Hobbies - Poetry - Anonn
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    I gathered an entirety of senses
    against the cemetery of my million unborn children
    and orchards invaded me with perfumes
    and the tickle
    of short, curly hairs



    you used my toothbrush
    and I could not take my eyes away from the dripping foam,
    you looked like a rabid ogre
    your hunger allayed
    your hanging breasts knotting hunger spots every odd inch along my entrails



    rebellious axillae
    around conveniently vanquished crura,
    the maxillae closed slowly and I hoped that the movement ends before...
    it did,
    the rest was just the convenience of semantics
    having to choose between flaying and desquamation and ferocious pleasure



    picking my teeth
    with your nipples
    either these too wide or these too thin or you choose which what how,
    it was impolite to spit the flesh rests on the floor
    in the same house where I ate the flesh,
    I decided the polite thing was to shove them back into the flesh’s mouth, you accepted



    I left snail trails around your body with the tip of my tongue,
    first latitudinally every four inches
    then longitudinally just once through the accurate middle
    and when my tongue got trapped several times by treacherous muscles
    I bored deeply my revenge
    and left it there waiting for an asteroid to strike me, or something



    I visited your elbow
    or was it your elbow visiting me
    as I found it dug in between my ribs
    dragging me from wet dream into wet reality,
    the only commonality of event being the spastic contractions of my muscles



    you smell like a crematorium unkindled for three days at peak summer, I said,
    my mouth easily tracing yours in the dark;
    luckily the other part of me did not need any sense of smell
    to trace the other part of you in the dark



    lost in the fourth dimension
    of that three dimensional desert stretching across your bones and ligaments and flesh,
    my primitive pump losing rather than gaining any kind of liquid sustenance
    and when I wake up from my self induced faint
    Fata Morgana still controls my senses
    as it changes the vultures hungering for my carrion
    into a bulb hanging from a ceiling and a spider hanging from it further down



    you wore my skin
    inside you,
    and when you finally unclasped me and undressed me and dumped me on the bed
    I was worn-out
    like stone washed jeans
    like limp hanging leather,
    like silk, back into its worm’s womb.



    first it was tumble washing
    followed by impotent dripping
    finally power wringing...
    shall I hang you on a clothesline to dry? she asked.
    what about some tumble drying? I proposed.



    I could never find all of your teeth;
    some of them always sunk in some parts of my body,
    not always the same
    or parts,
    remember when you tried to improve on my circumcision?



    Bend me, into shapeless shapes.

    Care not for the oxymoronity of words or the depravity of wants
    as you knead the amorphous outcome of the once human once me
    into the shapeful shapes of the now woman now you.

    Wait impassively for my salivary glands
    and my lacrimary glands and my malehoodary glands
    to coat your outsides and insides and inbetweensides with an endless candle wick
    burning you slowly outwards from your absolute geometrical flesh center
    to your absolute geometrical peripheries
    of melting fingernail tips
    and melting toenail tips
    and smoldering
    of eyelashes.

    “Impassively, you say?” you say.



    the longest orgasm,
    ending in the even longer moment of serenity
    of after,

    called death.


THE stroke

    THE stroke,
    capitals, bold, italics...
    I would have used font size 8192
    if typographically allowed by this sheet
    painted fluorescent red and raging with Rolling Stones
    and imbibed lilac,

    THE stroke,
    universes connect,
    a coincidental puncture
    and matters flows in between annihilating all
    but fading leftovers
    of shivers,

    THE stroke

    Life returns to matter
    and tiny strokes fail to emulate
    the once upon



    ...and it is not always the same cataclysm recurring ad nauseatum,

    it is sinking into a pot of honey
    warmed to body temperature,
    and the entire pot becomes an extension of your body and senses
    until you understand the self-sacrifice of the few dead bees
    floating around you
    and which you are about to join soon.

    you never expected
    the honey
    to start boiling around you fed by your own erupting insides.

    oh, what a death, oh, what a death.


Sun Spots

    I started counting sun spots.

    It was an endless effort,
    so I gave up.

    I started counting nipples instead,
    this will be easy, I thought.

    I was wrong.
    I kept counting, and counting...


    So you think of me as sun, she said, the sunspots glinting with sweat.

    The impertinence of it,
    stating, not asking.

    I couldn’t think of a better punishment
    than stop counting.

    I wish I could. Stop.
    I couldn’t think. Period.


    Rather leopard, I stuttered.
    Leopardess, she corrected.
    Female, I conceded.
    Woman, she concluded.

