teacher my mate, my life, my wife...
    They knew what they were doing the schooling bastards,
    The best school in the world,
    No wonder their price was so high – depression, insanity, death,
    and they were worth every penny of it.

    One day she disappeared. My teacher. My love.
    And then I learned of the subject I graduated in
    with full honors again – betrayal.
    Top grade for failing to see it coming. Their best student ever.
    This time my diploma was cast in real heavy gold,
    hung around my neck
    in case I want to do something really practical with it.
    Because I had one more payment to go
    And life extended its greedy hand towards my heart.
    I had no problem paying this last payment,
    I had just a problem opening the buttons of my shirt
    as my right hand was trembling all over my chest
    while the left one was crunching in its rigid fist
    all the poems she ever wrote me.




    Airport. Damn airport. Damn memories.
    I see couples,
    Many of them,
    Some hand in hand,
    Some her head on his shoulder
    and her thumb in his trousers’ back pocket,
    Some his fingers riding up her spine underneath a t-shirt
    she giggling embarrassed
    then kissing him,
    Some hugging quietly
    from time to time kissing
    then hugging again.

    We did it too, remember?
    Hugging, kissing, crying,
    When you accompanied me
    sometimes coming sometimes going
    Same number of times coming and going.
    It was supposed to be different numbers.
    The coming bigger than the going by one.
    It will never be. It will stay even.
    It breaks my heart, sorry,
    It breaks my heart.

    I see couples. I miss one couple.
    I miss us.
    It breaks my heart, sorry,
    It breaks my heart.




    yeetgadal v' yeetkadash sh'mey rabbah...
    I was reciting the holiest of prayers in Judaism,
    On the grave of my mother, in her name,
    My father nearby, his eyes extinguished,
    A rabbi, several family members, several friends,
    A holy moment for the holy woman I loved most than all.
    Not most than you.

    yeetgadal v' yeetkadash sh'mey rabbah...
    I repeated the kaddish in my mind,
    For our love.
    Holy. Dead.



Howling Butterflies

    in collection: lover, oh, lover

    Lover, oh, lover, the thorns crowd my lips,
    Trapped in my ribcage the nightingale weeps
    Seeing the fire set pastures ablaze
    Down in my valleys where antelopes graze.

    Lover, oh, lover, my torment is such,
    Watching your lover consuming your touch,
    Pouring his flame through my holiest shrine,
    Lover, oh, lover, no more lover mine.

    Lover, oh, lover, Elysium’s ghost
    Lone in my forest of candles is lost,
    Butterfly legions my eyelight forsake
    Howling forlorn as they burn in its wake.



Whimpering Beast

    in collection: lover, oh, lover

    Lover, oh, lover, your nipples are ice,
    Splinter my teeth for an innocent vice,
    Lame is your caress and stone is your breast
    Withers the orchard asleep in my chest.

    Lover, oh, lover, that stain on the ground
    Lost in the bliss of a thin wailing sound
    Painted your beauty on winds flaming east,
    Lover was, poet, now whimpering beast.

    Lover, oh, lover, one morning you rise
    Thinking a word which is spelling despise,
    Voice it... then watch as I sink in the clay
    Letting cold letters my innocence slay.



Of Human Misery

    Does misery have a color?

    The color of eyes, unforgotten, unforgettable
    yet hidden behind layers of silence, indifference, derision,
    What was the color of your eyes?
    Of course I remember. Do you?
    Remember the color of my eyes?
    Their promise?

    The color of hair, underneath layers of dye
    and sun bleach and cruel scissors mastery,
    Feeling it with my fingers, sliding through,
    whose fingers are sliding through it now?
    Not mine, certainly flesh no heart no love.

    The color... no... the count of freckles,
    Does count count as color?
    Bad English, I know,
    immeasurable love would compensate for it,
    wouldn’t it, if allowed to?
    Not allowed anymore.
    Will anyone else go through the pain of counting them again?
    Or just go through the ripping of clothes and ripping of silks
    and freckles stay unseen when eyes push out of sockets in a frenzy of lust
    and their beauty is gone.
    And their count.
    And their color.
    Your freckles.
    The color of misery. Mine.

    Does misery have a color?
    No, it is not black.
    It is the rainbow of your body
    when it slides backwards from life...
    into memory.




    in collection: lover, oh, lover

    Lover, oh, lover, the walls are so thin
    Thousand miles brickwork can’t smother the din,
    Groaning white bodies in sweat drown the lust...
    Hear you my wish crushing lovers to dust?

    Lover, oh, lover, my bellow rolls loud
    Calling out phrases you once sweetly vowed,
    Muscled, my hooves rise in thirst for the kill
    Then... you roll over and freckle seeds spill...

    Lover, oh, lover, if once you did love
    Plunge your espada with one hefty shove,
    Smile as his kisses your shoulders adorn
    Watching the blood claim the green in my horn.




    You needed the details. I gave them.
    You did not thank me. I was happy you did not thank me.

    I cried. A pain unbearable. I told you.
    You were sorry. You will mail later.

    I said I love you.
    You hated ditto. You could have said likewise. You said ok.

    I said goodbye.
    You were in a hurry.

    You never mailed.




    I chose the thimble carefully,
    Crystal, double walled,
    empty of wine and liqueur and nectar,
    I did not want to be heard,
    I did not want to drown or get drunk or get numb,
    I wanted to be awake,
    To feel.

    I undressed, leaving in a heap outside my clothes,
    my ring, my pendants, my ribbon, my flower, my day after today,
    Slid inside the thimble
    and rocked my body on the smooth bare bottom
    until it tumbled over
    cutting me off from the world,
    the smells, songs, you.
    Then I took a deep breath till the rigid walls almost caved in
    and started screaming.

