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Dream

    to: M

    I dreamed of you.

    I did not lose you.
    You were not there at all,
    there was nothing to lose or known to have been lost,
    just space. Nothingness. Like intergalactic vacuum. Like human compassion.
    Was there ever something?
    Never counted.

    Forty nine years, one month and seventeen days. Give or take a few.
    No, never counted.

    The ever fluid labyrinthine paths of mind
    suddenly fusioned into one infinitely intricate path
    from the moment now to the moment then
    and united us, again.
    For one moment.
    More than there ever was.

    You apologized, for coming to sit next to me.
    When I stood up to leave your side
    you stood up as well,
    offered me your mouth for a fleeting moment.
    Offered me your mouth for one never ending explosive moment of passion
    that stretched from "then" to "now",
    from "then" to the moment I woke up
    with that fire slowly dying in my mouth
    and that dimensionless sense of loss.

    Remembering that I miss you.
    I will probably always do.
    Not counting the grains of sand,
    someone else does.
    No, not me.

    I count just the pain,
    oh, that unforgettable, tear-soaked pain.

    You did not change, you know?
    All these forty nine one seventeen and you did not change even one little bit.

    Oh, the lucidity of that dream.

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Eternities

    to: N

    You were ready to jump in the pool for me,
    naked

    Dressed only in wonder and woman,
    for my eyes only,
    for a lust shared in words and magic and body
    allowing me to choose which
    and I choosing all
    and you

    You did not.

    Jump. Share. Answer.

    Today is a day of closing chapters,
    I close this chapter,
    I close you

    Gone.

    Another never proving eternal,
    like most never's
    like all never's

    Comes with the definition,

    Comes with the package.

    There was always something between us, from the start,
    it will stay

    Something

    The always as eternal
    as the never.

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May

    to: S

    May the roses
    And their poses
    Brighten mortals' pass of day,
    Yet your season
    Is the reason
    For my life's eternal May...






















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...and if we did?

    to: T

    I was young.
    You were younger.
    Our summed ages less than my age now,
    even less than your age now, for sure.

    Yours was the first breast
    I touched.
    I wasn't your first, I know.
    We didn't go any further
    even though you undressed,
    even though you undressed me
    I wasn't sure what further meant.
    Maybe you knew, I don't know.

    I remember the suddenly exploding nipple
    my breath scorching the areola like a desert's wind loaded with fine sand
    and grinding the soft flesh
    to pulp.
    My fingers looked for a way lower down, maybe...

    A rivulet nearby tinkling between pebbles
    crickets chirping
    frogs croaking
    cars on the faraway road rumbling slowly with their loads of grain
    their headlights exploding inside the sweat between your bared breasts.
    My fingers arrived,
    you gasped,
    we stopped.

    You dressed first. I watched you.
    I followed, dressing slowly, trying to postpone that which I knew would follow.

    We still held hands all the way back to the settlement
    where we kissed lightly
    and you took the way in,
    I took the way out
    and we never met again.
    Leaving me with a question that will never be answered...

    ...and if we did?

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Eternality

    to: K

    I wait to taste your virginity
    again,
    to test
    the depth and width and moisture
    of that eternal wonder
    even after a hymen withered long ago and gone to dust,

    the eternal virgin
    guiding me from lust to lust
    and all the positions in between the extremes,

    your magnificence
    in its unblemishing virginity.

















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Phantasmasizing

    to: B

    She was magnificent,
    like a cobra, striking.
    She was treacherous,
    like a cobra, striking.
    She was lithe, lustful, lascivious
    like a cobra, striking.

    I was mesmerized.
    Like cobra... stricken.
    Was it Halloween all along or it turned Halloween only later on?
    I wonder, I will never stop wondering
    phantasmasizing that the wizard in me created the magic
    and the knight in me conquered the heart
    and the reality was... real.
    There was love. Once. Was there? I wonder.

    I knew that she betrayed me even before I knew I knew.
    What an incredible feat of animalistic single-mindedness it was
    sharing orgasms
    while all the time trying to pull out the harpoon protruding from between my shoulders...
    I succeeded, many years later,
    the tapered hook still lodged somewhere between my eleventh and twelfth vertebrae.

    And yet I remember softness of down
    and murmurs of dove
    and fire fusing loins and chests and fingers till strips of skin peeled off
    on separation.
    On last separation too, alas.

    She was magnificent.
    This is all I remember.
    The rest is probably just cursed time
    distorting aging brain cells.
    I remember nothing but magnificence.
    Really.

    *

    Ha, what a riot knowing that I could hang my body anytime on a hat rack,
    don't you think?

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Z

    to: Z

    Z.
    Like Zanzibar.
    Like Zarathustra.
    Like Zephyr.

    Like Zirconium. Zeal. Zupercalifragilisticexpialidocious
    when Z will take over from S.
    Nothing like you.
    Nothing could be like you,
    not A, not L, not Z.
    You actually had nothing to do with Z,
    not even remotely.
    You had everything to do with me, even closely.
    You still have, irrelevant that you disappeared...
    when?... Z years ago?

    You gave me birth.
    No, not like my mother,
    like my lover, like my love. Like my first love.
    I wonder,
    you wonder,
    Z Ė who are you?

    That nipple, was it yours?
    That red, does it exist, did it dare challenge
    the red of my encompassing lips
    and the red of my slithering tongue
    and the fire underneath your fingernails
    as they carved parallel ruts inside my flesh
    collecting the bubbling inferno
    that had nowhere else to go
    except under your fingernails?

    The discovery
    beneath your belt
    between your thighs once your belt gave way
    was it mine?
    Did its perfume beat the orchards
    and its taste the melting ice-cream
    dripping from the cone's melted bottom
    and its feel
    the outstretched arm
    sinking to the elbow in a barrel overflowing with honey?
    And its red the red of the nipple?

    The moment
    when Zs ripped through each other
    and we watched the African continent from the upper layers of the stratosphere
    waiting for it to change into Australia then into South America...
    yes, an inverted world
    indifferent to creation
    as I dripped into you and you dripped around me
    and we never thought that there was an after
    which would create a before.