    I was okay with the conclusion.



    we reach, we grab, through seven layers seven fathoms thick
    the flesh aglow with lambent flames around your body’s wick
    the fingers twine into a mighty fist,
    the pouring brine becomes a scalding mist
    and as your shoulders hit the dirt
    I rip your body from the skirt
    the pebbles through your skin
    cut ruts of bleeding sin
    and you burn
    as we turn



    What do you search
    between my thighs?

    The root to vice
    and fields of rice,
    the gateway back to paradise.

    And you, your finds
    between my thighs?

    A stiff advice,
    a poem, twice,
    to ram that gate and boil my rice.

    Why do you keep
    your thighs so tight?

    To keep your might
    into my night
    and bar its way from shameful flight.

    Now tell me why
    your thighs are light?

    Your humid night
    has soaked my might
    and now I wade through pink delight.



    You are already circumcised, she said, disappointed,
    her teeth ready
    like a grass mower about to celebrate bar-mitzvah
    and mature into chainsaw.

    I followed her regard, admitting to failure to align with her wish,
    pleading for a compromise.

    I guess you have other tools
    in that tool-shed called mouth, I proposed

    She did.
    It amply compensated her earlier disappointment.



    that outworldly,
    vertical landscape
    of dangling hills,
    of undulating fields bare of all but a tuft of soft, curly grass...

    I watched the landscape gyrating ninety degrees,
    the hills squashing on own weight
    the fields undulating, further,
    the tuft of soft, curly grass parting the way of the Red Sea...

    I did not mind playing Egyptian
    and drowning in it...



    it wasn’t my birthday

    though it looked like my birth day.

    love... it looked her birth day too,
    what would you like for your birthday?

    the moment wasn’t right for a factual answer
    it would have sounded (unintentionally) uncouth for the moment.
    it wasn’t right either for a fanciful answer,
    it would have sounded (unintentionally) unappreciative of the moment.
    playing with fire was not my favorite sport.

    what about letting me indulge in my favorite sport?
    playing with fire?
    well, placed in her context it was my favorite sport.
    playing birth day, I said, just to sound original.

    it was a statement.
    I rushed out of bed to write it in my potential synonyms booklet.
    then returned. she was right. synonyms.



    when my fire goes to sleep
    between your folds of life
    you are by want’s decree
    to me
    and to my body’s plight
    thus when we fall apart
    one heart
    shares our clasping palms
    invade my throbbing mind
    i rest inside your arms
    your lips and hips and shrine


Sweet Damnation’s Call

    I hear the ghost of sweet damnation’s call
    With pools of light among caressing words
    Through pines dejected seven mountains tall
    And floating down on flapping wing of birds.

    Its blisters linger upon tips of toes
    That carve a passage through my brittle skin
    Then spit libation, blazing as it glows
    And sows a passion blasphemous and mean.

    I listen, writhing, basking in its charms
    And waiting for the archer’s deadly chase,
    My flesh a mire splashing in your arms
    Before decaying, to oblivion’s pace.

    Uncounted eons cluster in my chest
    And seed my lungs with deliquescent runes
    As soft as that despotic sound of breast
    Emerging from a labyrinth of tunes.

    You woman there? I ask through jarring cogs
    And pull my tongue from caverns fathoms deep,
    Her murmur soothes, her tracing finger flogs,
    Her rumble wanes in lover’s blissful sleep.



    we fall together.

    who was higher? we compare wounds trying to answer the question,
    yours a broken ilium
    mine a broken ischium... mystery,
    why not an ankle?
    and who was higher still unanswered.

    try again?

    an answer is needed, I know.
    and I turn shark starting at your breast
    and you turn shark starting at... doesn’t matter
    and we rip each other to pieces of melting sugar and dripping honey
    bubbling above that one-piece-body
    spitting gulping fulminating...

    we fall together.

    who was higher?

    try again?


Take All You Are

    Where do you shy, when shadow’s crowds dissolve
    in flakes of sun alighting through the room,
    the crumpled bed-sheets wet with love’s perfume,
    your fist relaxing round my dead resolve?

    Bring back the blue that hides beneath the dome
    of lids infused with bubbling drops of lead,
    the raging moths that erstwhile crowned your head
    then plummeted to lust’s eternal home.

    My fingers crawl, the hungry centipede
    that roams your skin in search for royal feast
    is out to war again the hairy beast
    and coat its lair with welcome for its seed.

    Inside my ear, the sound of rasping thighs
    colludes with pebbles cracking behind lips
    and snapping ribs astride assenting hips
    into a chorus spanning eight octaves of sighs.

    Take all I am! I peel your cloth and shame,
    I grab your soul and its enwrapping flesh,
    and while our tongues with passion’s poison thresh
    we drape again that pungent, caustic flame.


If Lust

    If lust
    is what your body craves
    and haunting dreams assail in horrid waves,
    then sift your day through humble rhymes and runes
    and keep the glow to light hiatus’ caves.