    None heard. Nor you. Nor I.
    The purity of the echo piercing my eardrums, my skin, my lungs,
    cracking my ribcage,
    quashing the pathetically protesting leftovers of that one minded furnace
    still hanging pictures of you inside its throbbing chambers.
    For how long did I scream?

    I spat on my fingers
    and rubbed away the goo sticking my eyelids to my cheeks,
    The silence absolute,
    Watched uncomprehending the tiny droplets of lung alveoli
    decorating the thimble’s inner walls with frescoes
    surpassing in beauty Italian renaissance church domes
    now slowly stretching and dripping into the coherence of chaos,
    Then I slithered out through the newly born gaping cracks
    falling onto my clothes
    soaking through them
    and finally coagulating into one dense blob
    inside the smooth curved confines of the ring.
    There was a message engraved on the outer wall of my newly found home,
    I did not forget it.
    You did.



Letting You Go Missing

    Unthinking, like an automaton,
    I place an LP on the turntable, old fashioned me,
    Pick up the arm in between steady fingers
    and let the needle drop in the groove... a classical...
    hell... I did not want a classical, I wanted the Stones,
    or Slade, or Yello...
    I wanted a someone to blow my brains to smithereens
    and my eardrums to cave-mouth sized holes...

    Quasi una fantasia... one of the few my ignorant self knows,
    Ludwig’s wordless love poem to Giulietta,
    Twice her age... was love as vibrant two hundred years ago
    as I claim it to be today when I listen
    and moonbeams woven inside immortal sounds
    pierce my body like an army of thin arrows
    letting wind shriek through me and water gurgle through me
    and your touch miss me altogether
    as I hug toes to forehead and crumble into a shapeless wailing mass?

    Anger, rage, storming muscles pick the hollow arm again and shift it
    leaving a furrow inside the soft plastic deeper than the groove
    I wish to part from the sound, looking for a marsh, military, glory, guns...
    fate plays its tricks, violent...

    L’amour est un oiseau rebelle que nul ne peut apprivoiser... damn
    as La Callas steals Carmen’s voice singing
    about tameless love and lawless love
    and short tempered love
    and ephemeral love
    the way Georges enshrined them in his notes and our minds
    And I see and hear the flower thrown at Don José’s feet
    when I rush over and push him out of the way and pick it up
    knife in hand ready for the deathly fight
    seeing her pass in front of me throwing back my ring... Tiens...
    And falling under Don José’s thrusting blade is an absolute bliss
    as I watch you both running away skirts high hugging and kissing
    while the bulls are led to the streets
    and pitiful horns pick my carcass before pitiless hooves squash it
    between the cracks of melting cobblestones.

    I hesitate, knowing I may try what I may try
    yet the next one is going to be one more piercing nail,
    still, I turn around the LP like a master magician
    let it slide around the nickel plated spindle
    and all shiver gone I guide the needle to a randomly chosen point
    and let it sink down as softly as a mourning dove’s down with dawn.

    Hedvig Antoinette Isabella Eleonore Jensen... had to be, hadn’t it?
    I remember still being seated in the dark cinema hall, alone,
    after the last flickers on the screen died away
    and the sparks in my eyes saying –
    this is the kind of love my last love will be, then for years later
    looking for Wolfgang Gotlieb’s piano concerto number 21
    ever after known as the theme from Elvira Madigan.
    My last love will be. My last love.
    I still see the butterfly escaping her hands
    and hear the double thunder of the revolver
    and I shrivel underneath the chair playing in my mind personal scenes
    of sitting in another cinema hall next to you and holding hands
    watching a sunset you sent me into with a hurried phone call
    telling you how beautiful you are blowing your nose
    missing the howl of my dog and the song of your voice
    and poems you so long have not written to me
    and letting you go.

    The needle does not rise,
    I don’t know when the last sounds played themselves out,
    The turntable is old, tired, like you think, like I am,
    The needle scrapping the same memory spot again and again
    till it dulls out and slides in and crashes against the spindle
    and breaks into fine diamond dust
    settling between my eyelashes
    and beneath my eyelids
    and upon my irises...
    is this the reason my eyes suddenly shine as they catch the light
    of the oncoming car?...



Vesti La Giubba

    in collection: lover, oh, lover

    Lover, oh, lover, becloth my emotion
    Those trinkets of crystal and ringlets of gold,
    the wine of my yesterday’s memories potion
    beclouding the grip of this ravaging cold.

    Lover, oh, lover, rich starlight infuses
    My runes and my music with cinnamon seeds,
    and hummingbirds tend to my bleeding lip bruises
    belaying with honey the dry, bitter weeds.

    Lover, oh, lover, a blissful delusion
    Paints rivers of silver in forests of sand,
    yet wonder I do is it truth or illusion
    my lover and lover share whisper and hand.


    Tu se' Pagliaccio!

    Vesti la giubba e la faccia infarina.
    La gente paga e rider vuole qua,
    e se Arlecchin t'invola Colombina,
    ridi, Pagliaccio, e ognun applaudirà!



E Pur Si Muove

    Matter not the eyes.

    Matter not the letters seen and read,
    the claustrophobia inducing chambers of brain
    the schooling and thoughts from ages old to ages new
    and conviction of should be and is and may.

    Matters not yesterday
    and crawling doubts beneath ignorance or pretence
    or erudition better left untouched
    under whipping scorn and contempt and malice
    and flagellation is but an obscure primeval need
    and tomorrow can.