    You are gone.
    Like never existed.
    Like you'll never fade away
    and I keep searching, knowing
    that one day
    you will never appear.

    Z, where have you gone, my love?

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We

    to: M, the other M

    There was a big difference in age between us,
    something like between the French Revolution and the Bolshevik Revolution,
    or between la Fonteyn (Margot) and la Callas (Maria),
    or maybe between the snow and the butterfly the horse and the tail
    the Big Bang and Bat-Sheba... or was it David
    but who's counting?
    Even if it doesn't make sense.
    It does, you said. But doesn't, you said. I stopped counting.

    There was no difference in age between us,
    like twining fingers
    like synonyms
    like adjoining lines in perfect rhyme,
    the flames dancing around the moths
    the ash filling the crevices,
    ears hearing the same music never to meet again, or ever.

    How many times did we make love?
    Fornicated, copulated, intercoursed, made love?
    I forgetting my Viagra
    you forgetting your hymen,
    sorry, no capital H for hymen,
    we, forgetting there was another world there
    chained in the steel of conventions and moralities and selfrighteousnesses,
    buzzing electrons filling the virtual space with static
    and with the fluttering fringes of a carpeting passion
    that bent the light
    and filled my palms with the shape of your breasts.
    And filled my mind with words I did not know existed, you said.
    They did not before you happened, I said.

    I did not hear your click.
    I heard mine
    watching the screen boot down then flicker out then go dark
    locking inside an entire life.
    We.

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Of All Games Children Play...

    to: H

    A tough one.
    Actually not. As pure as spring water or freshly fallen snow
    yet the minds of modern readers are so heavily soothed with misconceptions that, well,
    some may decide differently.
    Which is insufficient reason for me to lie, isn't it?

    You see, I was a fiver
    by which I mean to say five years older than I was at the time I was born
    and my friend was an adult, twenty percent older than me
    (not that I knew what percents meant at that turbulent period in my growing cycle)
    thus commanding my entire attention and respect
    from the impressive heights of a sixer's experience in life.

    I was far from an innocent bystander myself, I grant you that,
    I was knowledgeable way beyond my deceivingly young age
    knowing already that the stork was responsible for the baby boom of the second big war
    and that God was second only to Stalin
    and that Jewish boys are born with such a deformity when compared to Christian boys
    that they had to be taken aside and apart from time to time at school,
    for their own benefit and education, you know. Maybe "it" will get "repaired".

    Leaving me with an aching desire to find out
    if also Jewish girls suffered from a similar deformity.
    That,
    and the party decreeing in its wisdom that school children should not go to movies, amen (?)
    and the party decreeing in its wisdom that sexual education is a crime, amen (?)
    and the Yamauchi dynasty having not yet developed the Game Boy, amen (!!!)
    and the neighborhood medical doctor living underneath us, amen
    led to my early decision to become a doctor myself
    and drove me into an investigative mode even before taking my Hippocratic Oath
    (of which I knew nothing, the only Greek I knew in translated form at the time
    being the one telling of Ulysses and the Cyclops and their communist friends).

    Okay, these days I would have been sent probably to a juvenile delinquents institution
    for life,
    and or get probably all front page titles on all leading newspapers
    for life,
    and or get probably sentenced to the chair
    for life...
    Hey, it was a different, much different world those days.
    A kid was a kid.
    So he stole apples from the neighbors because they were tastier
    and he got a smack behind the head while the world smiled and moved on,
    so he jumped from roof to roof to roof and broke his leg
    and he got a stick across his ass while the world smiled and moved on,
    so he... I, played doctor. A kid has the right to study anatomy,
    ain't it so?
    It's called initiative, enthusiasm, progress (none of which words I knew at the time),
    ain't it so?

    Let's see the discoveries made.
    So C had the nicest bum
    and L was the ugliest since she was a red-head
    and Z had the sweetest face and the rest did not matter
    and A ran home and told her parents
    and all were the same
    and I did not yet have confirmation to my research's objective
    since I did not yet obtain a reference specimen of the other kind
    (all above were Jewish and by then I concluded and extrapolated -
    another word I learned only some ten years later -
    that at least all Jewish girls were the "same")
    and because A told her parents who told my parents and they all had a healthy laugh together
    I was banned from any further interaction with the opposite sex
    (goodness, how can I write an intimate poem with all these unknown words?)
    for a full twenty four hours
    after which A's parents asked me to run and buy for them a loaf of bread
    following a rumor that there was bread in a certain shop in the town
    and knowing that I was the one who stole apples and jumped roofs
    and finds his way around which I finally did
    playing hotchpotch with A twenty four hours and a bit later.
    They also needed me to deal with the mouse that got trapped in their cellar.

    And then there was H.

    And. Then. There. Was. H.

    Haughty, Aloof, Arrogant, Standoffish, Lofty
    (you can check the synonyms dictionary on your own)
    orphan (divorced mother), ugly (short straight hair), weak (couldn't break a walnut)
    walking like a duck
    loving cats
    giggling
    playing football like a girl
    and of all above horrible things
    the horriblest of all was that she would only allow my adult friend (the sixer, remember?)
    peek "there". And I was excluded.
    Not that it was in any way detrimental to my inconclusive research,
    but somehow it hurt my pride that she would only go for old people,
    even if the oldie was my best friend.

    *

    Twenty years later, give or take.
    It took some time to find her,
    me and my friend now only four percent apart, and by now I knew of percentages
    as well as other appropriate knowledge,
    inclusive the conclusion to my earlier unconcluded research.
    Even if I did not make it to medical school,
    the sight of blood leading to my unconditional faint.

    We found her. It took some effort... we did.
    She changed her name,
    H became J and even the family name changed,
    we found her because we insisted.

    She opened the door, all smiles and no giggles.
    And, my God, was she prettier than Miss Universe first runner up
    (everyone knew how Miss Universe herself got her title)
    and, my God, did she walk more gracefully than a gazelle
    and, my God, her hand was softer that a hatched chick's down
    and, my God, she had a friend limp of hand and narrow of skull and wearing a goatee...
    oh, my God, how I hated him at that moment.