    If lust
    is what defines your day,
    thin veins of rut infest your human clay,
    grab lumps of paper cluttered with my ink
    and smear it yonder, long your wasting lei.

    If lust
    is what goes oft amiss
    and you regain your fathomless abyss,
    remember poems seeping in your skin
    tattooed with patience, and with passion’s bliss.



    to wear your lai,
    to take it in my stride
    and let it crown my stiff, debauching pride

    at times
    to wear it round a probing finger, hiking south

    and yet, at times,
    around a muscle, hiding in my mouth



    divine the view beneath the hills,
    that shimmer, as the river spills,

    the lazy drops beneath the banks
    bedaubing stars upon your shanks,

    my hands outreach, my begging palms
    accept the bliss of hanging alms

    and as I splash against the hills
    entombed by wisps of curly frills

    we freeze, in deathly throes entwined
    and madness shared invades our mind.


momentary madness and shoes

    those water needles... touching you, caressing you, invading you,
    spoiling you and spoiling themselves,
    I couldn’t take it anymore
    I stormed the shower and started fighting the violators with fists,

    lover, you ok?...
    and, gently, she started taking off my soaked cloths, underwear, shoes...
    you look ridiculous naked, with your shoes on, she chuckled
    putting on my shoes
    and sloshing in them all over the room.

    and you look beguiling naked, with my shoes on, I gasped,
    madness as much part of me as the awakening ravenous lust.

    she obliged, keeping the dripping shoes on,
    making place between her knees for the rest of me.
    they were still dripping long after we stopped panting.



    you crowned part of me
    with part of you,

    I nibbled the part of you with part of me, no, with other part
    while you gulped mouthfuls of the part of me with part of you, no, with other part,

    no, after crowning, sometimes before...

    all men were born equal, roars the revolutionary in me.
    men? tweets the attentive in you.
    all humans were born equal, repents the revolutionary in me.
    except for parts, quips the realistic in you.
    except for parts, I assent magnanimously.
    luckily, I add.
    luckily, you assent
    crowning again part of me with part of you.
    same parts. different parts. each statement relating to another statement.



    I counted your vertebrae, again,
    starting at the neck and moving downwards,
    poking each with my finger...
    I reached the last.

    I kept counting, poking.
    Love, there are no more vertebrae...
    I didn’t pay attention, it didn’t matter what you called them.

    By the time I reached your navel
    you were a squirming snakes' pit.
    I was no better.
    I decided to help, started counting backwards.

    It didn’t help.


The Math of Lust


    Lust for lust.

    Lust times lust,
    lust to the power of lust,
    diverging geometric series first term lust ratio lust,
    definite integral lust to the power of X from lust to infinity
    then triplicated in lust-dimensional space,

    And love, love?
    Love... she repeated.

    Lust, love, is stars, suns, novae, black holes,
    love, love, is Earth, and all gyrate around it.

    Love, this is the Ptolemaic view, and it is all wrong.
    Love, Ptolemy was advanced much beyond his time and ours,
    he just did not know what he was writing about,
    I do.
    How? Are you suddenly a physicist mind reading in the past?
    No, I am a mathematician writing poetry in the present.
    Hmm... she did not sound convinced.
    She didn’t need be, all she needed be was part of the proof.

    I pinched her nipple between thumb and first phalange of forefinger.
    The sound changed to Mmm...
    There is nothing like practice to prove a theory.
    It was the beginning of a nova,
    she started glowing.



    she inspected my entire body, carefully.

    after she undressed me, naked,
    of course.

    “everything there where it belongs?” I mocked.
    she was in no being-mocked mood.
    “no,” she said.


    there was one item she considered misplaced
    and she placed it, carefully, there where she thought it to belong.

    I was beyond complaining.
    I kept moaning my entire... satisfaction with her decision.


inspection, bis

    it was high time for my periodical inspection, of her.
    the last inspection was one... hour ago. long time.

    “you’re almost perfect,” I said.
    “yes, unfortunately incomplete.”
    “you don’t mean the rib?!”
    “no, this is my problem.”
    “you don’t mean the hymen?!”
    “no, not the hymen but you’re getting close.”

    I hated keeping her guessing. it was so easy to make the correction...
    I completed her.
    even if it was for just a limited time.

    I believe she agreed with my assessment, if to judge by her flushed cheeks.


Ice Cream

    I remember
    when you took that ice cream ball in your mouth
    and I scooped it empty
    first with a spoon
    then with my tongue.

    I remember when I proposed a different arrangement
    and you did not refuse,
    you just proposed that we skip the ice cream ball,
    and the spoon.

    Your tongue will suffice, you claimed.