    Because whole and knowledge and confirmation
    and denial denied and the sun does rise and the sea does storm
    and blood spills and fire burns and pain claws through
    e pur...
    e pur ti amo!



Because You Know

    Fright. Frightened.
    As they cut you open
    desecrating you.
    Sanctum! I wish to scream, did I?
    knowing no one can hear me
    when tongs and scalpels and hooks bath in your blood
    claiming to help you
    and I hate their dare
    and their indifference
    begging them to save you.

    No one hears my wail.
    You do.
    Because you know.

    Is that spark in your eye
    or knowledge?


    I pull my sleeve up,
    take your red ribbon, my tefillin,
    wrap it once around my biceps
    seven times around my lower arm
    and when the shin forms across from my palm
    I voice the psalms I never knew
    in front of the God I never trusted
    Ve’erastich li leolam... And thou I shall betroth to me for evermore...

    Then I take your poetry book,
    open it at first page
    and start reciting my prayers...
    poem, then poem, then poem...
    And if what is in my heart
    does not heal you
    then God
    is not.




    Look not back,
    I allow
    being not God, loving you more than God ever did.
    Let brimstone hail consume your clothes, your shoes,
    your beddings, your moans, your seeping fragrances,
    Forget, deny, disown,
    And one day
    at the end of where the road narrows
    and sunshine is preceded by singing larks and flying swallows
    and sunset is followed by fear of never returns
    I will hand you the seeds
    to sow blossoming cherry trees
    and undulating wheat spikes
    and shying snowbells
    atop of my grave.

    Look back,
    I allow not
    being not God, loving you more than God ever did.
    And you turn salt pillar
    And I lose you forever.



Almost Unrhymed

    oh, love, my love,
    oh, sis, my lover,

    I need a breast
    to lay my head on
    and fall asleep
    for days uncounted,

    I need a skin
    to wrap around me
    when chilly dawns
    awake my lust,

    I crave a mouth
    unwashed and hungry
    to carve with teeth
    my loins and toes,

    I call two lips
    and twenty fingers
    to glean my body’s
    salt and dust.




    Let me roll your hem of garment
    High above your parting knees
    Claiming lore to guide my senses
    Questing for the golden fleece.

    Golden fleece
    between my knees?...

    And above,
    call it love.

    Let me mash a mouthful berries
    Till my lips are oozing wine
    Staining red your lace and cotton
    While I fill your navel’s mine.

    Navel’s mine
    brimming wine?...

    And beneath,
    smooth and sweet.

    Let me tie two lengths of ribbon
    Post to ankle way and way
    Guiling you into believing
    That they scam to run away.

    Hmm, which way
    run away?

    With the bed,
    heard it said.

    Now it’s time to end the story
    As the sun is rising south
    When your body does surrender
    To the dragon in my mouth.

    Rising south?
    quite a mouth...

    (Couldn’t speak,
    shy and meek.)

    Eons later.

    Now just lie among the ribbons
    Fleece beneath and wine within,
    Let this virgin introduce you
    To the art of flailing sin.

    Wine within?
    virgin’s sin?...
    And your breath
    wishing death.



The Pit

    At the bottom of the pit,
    The walls smooth,
    stretching long upwards...
    is it correct to say ‘long upwards’?...
    You there, up, outside, lost to me. Lost.

    The walls smooth,
    not even the smallest crack to sink my fingernails into
    and try to climb out or let the nails rip away at the roots
    replacing one agony with another.
    Replacing?... Impossible, just adding,
    diffusing one pain through another.

    I let Perry Como sink inside me his ‘For the Good Times’
    and curl on the carpet next to my overturned treasures box...
    did I tell you already about my treasures box?...
    I guess I did... so what?
    Not much there, everything.
    A few colorful cards carrying your handwriting, a strange stain,
    A silver claddagh... did it fall the right way around?...
    A nicely folded ribbon, a dried out flower – once and always a rose,
    Hey... you gave me a hair strand... forgot about it.
    I try to smell you in it, all smell is gone.
    All smell is gone also from the t-shirt you once wore,
    which I lay underneath my head
    and I fall asleep.

    I wonder hazily,
    where is that t-shirt soaked with my sweat I once sent you,
    do you use it as a floor swab now?

    I hear a plane flying overhead,
    in the other world.
    It will never carry me back home.



One Of Those Most Unimaginable Pains

    I see them everywhere,

    I saw them today,
    walking in front of me in the supermarket.
    He was ahead looking up the biscuits
    She was two steps behind, with the flours, and oils...
    Suddenly he turned back
    and as she looked up surprised
    he kissed her.
    Then they went on shopping.

    Cutting through me a path...
    straight into memories.
    I died. I miss you.




    It was a huge piece of carpet which I bought for the living room. When the one called meister came to lay it down, he looked it up thoughtfully, spread it somewhere in the middle of the floor, picked up his tools of trade and started crawling through my living room measuring, marking, taking notes – corners, and columns, and niches, and door thresholds... He not even once took out his curled sharp knife, the tool.

    After about an hour of watching in silence, my exasperation grew to a degree where I could not contain it any longer.

    “So, sir, aren’t you finally going to start cutting it and fixing it?”

    He looked at me with those wrinkled tired eyes of the lower working class, sorrowful pity in them for the ignorance of my question, and answered.

    Cut is cut.” Then went on about his business as if I didn’t exist.


    It was already dying. Your love.
    Not mine.
    Mine could not die.