    Circles. Rolling. Doors. Closing.

    We found C. Oh, what a gracious beauty did she become.
    We found L. Oh, what a flaming beauty did she become.
    We found Z. Oh, what a life loving beauty did she become.
    We found A. Oh, what a cheerful beauty did she become.

    My mind stayed with H. Or J, as she insisted.
    Cannot take her off my mind.

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Eternality

    to: L

    L was, as unexpected, of oops male appurtenance,
    a part of my earlier mentioned incursions into medical investigative sciences
    not that I knew of sciences then and yes which made me finally click in the other direction...

    *

    Hey, do you think that above three liner could qualify for a haiku?
    No, I didn't think so either.





















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Ever's

    to: T, the first T

    The most beautiful girl
    wherever
    whenever
    and any other ever, legal or illegal.

    Never saw her this way then time.
    I only saw competition
    in math, language, biology, music, literature,
    I only saw threat for honors board and teachers pet,
    I saw enemy,
    girl.

    And yet she was so much more which I never saw
    probably because of the sheer size of it.
    The quiet intelligence.
    The talented artist.
    The protector
    facing thugs gathering for the kill. Protector of me, even, I remember.

    When did I see her first time?
    I believe in that class picture where all are trolls and she is Madonna.
    When did I first feel the pangs of loss?
    I think in that class picture where all are none and she is all.
    When did I actually fall for her?
    I guess long before that class picture only I did not find a way to know.

    Gone. Like all the other, gone.
    With every autumn's leaves
    and every night's day,
    with every regret's what-if.

    We never parted, we were never together to part.
    We were not even friends
    though I remember moments of ecstasy when she passed by
    and I thought it was because of her going
    when actually it was because of her coming.
    Temporal phase shift, not deliberate, rather innocent,
    comes with that age, goes with age too but too late to right anything wronged by it.
    And now the phase has moved the other way around
    but time travel inexists so this is the way it stays.
    Until Einstein is proved wrong, which is like never...
    one more ever in my nostalgia-equals-whatever equation.

    Too late. Even to wonder. And yet I wonder.

    And yet I find her and I abduct her and I make love to her, and she never changed.
    And I let her go and she refuses the freedom and she stays.
    And I try to leave and she clutches my chest with nails and my mouth with teeth and I stay.
    And we make wild love
    among my old courtyard's lilies and lilacs and pensťes
    and we stay.
    Like we never left. Like there was us. Ever.

    And I wonder if she thinks of me too, from time to time.
    And I wonder if she watches that school picture too, from time to time.
    And I wonder if she is still the most beautiful girl
    wherever whenever and every other ever. And I know she is.
    I wish I could change the she to you.
    Like saying
    people like you do not change.
    Like saying
    you
    do not change.
    Like saying
    ever.

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and's...

    to: many...

    A had a doll face and full breasts and camel shoulders and was academic
    and B was jumpy
    and A the other was boyish
    and R was bossy
    while Z was a beauty and a teacher and had a gigantic boyfriend
    and G was short
    and N slept with her mouth open
    and T had curly eyelashes and curly lips and a curly body and a curly boyfriend
    and M was beautiful and was family
    and I was sunny and was family
    and D was gorgeous and had a gorgeous body
    with a dirty mouth and too happily old and too married and with children
    and it was M the other to whose palm I lost my virginity
    rushing in panic to the toilet lest I pee in my pants only to find it was not pee at all
    and J was a remote bitch visiting once a year
    and A the other the other was ugly as hell and a teacher
    constantly rubbing her crotch against the table top's corner
    and M the other the other was too young
    and the other D had horse teeth and a matchstick body and another boyfriend
    while the other T was cute and the other D's friend and competing on her boyfriend
    and bubbling G was a silver screen queen
    alongside young J and exquisite E and impressive S and younger H and many other
    and M the other the other the other had strange thick lips
    and L looked eighty at eighteen
    and L the other wore short skirts and bent a lot
    and L the other the other the other was an exotic beauty that did not wear short skirts
    but wore transparent ones
    and L the fourth other smelled of turpentine
    and E the other left her pelvic region's pubic symphysis imprint on many a male thigh
    dancing to Paul Anka's Lonely Boy and Destiny and Crazy Love and of course
    Put Your Head on My Shoulder leading to many a shudder
    and Y was aloof and big breasted and touching at times
    and C was pushy and small breasted
    and yet another E was hairy in the right places
    and G two was alien and short haired
    and A the other alien was too alien and looking for marriage
    with alien I blonde and round and soft and pictured with cows in the background
    and another yet another E hairy in the wrong places and a grip to crush a steel bar...

    *

    Letters, many, never too many,
    sharp splinters sunk underneath the skin of memories
    from time to time bobbing upwards
    like a Nessie head disturbing the mirror surface of the loch
    once in a few hundred years
    and the havoc it drags with it for centuries to come...
    I will not have even one hundred of those years to enjoy
    and yet there are no regrets, each letter bobbing once a year, at times twice
    then sinking again into that darkness down below
    where life was built
    and I was created
    and I am.

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Dead Blushes

    to: B, a previous B

    You were bending over a front row table,
    the rear of your trousers stretched, inviting,
    I couldn't resist and rushed forward
    my open palm smacking the fabric and its feminine content
    with a sound that could have been heard mid of the city.
    Not that it was a very big city, at that.

    You gasped, surprised,
    blushed in agonizing pleasure
    and lifted towards me thankful eyes that said a million things
    things like why, why so late, when, maybe...
    there had been an undercurrent between us for long now,
    for as far as I remembered actually
    building to a peak,
    building to an explosion,
    probably... for too long.

    For much too long.

    Alas,
    it was destined to remain undercurrent,
    unfulfilled,
    for even longer.
    Like
    for ever
    longer.

    For years, after,
    I kept passing in front of your building
    looking for excuses, short cuts, long cuts,
    trying to get a glimpse of you,
    a chance encounter
    a new offer of sharing,
    even when you moved house
    still looking upwards toward your new balcony
    hoping for a glimpse of that promising blush.