    It tasted differently.
    It sufficed amply.



    Why do you call it death? she asked,
    after dying.

    Makes me feel important, like Jesus, I said,
    my resurrection incomplete. But it was coming.

    Do you think Jesus knew woman? she asked,
    her resurrection complete.

    He surely would have liked to know you, I didn’t answer,
    shooting myself with harpoons of jealousy. I am ready to die, I added.

    How many times can we die? she asked,
    before resurrection. Her death complete.

    It didn’t bother Him, I answered, capitalizing the H.

    He had eternity, she gasped, looking for a breath that kept eluding.

    We have each other, I countered, making sure she didn’t find the breath.

    Comparable, she admitted, deciding there was nothing better to do than die again.

    I love you, I admitted. It wasn’t necessary, she was beyond near death.


Gather Your Limbs

    Gather your limbs
    from the four corners of the bed,

    gather your limbs
    from the countless corners of me,
    those you know
    those you recently uncovered
    those you are about to uncover to later cover
    with your limbs.

    Gather your limbs,
    make sure all count present
    before disaster strikes again and they rush to the four corners of the bed
    with pieces of me
    just torn away, and writhing.

    Don’t gather me,
    I want to remember myself garden, seeds, sprouts
    under such unfamiliar touch
    as so much love.



    i’m a whale,

    her finger harpoons
    her thighs fanged cranes

    her insides lecherously hungry,

    and as steel hooks braid to pierce my neck
    muscled jaws twine to crush my waist
    squashing into her insides the oily elixir of recurring death

    until i drop on the slippery deck
    of cold tiles
    underneath a multi-headed monster whispering prayers in my ear
    wherein i am god
    and she the sated deicide.

    she never stops feeding on me
    pulling me back from Hades
    only to smash me back there
    via Elysium.


I Wish It Was Sex

    I wish it was sex.

    I wish it was not resurrection.
    Resurrection means death

    There was no lock. Impeccable.
    Making my exit easy
    after breaking into your innermost space
    and smearing graffiti
    all over your walls.

    Who played the volcano? Who played the raging ocean?
    there was an end to the boiling drama
    and each flowed back to its bubbling

    luckily obliterated.

    I lie, in all the lines.
    Except one.



    Cover me
    with your breasts.
    I know, I know,
    they are not that big.
    They are not even big enough to fill my palm, the left,
    the right is busy elsewhere.

    Cover me.
    Leave you breast imprints
    Yes, even there.
    Yes. Even there.
    No, there only... after.

    Don’t worry, burns third degree I will survive.
    What I won’t survive
    is an unblemished skin.



    The acrid smell
    of sweat.

    At the nook between shoulder and neck,
    underneath the left breast,
    behind the knee as it unbends
    and the body gets ready to purge the night and its leftovers
    from the disentangling, soft ramparts.

    I refuse to let it go. I refuse to let you go
    hanging on like a leech, like a lobster, like a pit-bull
    to take in the acrid smell
    of sweat.

    The acrid smell
    of life.



    I pulled up her pantyhose, I hardly fit into it.
    Pulled up her panties, even her bra. None fit, of course.

    You mixed the order, she said, head cocking left.
    Something I should know? she added, head cocking right.

    Yes. I am cold, I said, teeth chattering. No head cocking left in me.

    She pulled the bra away, examining it for eventual damage.
    Then the panties, surprisingly gently,
    I wondered if it was for them she cared. No damage.
    There certainly was damage to the pantyhose,
    she watched it thoughtfully, pushing a finger through the gaping hole.
    Hmm... promising, she whissspered,
    and I couldn’t help but look for the forked tongue.

    It was tongue, for certain.
    Suddenly I burned, for certain.

    Still cold? she asked,
    listening to my drops of sweat as they hissed and sizzled
    first falling on me, standing there,
    then inside her, lying there,

    by the time she was through with me I was dry like a plucked leaf
    forgotten in the desert for a thousand years.
    And then thrown into a furnace, she added,
    watching me disintegrate.

    Still need them? she asked, pointing to the discarded underwear.
    Yes, I answered, tying her hands with the pantyhose.
    I had no use anymore for the rest. I drank an entire bottle of water,
    getting myself ready for yet another stroll in the dessert.
    And then some more.

    Winter was definitely over.



    I want to blow life in the ends of your toes
    And after I finish my innocent flirt
    Recoup my coherence from gallantry’s throes
    And watch you dance flowers in tabletop’s dirt.

    I’ll wait for your skirts to redeem failing May
    With glimpses of skin cutting trails to the sun,
    That vicious lure leading heroes astray
    To merciless reefs beyond buttons undone.