    It was already dying. Your love.
    From time to time tongues of fire leaping my way
    licking my chest, my face, stronger than you even,
    then dying again.
    I remember trying to catch the flames,
    sneaking upon them stealthily
    then suddenly snatching them with eager fingers...
    did you ever try to catch a flame?
    All I was left with was burn marks on my palms
    contaminated with thin ash,
    a bubbling sound escalating my throat,
    and cars passing by with drivers making indecent signs
    as my car made those sudden lurches side to side.
    Not madness. Longing.

    I rang you on my cell phone,
    a company phone... if they find I am fired...
    I needed you, one hundred and more earlier calls you did not pick up,
    this time you did.
    “I want to tell you about your zodiac sign...” you eagerly said,
    You found a book...
    It was early your side of the world,
    late and dark my side,
    my only company the dashboard lights of my parked car
    and now your voice.
    The book told you many things.

    I don’t remember them all,
    some true, some wrong,
    statistical targeting I thought,
    I do remember one, though. One bull’s-eye. Even I was surprised.
    It told you that I have a problem letting go.
    It told you that it takes me a long time.
    I agreed with you,
    it takes me forever.

    I was in the hospital room,
    the tubes already out of her,
    my mom,
    I took hold of her inert index finger
    the red paint on her fingernail still fresh, deep,
    I took hold of her inert index finger
    and I refused to go
    refused to let go.
    Till several orderlies dragged me out of the room,
    Gone is gone,
    not kicking, not screaming,
    but refusing to let go, refusing to let go,
    willing to take that finger with me and keep it in my palm forever.

    He lay on the couch. Dead. My dog.
    I took him in my arms
    and started pacing the room end to end,
    burying my head in his fur
    and inhaling the smell of his death
    and refusing to let go of his body,
    clutching at the dead hair, and paws, and lifeless tail
    always so strong and muscled
    now hanging dead.
    They had to tear him from my arms,
    my dog.
    Dead is dead.

    Our love. Dying. Knowing.
    And refusing to let go. Our love. Dying.
    I spit words into the leaping tongues of fire,
    for the time of short exploding flares it raises its head up again
    then, tired, the head sinks back to the ground, dying.
    I crawl underneath,
    Caring not for respect, and derision, and scorn, and spite, and ridicule
    and nails hammering themselves into my crawling figure,
    trying to lift it, lift its head,
    look into its eyes and pour breath into its dry lungs,
    Refusing to let go.
    It just hangs there, limp,
    wasting away upon my back,
    stronger than even me,
    Fading is fading.


    Cut is cut.
    The lesson I never learned,
    useless to me,
    the worst pupil in the world.

    I sit on the ground
    and start scratching a poem on the freshly dug mound,
    My only passion left – my insanity.
    My poetry.



I Think Back

    I think back,

    at that one moment of culmination
    when the surging tsunami suddenly made its terrible lurch
    leaving the hideout of your brain
    and howling its way downwards
    demolishing your muscles all the way down to your loins
    your screams tearing holes through the curtains
    and your fingers wrenching large pieces of mortar
    off the protesting wall’s face...
    I wonder,
    who were you fantasizing about?
    Was it that cute young American actor you told me about?
    Or that newly discovered Aussie singer you so loved?
    Or, someone else I wouldn’t know about?

    I will tell you a secret,
    I was fantasizing too, sorry.
    I cannot keep any of my secrets hidden from you,
    you know.
    I was fantasizing too. About you.




    catch a butterfly
    by its wings.

    Its beauty will soak into your fingers
    and the only thing left for you to do
    is watch it flutter
    into death.




    It took time, sweat,
    pain, patience, passion
    to reach the Olympian summit,
    broken bones mending the wrong way,
    buckets of tears dropped to ease the climb,
    barren hard rock my vertical bed for long nights,
    not even eagles daring.

    Finally... I was there.
    Looking around for Zeus and his cohorts to snub and shove,
    Oh, the bliss of knowing, the beauty of the landscape down below
    where she was waiting...

    All it took to fall down
    was one mouse click.




    A company dinner.
    I ate, everybody ate.
    I ate more than all.
    They stopped eating, I still ate, hearing,
    not listening.
    Someone told a joke,
    I laughed, everybody laughed, I don’t know why.
    Then somebody asked me a question
    and I told him my name.
    He looked at me strangely, didn’t insist.

    You tapped me on the shoulder,
    my hand shot back
    taking hold of your hand, gripping strongly...
    It was the waitress, embarrassed,
    asking if I want coffee.
    No, I don’t want coffee, I said,
    letting go of her hand
    while the guy next to me looked at me in a weird way.

    I turned on the headlights.
    Should have drunk more beer,
    probably should have had the ten degrees Duvel
    rather than the effeminate five degrees Stella,
    well, maybe five and a half.
    Two hundred kilometers per hour,
    I count the speed in kilometers even though I think of you,
    seeing the big wheels flash by to my right
    getting lost somewhere in the darkness behind me.
    Damn truck, missed me again.
    Better luck next time.




    I placed your picture in front of me,
    dipped my hands in the hot wax barrel
    and started molding you anew.
    Mold, squash, mold, squash, mold, squash...
    trying to reach that you
    which is so close to my shape, my form, my mind...

    How petty of me, I suddenly thought,
    no one should master another’s shape, form, mind.

    I squashed the last mold once more
    and started molding only those of your body parts
    which I knew you would not mind,
    Those afflicted by that gnawing bane
    afflicting my sanity.
    I found I lacked the skills.

    I tried to cheat,
    trying to soak into the wax chunks of me,
    chunks of days,
    chunks of years, of life.
    I lacked the skills.