    Even after you married.

    Not anymore, now.

    Dead blushes, painful, oh, so painful.

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Unaccepted Invitation

    to: E

    You were the first to lose your flatness of chest.
    You were the first I started to think of in terms of woman.
    You were the first to open the top button of your uniform's shirt
    and bend over the table in front of me
    showing off
    inviting appreciation
    wishing for a bit of understanding, waiting for it,

    I did not understand.

    I understood
    too late.

    When you disappeared somewhere between teenhood and lifehood
    living that tattoo imprinted across my retinae...

    the soft, dangling breasts,
    the cleavage in between
    and the blatant, unaccepted invitation.










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Recuperating Time

    to: R

    For an entire year
    I was seated next to you,
    pure chance, not choice
    and in spite of the math professor's vehement protests.
    I wasn't daring enough,
    I wasn't needy enough,
    maybe I was but wasn't aware, not sufficiently enough.

    You were dream sculpted in flesh,
    desire confined inside textiles
    stretching each thread of each seam to its absolute near tear limit.
    The seams did not burst.
    Your shirt's buttons did in a way,
    and each time I would happen to gaze underneath your neckline one was open,
    at times two,
    rarely three and each time I would draw your attention to it
    devouring the taut white above the taut lace
    and you would oops and close the rebels
    only to find them open just minutes later.
    Were you trying to tell me something?
    Was your thankful palm upon my thigh a friendly gesture?
    Was your knee pressing against mine a muscular spasm?
    And was your breast's pressure against my upper arm,
    when you gyrated Ė and you gyrated a lot Ė
    just a gravitational secondary effect?

    I guess I was too busy with math
    to think elsewise.
    And when I started thinking elsewise
    your breasts were already pressing somebody else's upper arm.

    Are you a mother now?
    Are you a grandmother now, a great-grandmother?
    Find me, please,
    press that breast today against my upper arm
    and I promise you, age or no age,
    I will recuperate all that lost time.
    And more.

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Givers

    to: N

    You were certainly beautiful, I thought even more.
    You were certainly friendly, I thought even more.
    We sat next to each other at lunch at the communal table
    and we repaired the world
    and ended all wars
    and I knew what you aspired to be
    and you didn't know what I aspired to be since I did not know myself.

    Your eyes dark, beautiful, your hair dark, long,
    a mysterious smile all mine the way you laughed at all I said
    and disregarded all others, all my friends
    boisterous, noisy, conquering,
    our minds touched.
    Our hands touched.
    I was about to fall in love.
    I returned to my room.

    The other two beds were empty,
    I heard them come in, much later, whispering and getting ready for bed.
    "Did you fuck her?" one asked.
    "No, but tomorrow for sure," the other answered.
    "How can you be sure?" the first answered.
    "She told me she'll leave the door open," the second answered. Cocky, confident.
    They kept their murmurs for a while longer, longer than necessary.
    I played dead.

    Next day I sat elsewhere.
    I didn't find other chat partners,
    I wasn't looking for other chat partners.

    I finished my assignment and left.

    I decided life was more generous to takers
    than to askers
    and that there will always be givers,
    all I had to do was to identify and to sidestep.
    Not that I didn't get my ankle hooked on by the eventual bear-trap.
    at least I learned the identifying game
    even if, at times, I did lose an ankle to those steel fangs.

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Awake

    to: J

    Tender, fragile.
    Beautiful.

    I dreamt of you.
    Yeah, dreamt, even if it sounds corny,
    dreams don't care corny.
    How did you happen there?

    I don't recall exactly, twenty years?
    Hair short, long, short in the dream,
    blonde in both,
    eyes lapis-lazuli in both.

    Snippets, invading,

    we have to talk! half ordering
    or
    tiny red roses where you tried to hide tiny red nipples
    or
    my cat died!... followed by clouds
    or
    back of palms touching, touching not, touching.

    You leaned back, in the dream,
    you let yourself lie on the sofa, in the dream,
    you smiled at me invitingly, in the dream.

    I melted, in the dream.
    I woke up, still melting, not in the dream.

    We knew,
    one day we probably should.
    One day we certainly will.

    We never did.

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Alien

    to: C

    She was kinda beautiful.
    I was kinda handsome.
    She was kinda hot.
    I was kinda fiery.
    She was kinda smallish.
    I was kinda biggish and kinda loving smallish ones.
    And there were some more kinda's with almost perfect fittinga's. Born to be paired.

    Women are aliens.
    She chose him. Uglyish, coldish, littleish him
    but talkingish kinda all the time.

    I decided not to try to understand.
    After all the probability for a perfect pairing is, statistically speaking, zero
    and all the pairings from the start of history and until today
    are pure chance encounters and social obligations.
    Why should this one be different?
    Time and place and some pheromones that only women can smell.

    And actually who could understand an alien
    speaking a different language in so many ways?
    Try
    and die trying, literally.

    I took my interest elsewhere,
    less beautiful and less hot and less smallish
    and probably from another part of the galaxy,
    where the drift of my pheromones seemed to count for something.

    Thank God,
    It almost got me an inferiority complex, earlier on.

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Obsession?

    to: I

    My first encounter with a baseball bat across the side of the head.
    A virtual one, of course.

    Such eyes, such skin, such body, such walk... hit, hit, hit and hit again.
    And a few more times.
    For her I tried to learn to swim,
    to ride a horse,
    to bowl,
    to dance,
    even to drink wine... trying to make an impression, yeah...
    wearing my best shirt, did not possess best shoes.

    I stayed transparent.
    I am sure that if she went my way she would have walked right through me
    without disturbing even my lymphatic system.

    I did not dare imagine myself in bed with her
    fearing a fire alarm
    I did not dare imagine another self in bed with her
    fearing prison for life
    I did dare imagine everything that had nothing to do with her,
    most of it pure vacuum
    with here and there a bit of cosmic radiation to kill the monotony.

    Obsession? Bet your ass, you'll get it back in its entirety and with interest.