    The arrogant bounce decorating your chest
    Inveigles my attention with promises crude
    While perfumes escaping desire’s bare nest
    With derelict splinters of passion collude.

    The imminent want excavating your mind
    And changing the rigorous sway of your hips
    To pendulous pennons by sorrow refined
    Enjoins the foretelling deserting your lips,

    “The nipples you bite will pour rivers of wine
    Igniting the fields imbricating your lungs,
    The mouth you invade will sing verses divine
    And tether red ribbons to heavenly rungs,

    That flesh cave you plunder will burn through the night
    And bury the stars in excretions of sin
    Accepting the awe of beleaguering plight
    While foraging lust beneath awnings of skin.”

    We float in the limbo... is heaven’s?... is hell’s?...
    The sparkle of moments decaying to dust
    Emblazons with glitter your panting pastels
    As furrowing smiles your demeanor encrust.



    I wanted to read others,
    see the way others
    would see you.

    I failed.
    You saw only me. How could others
    see you?

    And I gave up and then gave in and then turned Neanderthal
    dragging you by the hair
    and staining the immaculacy
    and feeding the reluctance
    and finally bedaubing the bruises and licking the scratches
    and asking for retribution.

    You assented
    riding me all the way to hell and losing your way back
    on purpose.
    You never bedaubed the bruises.
    “What’s the use?” you said,
    riding me beyond hell
    making sure my bruises never heal.

    “How the hell did you find the way to heaven?” I asked
    knitting ribbons from the strands of hair still clutched inside my fists
    to tie around your ankles and around your wrists and around your neck
    to tie you to me
    as I lay asleep in your womb
    while you counted daisy petals, knowing the way the count will end.



    You listened to my yowl,
    calling it music

    you kept adding instruments
    by tips of fingers, and tongue, and both

    I felt abused

    visiting a bull’s rage and a shark’s hunger
    and a mad beggar’s rave

    a butterfly’s flutter of wing.
    And a mad dog’s crave for death.

    Lusting for you
    as you played cacophonies

    through my throat. Your throat. Your lips.
    Your insatiable thirst

    for music.
    My fists turning bed sheets into torn poems.

    I ended on the floor
    crawling between strewn orchestra members

    and spreading life,
    choking on incantations

    until I finally landed behind the door He threw me out from
    dragging you behind me.

    He didn’t say a thing, this time
    knowing we will leave on our own. You bit first.

    Cannibal, I retorted, biting back.
    There never was more beautiful music.



    Small, fresh, reddish,
    sharp like your teeth looking for my jugular
    finding it
    in places wrong, untellable.

    I chewed, slowly.
    You never chewed claiming there was nothing to chew...
    cannibal! I saluted the memory of recurring sacrifice,
    savoring the memory of recurring fatherhood.

    I picked a second radish.
    With eyes closed it tasted even better.
    I started burning, wondering if it was the radish
    or the memory.



    Are you going to step through the entire table of vegetables? she asked.
    You mean the periodic table of vegetables, I boasted,
    feeling almost Mendeleevian.
    Are you going to step through the entire periodic table of vegetables? she conceded.
    Only the edibles group, I specified, keeping to the terminology.
    Does your table include element 119?
    She wanted to boast knowledge.
    Even element 218. I wanted to boast extrapolation knowledge.
    She did not react biunoctium.
    You mean cabbage, potato, cucumber... oh... cucumber...
    I almost succumbed to a fit of jealousy. She knew me better than me.
    Yeah, funny.
    No, practical.


    I encircled her roundness with my fist
    and squeezed,
    feeling her slowly yield
    my fingertips gradually sinking in her giving body
    juice building between fingers into saturation, oozing, overflowing,
    essence of tomato mashing into essence of flesh before turning essence of lust,

    I feel like a crushed tomato, she whispered.

    I licked my lips,
    the effusing excess tasting
    essence of woman.



    119. In your table of vegetables.
    You mean the periodical table of vegetables
    I mean your periodical table of vegetables.
    Competing with the Russians, Americans, Europeans and Japanese
    in Dubna and Darmstadt.
    And winning. With 119, onion.

    No. Not competing with them.
    Competing with time.
    You cannot compete with time.
    I know. I can try.
    You will fail.
    I will not... in one aspect.
    I pulled you out of the past, didn’t I?
    Before onion.

    I started peeling her layers,
    first, the curiosity.
    Then the intellect.
    Followed mistrust, hesitation, attraction.
    Followed lust.
    Then love.
    Or the other way around.
    Is there anything else before death? No, no idea about after.

    I started peeling her layers,
    first, the coat.
    Then the scarf.
    Followed shirt, skirt, stockings.
    Followed shame.
    Then underwear. Or the other way around.
    Is there anything else before flesh? No, no idea about after.