    Finally I let my skin burn, minding not,
    repeatedly sinking my hands elbow deep in the liquid wax
    then raising them to that illustrious partner I deserted long ago
    and offering Him his wish
    if He offers me his design.

    He knows, I mean it.

    I surprised myself,
    finding myself talk an unknown language,
    humans call it prayer.


    And you,
    damn you if you leave me before I leave you.
    I will scrap your ashes back from hell’s eternal green rainbows
    mold you back into a poetess
    and make sure the pen in your hand always breaks.
    Damn me if not.



Butterfly, Two

    I done my boots
    took the butterflies-net with me
    and invaded the street with a yell.
    The fog was dense, like newly mixed cement,
    heavy chunks sticking to my clothes and weighing me down.

    There are no butterflies in the fog,
    I know.
    I started swatting left and right
    the thick hanging drops swishing through the net
    like a pan flute.
    There was no butterfly at the bottom of the net, of course.
    I started home and kicked a brick out of the way.
    There it was.

    The only butterfly left in the world,
    two barely visible cobweb threads across its spread wings
    waiting for death.
    I dropped my net, my boots,
    with trembling fingers I broke the threads... it was alive...
    its antennae shivered, its colors spit a few bouquets of phosphor
    before the wings stopped trying to unglue the sticky death,
    watching me.
    I could not help it without killing it,
    I put it on my left fist, where it clung with tiny fingernails,
    then broke the threads between the wings
    leaving untouched the lines glued across them.

    It tried, lifted its body above my head then landed again on my fist
    trying to tell me something.
    I did not understand its language, maybe it did not have a voice.
    It tried again, higher this time,
    one wing touching fleetingly my eyelash
    before landing again on my fist
    trying to tell me something.
    I did not understand its language, maybe it did not have a voice.
    It tried again, touching my lip on its way into the fog
    and it disappeared.
    It did have a voice, finally I understood.
    It was too late.

    I broke the net, punched holes in the boots
    and returned home opening all the windows, all the doors,
    letting the fog flow in.
    When I could not see my tears anymore
    I started crying.




    I finally understand the meaning, the concept,
    Took me years.

    Not that I did not try,
    I guess that I am ignorantly illiterate in this domain
    even though I got plenty of schooling,
    I even got a grant... pfft... as you would say.
    Maybe lack of talent? Probably,
    that would be a nice explanation.
    I couldn’t hate even the surgeon who killed my mother.

    Yet, I finally see the light, finally understand the meaning
    able to penetrate the subtlety of the sensation, the grandeur,
    orienting myself, guiding myself, finally... there.
    I can feel it.
    glows in my heart when life’s weight on your shoulders turns
    so weak, that you are not able even to hate

    I keep wondering, though,
    philosophically detached,
    Maybe I miss the point again?
    Is this, maybe, just another definition of




    I thus thee wed
    With ribbons red
    And roses white
    And candles bright,
    Same memory... a canopy...
    For you and me.

    I thus thee grant
    My need and want
    My lover’s trust
    In love and lust,
    Same wishes three... love love love me...
    For us and we.

    I thus thee leave
    Your heart to reave
    While in that cart
    Molds our art,
    Same poetry... once you, once me...
    Once Annabel Lee.




    or BitterSweet

    If you asked for it
    I would have melted the polar caps for you,
    with matches,
    even if it took me more than one hour.

    If your desire was half of the moon
    I know a place where they sell saws, second hand, quite cheap,
    I have a ladder,

    Not a cup of coffee, I hate coffee,
    but the Atlantic in your swimming pool?
    You don’t have a swimming pool.
    I would have dug one
    then driven with many buckets to the shore every day, back and forth...
    No, I would have lived so long.

    But you preferred his potage aux lentilles.
    I still wonder why.



Traffic Light

    In the car next to me,
    A black couple.
    The man dressed in a suit and tie,
    Can’t see him clearly,
    The woman wears a traditional African robe and head-dress,
    Beautiful like the Queen of Sheba might have been.
    The man explains something, gesticulates,
    Looks like they are arguing, though maybe he tells her a love story.

    The light changes to green
    I drive away fast, he didn’t yet pay attention
    Lagging behind.
    I sneak a glance in the rear mirror
    And see the woman leaning towards him
    And kissing him.
    A car gets between us cutting the view,
    I lose sight of them.

    I reach my destination and park the car
    Lingering back for a few minutes,
    A warm sensation at the bottom of my stomach.
    Thank you, I say to nobody in particular
    And get out of the car.



Oh Marie

    Listening to Josef Schmidt,
    Oh Marie,
    The beauty between the scratches mind shattering
    driving me to tears.
    For the music,
    a voice lost forever
    in the machinations of megalomania and madness
    to human folly and cruelty and ignorance.
    For the love,
    a candor lost forever
    in the machinations of time and fate
    to human imperfection and frailty and venture.

    Next, I will try Una Furtiva Lagrima,
    if I have any tears left.




    Are you sorry?...

    Sorry? For what?
    For rubbing your ankles in coconut oil
    And seeding your nailcuts in window-sill soil,
    For peeling your skin when those blisters ran dry
    Unfolding your wings like a blest butterfly?

    For picking your hair strands and stealing your brush,
    For watching you dressing and hiding my blush
    Then chewing your fingers for agony’s sake
    And swimming the whirlpools in your parting wake?

    For these, and more...

    For footprints eroding in caressing sand
    And seagulls pretending they don’t understand
    That moment inane when I flapped and I flew
    When deep in my mouth I found traces of you?