    Thousands of years ago,
    feels like it, partly true partly my bones.
    Chapter closed, right?
    And yet
    tried just minutes ago to imagine the unimaginable
    and additional minutes later had to apologize to the Fire Department and pay a fine
    gracefully transformed into a contribution to the Firemen's Ball.
    Even got an invitation for one.

    I wonder...
    say I imagine again
    and say I apologize again and pay a fine again
    and say I get an invitation again... will she come?

    Oops... knew it...
    the door bell rings with insistence and an ax just flew in through a window...

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Sequential

    to: Y

    We did not mean it to happen,
    it happened.

    It was your remark
    followed by my remark
    followed by your remark
    followed by my remark
    followed by your far from reluctant acknowledgement of my invitation
    followed by...

    You peeled your clothes
    as if they were burning the skin underneath,
    little... was there any at all hesitation
    as the shirt hiding the cups hiding the breasts disappeared somewhere on a chair
    and the cups hiding the breasts fell to the carpet themselves with absolutely no noise
    and the next moment I knew you were a real blonde
    after so many years of wondering
    and never daring to ask...

    I was naked, took me some time and some impatient goading
    following which you took me by the hand
    and guided me to the ladder...
    up there?...
    where I followed the even bounce of your round flesh into that bed
    where you attacked my dormant innocence with the ferocity of hunger
    and taught me to search for the wonders between your thighs
    at the price of allowing you to find mine...
    once... twice... three times...
    never did it three times before... I said in exhausted wonder.
    I left.

    It was the first time. There wasn't a second time.
    Cannot say why.
    Maybe because the fire was still there, still devastating, still cruel?

    I roll spots in my mind, some static, some fluid in movement,
    all short,
    incomplete.

    It will stay incomplete.
    For kind of... forever.
    We both know why.
    Actually, you don't know why, not anymore.

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The Waking Moment

    to: M, the same M

    So what happened?
    You did not visit me for several decenniums
    and suddenly twice in one month?
    Yes, I know, in a dream,
    so what?
    Still kind of extraordinary
    don't you think
    if you could think
    because you can't think
    because you are not real... I think?

    You are the same I remember you,
    of course, you can be only the same I remember you
    since I do not remember you changing,
    didn't get the opportunity.
    You also, looked in the mirror
    and was surprised to see you did not change.
    I did not change, you said and it was real, dreams are always real.

    It was not real that you suddenly loved me
    that you wanted to kiss me, or rather accepted to kiss me.
    You did not know about tongues touching while kissing,
    certainly not searching the other's mouth with your own tongue
    but you were willing to experiment
    and the tongues touched,
    briefly,
    you found the experience exhilarating yet in need of more practical training
    and I promised to teach you additional tongue techniques
    and you smiled...
    oh, that sunshine smile that only you had and only others got from you...

    You took me by the hand,
    you had to fly back
    and we had to see the flights schedule
    and it was glued to a tree that was sitting atop an ants' hill
    and it was all torn
    but you found a flight back
    and you had the money to pay the difference
    and I knew it was all mental manipulation
    by a mind where you lie at the absolute bottom of the memories' pit
    supporting all the rest,
    supporting my entire life.

    I woke up remembering your face
    smile
    pony-tail
    and inexperienced tongue looking for mine
    and momentary touch
    and I suddenly miss you.

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Pin-up Memories

    to: B, again

    I was entertaining phantasies about life together,
    she was entertaining a full regiment and some remote candidates as well.

    I was open for change from following day on,
    she was open as well, from the waist down.

    I was transparent,
    she needed no transparency, there was no shirt to start with,
    or do you think it was electronically retouched off, by any chance?
    Yeah, maybe, still, someone should have known what it was like underneath.

    I knew I was the only one.
    Sure, the only one not to know about the other one. Better said ones.

    Hey, I think it bothered her when I played with her nipples
    and she played with her phone,
    when I phoned her
    and he was playing with her nipples,
    when her phone was off
    and I was imagining her nipples modestly covered
    oblivious to the skin covered covering covers.

    And even when all this and more was clear to me
    and obliviousness lost the li and changed to obviousness
    I still lusted and loved and longed
    for her.

    I guess I still do,
    her exotism comparable only to my masochism
    if comparing incomparables be allowed. In poetry it is.
    Even unimaginative, impassioned, degenerate poetry such as this.

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Nothingness

    to: the E

    The old you
    so far ago,

    The new you
    so far away,

    The in between
    wildly random like the Alps' ridges
    with their frozen ice tops
    and the isolated valleys carpeted with fragile edelweiss
    and the mmm's before
    and the sos's during
    and the iii's after...

    the mandatory mood mutilating showers
    and the stop oh stop stupidly overvalued sex secretion of shame shove off shyster
    and the irritating insulting interminable cleansing shower ceremonies,

    Puff!... like the Big Bang in reverse
    it all collapsed to less than a point
    to nothingness.

    Was there, ever, more than that?






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Moebius

    to: S, my S, the S

    There are bites to your lips
    by a penchant amounting to rage,

    There are blisters to your lips
    by a passion amounting to rape,

    There are blooming blazes to your lips
    by a pervert predilection amounting to roaring rave,

    Your flesh fractured
    and your soul tattered
    by the merchant of lust inhabiting my body.

    Then you stand upright
    clean your mouth and spit out the leftovers of lubricity
    and with one hand grabbing handfuls of my chest's hair
    you drag me back to the ravaged lair
    and goad carnality
    anew
    to gorge me alive.









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The Once

    to: W

    Life hasn't been kind to you.
    You have been kind to life.
    So love to you.
    So you to love.

    We met, somehow.

    You carried everything you had left, in your suitcase,
    I carried everything I wanted to carry, in my suitcase,
    between us we carried a desire to know
    and find.

    Age? Mine? Yours? Beauty? Number on door?
    Who the hell cared
    when we dropped digits
    and dropped luggage
    and dropped clothes
    and your red spotted whiteness fitted itself snuggly in the hollow of my palm
    while my simulation of muscularity fitted itself impertinently in the hollow of your thighs
    and hours later we still shivered
    unwilling to let go
    and swap physical
    with intellectual.