    I peeled layers of memories until I got to first kiss
    I peeled layers of lovers until I got to hymen tearing
    I went beyond.
    No kiss.
    Hymen intact.
    I feel naked, she said, cowering into the world of before knowledge,
    knowing no one but me.
    I started dressing her back.
    First kiss.
    Hymen tearing.
    First orgasm.
    Scream dying.
    First bite.
    I feel like an onion, she said, letting me dress her further layers. Until when?
    Until I fail.
    You will not... in one aspect.
    You showed me the future, didn’t you?
    After onion.




    All I wanted was a salad.
    I forgot all about the salad.

    ...you know, once they did not have batteries... she continued.

    I hated competition. Especially stiff competition.
    Hated also the ...mmmmm... that followed.

    I tore it away,
    bit its head off, savagely. It tasted... interesting.


    It was not a good omen,
    this onomatopoeia stands for a bad, very bad omen.
    There was an angry tiger, somewhere, in the room.

    ...now you will have to compensate for it, amply...

    I compensated for it, amply. I could even hear the capitals...



    Ouuuuuch! This was me. Amply as well.
    I didn’t mention it yet
    but she had those strange, non-scientifically based ideas
    about recycling, ahm, used cucumbers. With teeth.

    After a while I stopped complaining,
    all the blood went to my face.
    And elsewhere.

    Seemed that it was working.


...and Beet

    You’re red.

    I know.

    Like a beet.

    I knew.

    Do you think a beet could also... ahm...?
    No! I don’t think a beet could also ahm!
    I almost shouted. Funny how stressed a beet could get me.
    Even more than a cucumber.

    She was nonplussed.

    Why? Because it is red?

    No, not because it is red. Because... because it is gigantic.

    Well, then a young beet?

    I think it was the young that got me.
    Love, you are are... redder.
    Tell me about it.
    Are you getting a heart attack?
    Well, we were getting somewhere else at least,
    distancing ourselves slowly from the beet... beast.
    Horrible rhyming.

    I couldn’t answer, too busy breathing.
    I was joking.
    Yeah, and I was choking.
    I tried a thin, successful... Yes?
    ...do you have some more... ahm... cucumber left?

    She got all the cucumber I had left,
    Godzill (that’s the he-mate of Godzilla) wouldn’t have had more.
    And more.

    I wasn’t faking the heart attack that followed.


    Love, you are turning purple, like an eggplant.

    Well, as long as she was keeping away from watermelons,
    I assumed we were good.



    I feel like... watermelon.

    I expected eggplant. I fainted.

    When I returned from nowhere she was sitting on a watermelon,
    watching me pensively.
    It was a cut watermelon, red upwards, seeds all over... she was naked.
    Of course naked,
    who in her right mind would have sat dressed on a cut watermelon.
    Come to think of it,
    who in her right mind would have sat on a cut watermelon at all?

    What happened, love?
    You asked for a watermelon.
    What did you expect? An eggplant maybe?
    Well, a watermelon is big... I stuttered... and... and I thought...
    Oh, no, love, you didn’t think...
    and she laughed and she laughed and she laughed...

    I wasn’t yet reassured, looking around with glints of terror in my eyes.
    What are you looking for, love?
    The other half, the one you are not sitting on.
    Oh, no, love, you don’t think...
    and she laughed and she laughed and she laughed...

    OK, she may have laughed all she wanted,
    I went around the room, looked in drawers, inside the doll house,
    under the table cloth,
    even turned the garbage bin upside down,
    I didn’t find the other half making my suspicions darker as I kept trying and failing.
    You really want to make sure?...
    The mischief in her voice was second only to the mischief in her eyes
    and her thighs started opening,
    slightly at first.
    Did you try the... fridge?
    It was the last chance.
    It was there. Ripe, red, juicy.
    I turned around to face her, angry.
    The anger melted faster than it built up. I was in the domain of negative anger.
    Some call it the domain of... crave.

    She was standing, her back towards me,
    red juice dripping from the glory of flesh, some black seeds stuck here and there...
    As I was beyond any answering capacity she continued.
    Love, I am all sticky, and wet. Do you mind cleaning me?
    I started stumbling towards the bathroom.
    I was still way beyond the same answering capacity.
    If I was a cat, I would have licked myself clean.
    Unfortunately I am not. Would you... mind?

    She told me that it took me exactly thirty six minutes and two seconds to unfaint.
    She waited.
    Finally, obediently, I crawled over and started licking clean all contaminated areas.
    Then, quite naturally, I continued to the non-contaminated areas,
    then even inside some of the adjacent non-contaminated areas,
    watermelons flavors changing to...
    Other flavors?... she tried to help me out, failing of course.