    For shoving three lifetimes in one single day,
    For tying your shoelace my own funny way,
    For tears... when they came, then for smiles... when they left
    With mornings undone and of morrows bereft?


    You taught me of heaven, I learned about hell,
    I sipped sweet green waters from love’s secret well,
    Your gates rumble closed and the whispers subside...
    I cheated... just look in the box at your side.


    A gale wails forlorn in the mists crawling west
    And searches in vain for the beat in my chest.



And Now

    And now,
    that you know the pain,
    would you have given up the passion?
    You mean the beauty?
    I mean the fire.
    You mean the beauty?
    I mean the love.
    You mean the beauty?

    And now
    that I know the pain
    I would not have given up the beauty.

    You mean the passion.
    I mean the beauty.
    You mean the fire.
    I mean the beauty.
    You mean the love.

    Was it beauty?
    Will always be.

    Beauty and passion.
    Beauty and passion?
    Beauty and passion and fire.
    Beauty and passion and fire?
    And love.

    We kissed.
    Yes, I know the horrendous pain.
    Such a small price to pay
    for passion, for fire, for love.
    For beauty.




    in Dover
    I picked this odd clover
    asleep on the lips of a dirty old rover,
    I paid him one cent
    for the cost of the rent
    as mists in the channel just started to hover.

    now alone
    in my garden of stone
    I watch rolling thistles at play on my lawn
    the dry, brittle grass
    leaves of crystal and glass
    remember the promise of yesterday’s dawn.

    the goodbye
    pouring salt in my eye
    has poisoned my flowers with blue bitter dye,
    the clover’s asleep,
    the nightingales weep
    awaiting the magic of one stubborn sigh.

    in the ground,
    and hope’s howling hound
    of sudden plows rivers and twitters abound,
    the fourth of the leaves
    the morning’s grey cleaves
    and fists... is it you?... at my gate pelt and pound.




    Cover me,
    you said, make me a work of art.

    I covered you.
    I made you a masterpiece.

    I undressed you completely,
    your insides, your outsides,
    then picked all of thinnest and sharpest of craftsman’s tools –
    pencils, quills, brushes, styli, reeds, nibs
    and started dotting your visible skin, your invisible skin,
    your eyes
    with stains the size of dust specks
    scribing writing painting into each stain the story of my life
    of our love
    of beauty.

    Millions of letters, thousands of words,
    hundreds of poems,
    one masterpiece.

    I finally let the intaglio of my thumbprint sink into your flesh
    before I stood back admiring my work
    exulting in the myriad colors, sensations,
    too bashful to admit I stole the underlying grace
    from the underlying canvas, you.

    You showered
    before the ink had time to dry out
    and the rivers of my green and of my red and of my indigo
    flowed around your breasts,
    down your navel, between your thighs
    sinking into that whirlpool
    guiding them through the city’s drains and pipes and sewers
    all the way to the ocean.
    Broken words, spilled colors, frightened memories of beauty.

    I picked my tools
    broke their sharp ends
    and threw them into the sea.
    No other canvas shall use these tools again.


    I saw you, years later,
    your dress’ shoulder strap fallen
    and poetry written there,
    a different handwriting, another color.
    No, not as beautiful as mine,
    but this one
    you allowed time for the ink to dry out.



Star Dust

    there were those stars above my head,
    no, not star shaped stones, real stars,
    gyrating senselessly the way stars do
    fulfilling no other function than being... stars.

    i know it was not according to the laws of physics,
    there was probably some metaphysics
    or paraphysics or yourphysics involved,
    does it matter? they were beautiful, warm.

    it mattered
    when they shattered

    covering me with stardust, nothing like in the stories,
    more like in an old room with old furniture
    and those thick whitish layers kids draw faces on
    and spiders mark with the dots of their bodily refuse.

    i traced lines along my body with the tip of my finger
    and looked at it – no sparkle, no smell, no flame,
    just fine stardust devoid of beauty, of warmth
    fulfilling no other function than being... stardust.

    smells of mold,
    then dark, then cold

    you, love, stars,
    just star dust all around,
    just plain... dust.

    i tasted it.
    touched it to my tongue,
    it did not taste like dust,
    it tasted like... bitter.




    You entered,
    lay down next to me
    too tired for touches, caresses,
    ...sorry, no, too tired to make love...
    the tiger gone, there has always been a tiger though...

    I knew it, yet I did not know.
    Naïveté? Love? Fear?
    I left, knowing not.


    I am painstakingly building the puzzle of a poem from words,
    building the puzzle of then from moments
    solving it against my will,

    You fed him your milk and your honey and your strawberries
    he fed you his touches and his caresses,
    you left there your tiger,

    All I got was
    the leftovers.




    Rain on me
    sands of the Kalahari
    The fine sand drizzle filling all my cavities
    those I close by the power of my muscles
    those I open by the power of my knives
    Feed the fire of my sins with splinters of dry bones
    lost in your midst
    till the flames funnel enveloping me
    burns silica stones into jasper needles
    And my mouth opens wide wide wide
    my throat tunnel filling up
    my mouth cavern filling up
    and overflowing
    and melting crystal rivers spill down my chin
    feeding sizzling chunks of me to the hungry monster.

    And snowbells conquer the desert
    wherever a piece of my skin scatters.



Dementiality, Five

    As the wolves were licking the soles of my feet
    lashing the embedded embers to a sizzling death,

    And snakes crawled backwards from the burning forest
    coiling around my ankles imploring for sanctuary,

    And my hands kept snatching dragonflies
    from between the clouds and the mountain tops
    to cage behind my eyes and inside my shirt
    and between the dying flames of my dying declarations of love.