    The hell with intellectual, you said,
    fitting it all again snugly and impertinently
    allowing the cavewoman in you, for a short snippet of life,
    hang the intellectualwoman in you on a hook in the room corner
    just above the abstract construction of skirt
    and bra
    and panties
    and a ripped-off buckle of a once male belt.

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All

    to: Sbacklmedgyfzhijnxopruqvwt

    Yeah, don't look it up in phone books,
    not even Gaelic.

    Surely not in dictionaries.
    In folk legends.
    Not an anagram either,
    who's an as complex minded ass as that?
    Me? Forget it!

    Let's assume the translation was all.
    Would this assuage your curiosity?
    All.

    The tall
    and the small
    and the doll with the shawl,

    The ripe
    and the hype
    and the blonde with the stripe
    riding hydrant's swollen pipe,

    The young
    and the old
    with the spark or the mold
    with the eye in the green
    if as teen if as queen
    with the eye in the blue
    even if it wasn't you
    with the eye in the dark
    and the spine against the bark,

    Oh, that innocent chaste
    with her feet on my waist...


    She picks her clothes from the floor,

    sometimes from the sand sometimes from the grass
    sometimes from the water,

    sometimes red sometimes jeans
    sometimes ribbons with fluffy lace and shiny buttons
    sometimes chaussettes
    sometimes nylons,

    sometimes a padded brassiere,
    sometimes no brassiere,

    always beautiful in her fragile womanhood
    and her steel determination to rip the flesh off my bones
    before
    and glue the tattered leftovers over the bared, sticking bone ends
    after, apologetically though never meaning it

    when watching me thoughtfully as I dress
    and then allows me to take her hand by one offered finger, her choice
    walking by my side patting dogs, children, trees, chairs, busses
    "...hey, got my fingers sooted..."
    magnanimously allowing me to lick the poison off her fingers

    before kissing me lightly
    and disappearing,

    times... forever.

    Never counted the forevers,
    here and there remembered the letters.

    Mud,
    it was mud there beneath her eyes
    and mine.
    Nothing else,
    sea mud,
    Dead Sea.
    Dead.
    Mud.

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Oh, Glory, Glory, Hallelujah!

    to: M, the other M anew

    You played Cleopatra.

    I played nothing, not Caesar, not Antonius,
    not even the snake,
    just part of the public that came to acclaim your performance
    and inhale your sun,
    and be blinded by it.

    They were all on their feet
    paying little attention to little me
    who squeezed in between the mowing arms
    towards the back of the stage
    to the door,
    the one with the star,
    opened,
    entered,
    lay on the bed, waiting.

    Eventually the door opened again,
    you floated in and locked it behind you,
    even placed a chair under the handle, for uninterruption's sake.

    "Come here!"

    Still the majestic empress,
    commanding me around,
    ordering me to her feet.

    I refused,
    grabbing that huge glass diamond hiding the cleavage
    and ripping it away
    alongside with the simile silk and simile gold and simile emeralds...
    part of your breast exposed, part of my life.

    "Down!" you commanded again
    and this time I obeyed
    squeezing my face between your thighs
    feeling the robes pull away then embrace me entirely, a heavenly tent,
    a heavenly perfume,
    a woman,

    oh, glory, glory, hallelujah!

    "When did you arrive?"
    Today.
    "When do you leave?"
    Today.
    "When do you return?"
    Never,

    and we fell on the floor
    and you disrobed me
    and I slithered into you until the world ended.

    I slithered out of you
    out of your beddings
    out of your room
    out of your life.

    The wound that nipple carved on the inner of my palm keeps bleeding,
    I will not let it heal
    for as long as I will keep seeing you,
    woman,

    oh, glory, glory, hallelujah!

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Zing

    to: K, I guess the same K though I'm not really sure

    The zing is gone.

    Changed to distant, rare, bland.
    I think you prefer it this way.

    There's a distance, suddenly there,
    like a desert, an ocean, a planet
    and nothing penetrates Ė light, sound, radio, not even cosmic rays.
    Certainly not... touches.
    Certainly not shared touches, once the only solid filling an empty universe,
    strange,
    as if you joined a Nun's Covent
    a New Born Christians sect
    a Home... ha! when you'll join a Home then Earth will be declared flat.
    You did not join anything.
    You simply cut it.
    The link. The wire. The umbilical.
    And the zing is gone
    or rather the zinggg... with as many g's as we chose, as you chose.
    You decided not to choose anymore. Not even one.
    Maybe the z is still, there, maybe many z's... sadly, no?

    Remember?
    When the water would boil around the transatlantic cable at the bottom of the ocean
    and fishes would scatter miles wide
    and fishermen feared Godzilla had waken up
    until we laid down the receivers
    shaking inside the chilling sweat
    and dying throes of convoluted bodies returning from a trip to shared everland,
    remember?

    Remember?
    When we had to wear goggles in fear of exploding screens
    melting, distorting under the onslaught of words born in foreign suns,
    our own exhausted already, long ago,
    how many screens did you have to replace, five, fifteen?
    I replaced fifteen hundred, your fire... oh, your fire...
    remember?

    Remember?
    When I pulled open your button and you pulled open my belt
    and we pulled open our bodies
    molding flesh to flowing flesh and rage to flowing rage
    with dogs howling around the asteroid belt
    and winged reptiles deserting the Cretaceous to fly alongside Sputniks
    until waking up inside each other and identifying the dying reverberations
    of our lungs, and mouths, and jagged lips,
    remember?

    The zing is gone.
    Distant, rare, bland maybe remains. Maybe you. Though doubt it.

    It could never be you. The g's, oh, those so many g's
    are missing.

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Unanswered

    to: D

    I don't remember exactly,
    what were you... trainer, gymnast, special forces?