    It was not flavors I had on my tongue by then.
    It was pure fire.



    Don’t be shy.
    You can dress.
    She hesitated.
    You want me to dress you?
    She nodded.
    I started with the sneakers. There you go.
    You want me to go out... like this?
    It made for interesting speculation. No, I guess not.
    I removed the sneakers, put her hat on,
    even made sure the angle was right.
    You want me to go out... like this?
    I removed the hat, put on her wristwatch...
    I guess you don’t really want me to go, right?
    Women are slow. She was fast. Or was I that transparent?

    I removed the wristwatch
    and as there was nothing else to remove
    I busied myself with weighing her breasts,
    inaccurately at most,
    then with combing her curls,
    very resilient, refusing to uncurl,
    then with cleaning her teeth with the tip of my...
    hey, enough information, erotica is mainly what is not said.

    Don’t be shy. She said it.
    You can dress. She said it, as you can guess from the italics.
    I hesitated.
    You want me to dress you?
    I shook my head.
    She was slightly puzzled, it didn’t go the way it was supposed.
    Then what do you want?

    This poem is called Watermelon.
    There should be a watermelon in it.

    The advantage of poetry is that you can skip chapters.
    I will skip the watermelon eating chapter.
    We were still naked, after.
    Which was an advantage to what happened, after.


    By the way, does anybody know if watermelon is a vegetable?
    If not a vegetable, then this poem was a wasted effort.



    We started hand in hand.
    Then mouth in mouth followed by body in body.

    And then?

    There is no more then, it is still the same then.
    When I use your fork
    brush with your toothbrush
    dance with your clothes and you inside them.
    Sleep under your covers
    around your skin
    inside you.

    Like moths insisting to visit the flame atop the candle.
    Like flies insisting to test cobwebs. Knowing the winner.
    Butterflies, following flies.

    The laws of nature.

    The laws of body.


Crying Butterflies

    I saw you crying

    They slid along your curves, barely touching
    barely lifting,
    almost like singing blues with a harmonica and no lips,
    just with thoughts,

    You cried butterflies
    and I tried to catch them
    to save them
    from the flesh of you for the flesh to be mine
    then released them

    under your skirts.

    I carried you
    to the bed, making sure there was no sheet no blanket no pillow
    and as the butterflies marked your passage
    I marked my passage
    with pieces of your cloth, big, small, tattered, bleeding, begging

    laying you on the barren irons and springs and half rusted screws
    before I took your shame away
    and fed it to your past, nowhere, you bit me, you raped me.

    You stopped crying butterflies,
    you started singing.



    My hand slid between your thighs
    slightly north-north-westwards
    if to judge from the position of my body, right to yours
    and of my head, close to your ankles.

    You could have lain on your back,
    you did not, you lay on your belly,
    the way the sculptor in flesh intended,
    no improvement necessary
    no improvement possible

    My hand pulled back,
    perfumed, slightly moist,
    slightly shaking. Slightly shaken.
    Some ventures force such response from a hand. And its owner.

    Are you going to rest at that?
    At what?
    At hand.

    The view north-north-west expanded slightly.
    I wasn’t inhuman.
    I ventured with the rest of me...
    well, some of the rest of me,
    just the little that was needed.

    Didn’t know the sun rises in the north-north-west.



    I tried to draw the V,

    hesitating between V and Y
    preferring finally the V, the Y being too font dependant,
    not always symmetrical...
    even the V was kind of imperfect, kind of asexual,
    an important... ahm... detail... ahm... missing.

    Can you imagine it?

    Can I... ahm... copy it?

    Why all the... ahm... ahm’s?
    I think she was being sarcastic.
    Maybe there is a written language where the missing... ahm...
    ...detail is a diacritic?

    It was a valid point. I would have preferred she didn’t think of valid points.
    Can I copy it? The ahm gone.

    She didn’t deem it worthy of answering.
    She stretched, luxuriating in the blinding sun,
    the missing detail alive for a moment
    then returning to be just a detail,
    yeah, sure, just a detail.
    You can. Finally.

    I got nearer, well, as near as I dared without getting too...
    ahm (again?)... involved,
    and started drawing it. The missing detail. From the V.
    It took several hours.

    Still drawing?

    She was patient.
    I looked at the paper. The V as virginal as before I started,
    the missing detail still missing,
    What was I up to until now?
    I wondered, aloud.
    Investigating? The original?
    I was embarrassed. She laughed shortly.
    Need a better look? Closer?
    I don’t know if I need.
    I certainly wanted. Desperately.
    Deeper? she added,
    now laughing heartily,
    the missing detail opening and closing before me as if by magic.