    And when I woke up
    The forest was burnt to dead flowers
    And my body was bitten to hollow rags
    And tree roots writhing in agony cuddled inside my heart
    To die with beauty.




    There’s a trail of breadcrumbs

    Leading from your threshold
    on to the pavement, the road,

    Passing inebriated through the small hotel room
    where dehydrated pieces of crust marked our passage
    scratching my back into deep, bleeding craggy crevices
    as I was wiggling wildly under your smothering weight
    refusing to scream my pain screaming only my passion,

    Back out through the same door they earlier filed in
    the heavier crumbs sinking into the melting asphalt
    the lighter ones sticking around it like a nipple’s corona,

    The trail leading on to the airport
    a mess of bread and water and salt
    irreverently staining the marble tiles
    and following me to the plane’s door
    never leaving their stubborn chase
    even as the plane started ascending
    and they froze in its boisterous wake
    like a comet’s tail marking my way back.

    And the crows and the rats and the termites
    passed by and ate the crumbs and I lost my way.


    I still fall to the ground, often,
    and then crawl on my belly
    sniffing sour traces of yeast
    and the apple of your shampoo
    and the balm of our lovemaking
    until, as always, I lose the trace
    as it starts climbing into air
    and I begin to jump and yap
    trying to catch one last memory
    of the trail’s dying fragrance.

    And the drunken mongrel dogs
    reaching towards dangling bones
    out of reach, do not laugh at me.




    Wondrous words
    Forged in the smithery of my brains
    Then bursting out
    leaving large craggy holes in my forehead
    shaped stars and diamonds and mighty trees
    Falling all those many of miles down to your world
    where they land on the whiteness of your forearm
    sputtering and spuming and spewing
    as they try to brand their meaning beyond your skin
    before turning cinder, then ash.

    With an impatient flick of wrist you shed the grey residue
    and underneath it your skin is white, unblemished,

    And my smithery cools,
    A coop to wingless carrion
    trying in vain to take off through the holes in my forehead
    and falling pitifully at my feet.



Hate, Two

    No beautiful tributes, damn them,

    I don’t want to write you slick eulogies,
    Tear wrenching dirges
    soaked in poetic pathos
    and metaphorical bliss,

    No, no beautiful tributes, damn them.
    If hate poetry is the compromise
    then I wish to swim in hate poetry
    to the end of my days.
    Because it means
    you live to the end of my days
    and beyond.



Coming Day

    Listening to the Stones...
    “because I used to love her, and it’s all over now...”
    didn’t even call the radio station to ask for it... or deny it
    hey there, I still love her...
    look at this glint if it does not blind you,

    but it’s all over now.
    Not my choice. Life.

    Burning her postcards, letters, those with eternal declarations
    together with the Heineken labels, vouchers you called them
    densely filled on the back with written promises
    of the redeemable anytime against anything kind
    the details so many, one mentioning no expiry date,
    smashing our ring to a thin piece of battered silver
    then sawing the piece to metallic dust particles
    and watching them flame and flicker as they pour over a lighted match
    like a minuscule comet inside my living room,
    cutting the red ribbon to tiny red slices of textile blood
    and mixing these with the crumbs of the dry white rose –
    the one with the rest of the blood, remember? –
    then letting them follow the silver’s trail over the same match
    oblivious to its burning its way underneath my fingernails,
    the tiny strand of her hair fizzling when, at its turn, it touches the tiny pyre
    uncomplaining as it transforms into brittle blackened coils
    smearing dark traces underneath my eyes...
    oh, that goddessly scent that I will never smell again...
    is it cremation, or immolation, or mindless suicide?

    Yesterday I still wrote her a poem,
    was not aware of today following yesterday
    an evening and a night in between
    and unaware of tomorrow bared of everything, inclusive poems,
    barren, bleak, sterile, the night still ahead of me...
    no, I will not burn my poems,
    after all there is all of a life’s story in there, way beyond a love story,
    the birth of passion from a tiny seed to an exploding, petals rich efflorescence,
    followed by consuming passion rippling unstoppable through bones and flesh
    its ripeness pouring into each other from eyes, mouths, pores, fingers,
    then passion’s death, as the fruit decays and all that rests
    is the dancing joy of inebriated fruit-flies.

    Ends, are so sad.

    Between those layers set by time with meaning touched by rot
    Invaded by an eerie strain of loves-me, loves-me-not,
    Let dreams now gone and storms now passed find merciful repose
    Lamenting with a wistful smile one daisy and one rose,
    In times to come it will be said among those kind of heart
    Ephemeral this love has been, yet... God, such graceful art...

    The last souvenir, the biggest, most precious of all,
    I take it out from the box a bit deformed a bit discolored,
    the FooFoo soda bottle cap, my friend in so many memories
    and poems and stories, my partner to so many dreams,
    I lay it on the table in front of me and regard it for long hours,
    don’t know, what am I waiting for, maybe a miracle?
    Then I stand up, cry, and crush my heart
    and crush it with the heel of my hand.



Truths, Incomplete

    I will miss the pages torn from my memories’ book,
    the words erased from the pages spared,
    the colors spilling to the ground
    from in between the pages
    and soaking inside the dirt stuck to my soles...
    memories?... which memories?...
    I don’t remember,
    were they maybe torn, erased, spilled?

    I will miss the souvenirs,
    tin trinkets, plastic caps, paper receipts,
    the painted feathers of dream catchers
    and words inked on colored cardboard cards
    and... hey, remember that Bourbon Street t-shirt?...
    all of it now a pile of stinking ashes
    a piece of red melted plastic still bubbling...
    oh, the sublime stank
    more inebriating than my best of lilac bushes
    as I sink my face into the smoking leftovers
    feeling eyebrows and eyelashes frizzle and burn.