    Thin,
    hard,
    impressive muscles knotted underneath taut skin stretching across narrow belly
    as you luxuriated in the sun
    the lowest bikini line almost too high
    the highest bikini line almost too low...
    "...steel..." you said, "...test it..." you said
    placing my palm above the highest bikini line,

    damn,
    steel,
    you were right
    and my fingers moved slightly downwards
    pushing the steel in
    and the spandex up
    a finger's tip acting the imperialist and all others the following sheep...
    I stopped.

    Why, hell and inferno's blazes, did I stop?

    Your eyes closed
    your lips slightly foaming, half open
    your chest heaving
    expecting...
    I stopped.

    Why, hell and inferno's blazes, did I stop?

    We rode homeward in the same car, later in the day,
    we sat on the rear bench
    my arm stretched across the top of your seat's back
    your head limp on my arm,
    playing asleep.

    You descended first,
    did say "hi".
    I descended somewhere further, had no one to say hi to.

    I tried to cross your way again,
    we met,
    we nodded to each other.

    The magic was gone.
    The moment lost.
    It never returned.

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Once Upon... Still...

    to: A

    She had an angel face.
    Smooth skin
    small, round ears
    a wide mouth seeded with small white teeth opening in a wide, sunny smile
    long, wavy auburn hair
    big brown eyes
    and long, curled eyelashes. Natural.
    And long thin fingers ending in long thin fingernails
    that had nothing to do with her face
    except when she leaned her chin on her open palm,
    turning the perfect parts to perfect collage.

    Yet, I always thought she had a bit too much, to my taste.
    A bit too tall
    and a bit too round
    and her breasts a bit too large
    and her hips a bit too wide.
    And probably a bit too in love with me.
    With another a bit too in love with her.
    With me a bit too in love with another, another another.

    She did tell me she loved me, no, not in words
    but in as many ways as there are letters in the bible, any language.

    We sat side by side, many times,
    on benches, on table tops, on sidewalks
    thighs touching even so slightly, I think it was her doing,
    We sat facing each other, many times,
    across large school tables and across narrow train tables
    thighs touching even so slightly, I think it was her doing
    even though I often wondered how it was possible across those larger tables,
    there was some miracle at work or maybe she had a partner there?...

    I enjoyed watching her,
    bending in front of me
    with a t-shirt loose at the top showing a rich, deep cleavage going way down, somewhere,
    going away from me
    with hips playing and buttocks bouncing and muscled calves showing off,
    crossing legs across from me
    with a skirt sliding down slightly more than absolutely necessary riveting my eyes, there,
    sideways from me
    and a shirt button magically opening allowing my gaze to envelope a smooth, white breast,
    far away from me
    until all she turned to was a moving spot and a distant memory...

    And I admit I enjoyed making love to her, no, not in deeds
    but in as many ways as there are spaces between the letters in the bible, any language.

    Pulling her skirt up, slowly,
    pulling her shirt open, slowly,
    pulling her belt away, slowly,
    pulling her stockings down, slowly,
    pulling her chest to me, slowly,

    grabbing fistfuls of auburn hair
    and palmfuls of white breast
    and armfuls of curved spine
    leading to that unique, delectable smoothness that ended man woman segregation
    and contributed its miserably microscopic life to mother Earth's fiery bosom.

    It should have ended with an exclamation mark.
    There are no exclamation marks in one's head, it cannot.

    I watch the auburn headed trees in my garden,
    and the big eyed doves perching on the rail of my balcony
    and somewhere,
    inside,
    far away,
    a twinge of regret burns me away.

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Of Life. And Death. And Life. And Viceversa.

    to: S, one of the many S's

    I waited for you, in the car,
    I thought you'd never come.
    You never came.

    *

    You slid into the car, your belly huge, your breasts huge ready to feed life.
    "We are not going to make love," you said,
    "Lean back, close your eyes," you said.

    "It was not a near-death experience," I said, feeling death leave my body.
    "What was it?" you asked.
    "It was a beyond-death experience," I answered.

    You smiled, savoring the aftertaste of death,
    each eye a sun, both eyes a hunger allayed.
    You slid out of the car, your belly huge, your breasts huge ready to feed life.

    "I will remember," you said.
    You remembered.
    On first death's first anniversary you sent me a card that life was a girl.

    It was last death's first anniversary too.

    *

    I waited for you, in the car,
    I thought you'd never come.
    You never came.

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Okay

    to: K, oh, K

    Okay,

    So I stepped into the bear trap and got caught,
    missing my appointment with destiny, life, you.
    There's no one to blame... the hunter, the trap, not even the bear who wasn't there.

    I refused to see, of course,
    the carcasses strewn all around the spot
    some still twitching, some even alive, maimed. Strange blindness, was it.

    I lost my foot too.
    Probably my soul as well, never knew the soul was a resident of the foot,
    I guess I never knew much, did I?

    Lesser fray got caught alongside me, strange trap it was
    closed yet snapping open again and again snap-snap-snap
    and even after I deserted my foot and limped on, it kept snapping snap-snap-snap.

    The bundle on my back carries very little,
    a bit of the fire of your loins, a bit of the bite of your teeth,
    a bit of the incomprehension of your nipple, never understanding... where did I go?








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Vee

    to: V

    There was something between us,
    there always was something between us.
    I thought so.

    You told me all your secrets,
    I told you all of mine,
    we shared moments
    stories
    silences
    even bits of food. Touches too. Light.

    I nicknamed you Vee. Sometimes VeeVee.
    Rhyming with sea,
    rhyming with we.
    I even wrote you a poem once, remember, in a language I did not know?
    Just for fun.
    It stayed fun, though we wanted more. It never became more.

    The muscle of your thigh never laced with mine
    your tiny breast never steeple'd its nipple to mine,
    one day you did not come.
    Though I waited.
    Though you were not a virgin.
    Though the promise stays unfulfilled.

    The ivory in your mouth,
    I wonder what flesh it carves today.


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Hazy

    to: G

    You sent me a picture,
    in it you were fixing earrings in your ears, in front of a mirror.
    You sent me another picture,
    in it you were drumming.
    An then a third one,
    looking at me quite Elizabeth, the Taylor one.