    I wasn’t probably up to drawing anymore.
    Another, dissimilar urge started growing inside me.
    Outside me too.
    I see another urge growing inside you. Outside you too.
    She did not miss it. She could not miss it,
    how could she?
    She kept watching it!

    I decided the missing detail of the V could wait. On the paper.
    The real detail suddenly got all of my attention.
    For once, she did not complain about my artistry taking a secondary seat,
    I guess she found the primary seat... ahm... artistic enough.



    You glued your flesh to the window pane
    turning nose, mouth, breasts, thighs
    into a bi-dimensional landscape,
    the tri-dimensional invisible,

    Turn around, I begged, forming the words with my mouth
    and watching the magic of landscape dynamics,
    the change bewitching, the tri-dimensional invitation louder...

    I squirmed impotently against the glass,
    my multi-dimensional side of the world momentarily noisy, smelly, repulsive.

    There is a door to your left, you know?

    I did not know.
    I barged in, peeling you away from the window,
    all of you now tri-dimensional softness and warmth and lilac

    our meeting surfaces turning bi-dimensional anew,
    the trapped plane between us pulsating with the savagery of a cornered beast.


Skin Cells

    inexistent distance between skin cells of disparate DNA.

    skin cells until lymphocytes are driven into a frenzy of killing.

    exploded skin cells’ residue on tip of tongue,
    mined from explored depths
    layered with liquors of love, lust and lilac lost to life’s caprices.

    “Depths... only?” she chirps,
    her lips moist,
    her teeth grinding a skin cells collection of her own
    turning them to thin ribbons
    them braiding them into quintuple plaits
    then rolling them around and around and around my...
    “Apexes... too,” I concede, unwillingly,
    blushing to the whites of my eyes, inclusive.

    “Apex!” she chirps,
    proving her point with a similar, improperly inquisitive,
    tip of tongue.


Night Trip

    under the moon,
    under the moonlight,
    under the blinding headlights of oncoming trucks
    or trailing trucks
    or overtaking trucks
    sleepy drivers who forgot all about dimming buttons
    and destination names,

    and your shoulder squeezes against mine
    and your hand unbuckles some buckle
    and unzips some zipper
    and unleashes a frontal attack... or a sideways... or a whichever ways
    indolently, inexorably shoveling a crude path
    towards the sniveling prey,

    touch, grab, hold, crush,

    and the squeal in the car’s tiny confines
    is music to your ears
    and debacle to mine
    as I swerve wildly left then right then straight,

    the first time ever that I was deadly near to a frontal collision
    and I am thankful
    to those eyes sparkling in delight
    and those lips soon follow,

    cleaning the mess.



    your skirt flutters

    your muleta

    not even red
    as it flaps wildly about muscled legs
    baiting me to gallop mindlessly within striking reach
    when it lifts beyond waist high
    following arms stretching beyond shoulder high

    my attempt to gore you ending with the taste of woman between my teeth
    while fingers slice down

    ten banderillas lancinating through back
    to heart and rib and lungs

    and I bite the dust between opposing toes
    before you roll me on my back
    and allow yourself the ecstasy to be gored

    your skirt a bitter memory

    your flesh an encompassing well of erupting blood
    among growls
    and slapping tongues
    and horrifying indecencies


Rhyming Lessons

    Cat does not rhyme with Tomorrow, I fulminated.

    This was the last straw,
    after all the days and the nights and the exercises...

    I dragged her to the table
    tied her hands to the leg on the other side
    pulled the skirt to the shoulders
    pulled the panties to the ankles
    and slapped! Once! Twice!

    Finally, I thought you would never get it, she purred.

    even with her panties down she ended with the upper hand.

    I untied her
    and let her play havoc with my body.
    She did already, with my rhyming lessons.


Invader's Privilege

    I pulled back
    falling on my back,

    my millions of volunteer soldiers squirming in the morass,
    the forbidden land

    dreams and death and distinction,
    and so much love flooding heart compartments.

    Mine. Yours.

    “Wound me! Again!” you whispered into my eye,
    my ear too difficult to retrieve from the folds of the pillow.
    I tasted the small trickle of blood. It tasted like blood. Like a virgin.
    “I was never a virgin, until you,” you added.
    “You hurt,” I protested.

    You pulled the shades,
    the cruelty of an awakening sun cutting your body into slices
    blinding me... your body, not the sun.
    “Choose, invader’s privilege,” and you flexed your body
    every which of thousands of ways
    each championing a nonpareil
    daring me to espouse
    There were not so many, after all.

    I invaded, again.
    I wounded you, again.

    And as my armies were battling again their way into certain annihilation
    your fingers crushed the wooden bed pole to splinters
    telling me of things you could not,

    things like...
    “I love you.”