    I will miss the tattoo I never got done,
    your name branded on my biceps
    which I would have carved out now
    with a butcher’s knife
    reveling in the majesty of the scar to come.

    I will miss your songs, your singing,
    I will miss your eyes,
    your art.

    I will miss your art.


    I will not miss you.
    How can I miss what is there?



Scatters, Two

    That lush oasis and its fabulous green,
    my fortress,
    its keepsakes my passion, love and lust,
    suddenly burnt to the tips of its roots
    by one flash of the knowledge of flesh
    yours... and another’s.

    Mid of my emotional desert
    rapacious sand hugging my ankles,
    sucking me in
    my neck stretching cobweb thin for miles upwards
    carried by the unseen strings of deathless memories
    sniffing for molecule size clouds
    and gulping them voraciously
    down to a pinhead sized moment of sanity.

    You cannot blame the 747 pilot,
    one could hardly expect a head shaped kite flying at thirty thousand feet.
    The wing’s tip cut the neck just below the chin
    and as the plane not carrying me to you thundered its way west
    the severed neck undulated its way down to the desert
    scattering the dust of white roses
    and the ash of red ribbons
    and the brown seeds of splashing freckles...
    ...freckles... what is it with freckles that I am so obsessed with?...
    It finally hit the ground
    and started coiling and coiling and coiling
    as if it was alive.



Our Shop

    You behind the counter,
    a customer just left, smiling,
    the wind-chime at the door chanting happiness.

    I felt a mad desire to hug my wife,
    I rushed forward
    fists opening into fingers...
    I did not see the clear window
    and I crashed through the glass
    and it cut me to pieces.

    I woke up bleeding,
    another dream smashed.




    You puffed me in,
    my glowing end momentarily illuminating your face
    in a masterpiece of crimson ecstasy.
    Tiny sparks scattered away
    a few landing on your skin
    burning freckle sized craters in a blend of pain, and love, and lust,
    as my lilac scented smoke infested your lungs
    inhaling into your flesh texture and soaking into your blood
    turning it a mess of boiling whirlpools.
    You never exhaled.
    You puffed at me again...

    The shop was lying to your right,
    shining, its window clean,
    the lure of its freshly displayed merchandise irresistible.
    You watched for a few moments
    frequently flicking the ash off my end with a tapping fingernail,
    then suddenly coughed, drowning in a mist of exhaled bluish whiffs
    and with an impatient shrug dropped me to the asphalt
    snuffing me under the rotating movement of your right shoe
    and entered the shop.
    A pack of cigarettes, please.

    I watched your soft forms departing,
    a drunken trail of smoke tailing you excitedly.

    Who will pick my stub, I wondered,
    fearing a beggar’s stinking fingers
    disemboweling me
    to shove the bitter tobacco between bleeding, toothless gums,
    and hoping a princess’ delicate hands
    taking me to her lips to kiss my blackened end
    into a flaming, roaring dragon.


    Ouch... you nicked your fingertip with the kitchen knife
    and sulked on the wooden chair
    sucking on the tiny cut.
    Why the hell does it smell like burned lilac wood?
    you wondered for a second,
    then forgot about it.




    For a moment
    I saw through your steel.
    Transparent like glass, like vacuum,
    big words dead
    and sharp blades sheathed
    and pain... immeasurable.

    And all I wished that one moment
    was to be nailed to a cross
    and soak all your pain.

    Then the shutters went up again
    and the holes in my palms proved the futility of wish.
    We are not sons of God,
    only humans.




    I woke up last night,

    Not a nightmare,
    the absence of it.




    Hold me, you may never see me again,
    she said turning around to face me,
    eyes closed.
    Don’t say it,
    I did not scream, I screamed, I think,
    holding her inert body,
    her mind already miles away
    swimming in a sea of blue with golden flecks.

    It was when she lighted the cigarette that I knew.
    It was over.

    Her, oh, so beautiful poetry wasted,
    no one will ever read it
    the way I did.



Moments, Once

    I remember.

    Under that blanket on a bench,
    the wind howling around us
    and we hugging
    in that strange intimacy
    born of unrepeatable moments.

    Facing the expanse of cacti,
    shivering in my shirt
    when you opened your coat
    and embraced us both in
    squeezing against me
    warm, loving.

    Making love,
    your eyes wide open
    absorbing visions of me
    my body invading yours
    and the words you then said
    I cannot repeat
    of fear of breaking down in shameless sobs.



Knowing Of

    to idols’ vanity,
    your dwindling sanity

          the dust
          the rust
          the lust
    to seasons turning
    inside your burning




    I offered you the graal.
    True, the precious stones grimy
    the silver stained,
    nothing a vigorous hand could not handle.
    After all
    it lay buried so many hundreds of years...
    Yet the wine so sweet,
    so ripe,
    you even tasted it.

    You spotted the other cup,
    the silver smooth
    the stones beguiling,
    a fountain of youth you thought reaching for it greedily
    and spilling the graal’s liqueur for the cup’s hard and pungent liquor
    gulping the fire down your throat
    with one single jerk of your head.

    you watched the liqueur soak in the sand,
    traces of it lingering for moments
    then gone.
    The graal died.
    You knew something was amiss,
    the momentary inebriating fumes dissipating,
    yet when you kneeled down
    scooping in that momentary moment of wakefulness
    the earth at your feet
    all you collected in the dented graal