    I sent you a picture,
    watching out of the window,
    my body lean, my hands in pockets quite Marlon, the Brando one.

    I kept wondering if your breasts were small if your teeth were even
    if your sneakers were red
    and your panties white
    and your skin ready for sin the way mine was.
    I probably bit your calves once or twice
    and grabbed your buttock once or twice
    and wandered up your inner thigh once or twice,
    at least until the sun blinded me into reproachful wakefulness...
    the jealous bastard.

    I still wonder, what has become of us?
    I kind of know bits and pieces of me.
    I kind of know nothing,
    of you.
    Rang you once.
    You forgot me.
    I guess there was nothing between us, ever. Is your guess the same?

    Like those people one meets in the street and never again.
    Like those people one meets in a plane and never again.
    Like...
    And yet, we did meet once, again.
    And then... never. Again.

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Again...

    to: U... actually to K but I have to complete my ABC...

    OK, making love to you,
    again.
    Itís that time of the year.

    Hmm... again?... did we ever stop?

    On the street, in the garden, on a bench, under an umbrella
    on the john, seat up, seat down, seat wood or plastic or broken...
    they shouldnítíve made it so flimsy, shouldnítíve they?...
    in the car
    on the car
    beside the car
    behind the car
    under the car with oil and mud and dead mosquitoes dropping on our naked skin
    rolling in broken glass
    and rusty nails
    and thorns clipped off a dead cactus forgotten on a dump downtown...

    It snows.

    I watched your eyes, impossible to watch your eyes
    as they were raised towards the alighting flakes
    some melting inside those blue lakes... you did not blink them away
    you didnít even smile,
    you hiccupped.

    Hiccupped?

    I pulled you behind me, dragged you rather
    and the five feet high snow seemed to melt around us
    as we advanced
    closing behind us
    as we advanced
    turning to thousands of tiny flickering lamps
    as we advanced
    I stopped,
    you stopped,
    we stopped.
    The clothes melted to the icy floor, we werenít cold, we were fiery hot.

    Hey, stalactites, I wondered
    as those rosy nipples erected downwards from above me.
    Hey, stalagmites, I wondered
    as those rosy nipples erected upwards from underneath me.

    Hey, a stalactite... you said as I loomed above you.
    Hey, a stalagmite... you said as you loomed above me.

    Hey, shut up! I said, irrelevant who was on top of whoever was under
    and biting my way into your flesh
    like a hungry, carnivorous tiger... as if there were any other kind.

    I heard them first. Tinkling bells.

    Your hair ends touching each other
    and sounds of silver
    sounds of crystal
    sounds of icicles
    filling our imprisoning ice cavern,
    little white flowers dislodging from the shimmer of the ceiling
    and starting to rain upon you,
    first your toes
    then your belly button
    then your neck, mouth, nose... hey, itís only nipples that I see
    I didnít complain, until they disappeared as well,
    hey, itís also nipples that I do not see any more
    I did complain.

    Brush it off them, you suggested.

    Are you sure? I hesitated, knowing more or less what would follow,
    fearing the less versus the more,
    my palm approached...

    I brushed it off them.

    *

    Finally ďtheyĒ decided to call it a miracle.

    Detractors proposed anything from a minor earthquake
    through a major supersonic boom
    and all the way to a North Korean failed plot to invade the country.
    A few isolated voices suggested an UFO, later found out to be a very identifiable Jumbo object.
    Supporters pointed to the church steeple just slid yet did not fall,
    praise the Lord,
    to a few cracked walls yet no victims,
    praise the Lord,
    to the snowflakes that for a moment turned blue before turning white again,
    praise the Lord.
    They won, the supporters.

    We listened to them canting Hosannas as we emerged from the wrecked lair,
    hardly more than a fig leaf to our fig-leafable parts...
    they were so busy canting that none saw us
    as we sneaked into your truck
    and used a few old rags to replace the fig leaf simile.

    You look ridiculous in my old underwear.

    You look wonderful in your old underwear.

    We were still panting, one hour after.
    Fingers twined,
    fingers clasped,
    fingers broken.
    Was it us? I asked, pointing to the leaking crack in the water tower,
    icicles forming already.
    The miracle, you answered,
    and I pondered on it quite a number of hours.
    Yes, the miracle, I repeated to my plane seat neighbor,
    watching him change seat in haste bordering on panic.

    The miracle. I love you, I shouted after him
    and gave him the finger.
    I was fined fifty bucks on arrival.
    You must be joking, I laughed at them,
    having had accepted prison, for life.

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To have...

    to: O, oh K...

    To have you once more
    around me.

    To have you squeeze life out of me,
    soldiers destined to perish inside your blossoming fields
    crying Hail Kueen with a last breath
    before immediate oblivion meets endless memory in eternal marriage
    and you claw my skin with razor fingernails.

    To have you gone for never
    having known the rage and having forgotten the age
    and having found broken flint stones to support your naked back
    and broken glasses to carry dried lipprints of divine wine
    and broken ice sculptures to melt between our bellies
    until they touch, weld, merge.

    To have you smile down
    at a hand cupped around a breast
    and a thigh shoveling its way towards accomplishment
    with a city howling around us unawares of history in the making.

    To have you sigh
    then fall asleep,
    curled in my lap.





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Beautiful

    to: P

    I wonder, which P?

    Was it Pamela?
    Was it Paola, Pippa, Pollyanna, Pocahontas, Phillis, Penelope,
    Pleiades,
    Persephone,
    Phoebe,

    Penthesilea?

    Was there a P at all? P like Pleasure, like Perfection, like Passion.
    Adrift between arms bared to armpits and legs bared to hips
    I float, clinging to my beggarís world
    in search for illusions
    and a haven of forgetfulness.

    I rove inside bodies allowing my passage
    and around bodies still waiting for it
    and you keep telling me that you are all
    and none is you
    until I finally fall asleep under the shadow of your breast, usually the left one
    and my last memory until I wake up next
    is that endless smile that seems to circumnutate around your head
    three times, then three more.

    You were drunk, my love, you tell me
    guiding my hand there where no other ventured before
    and bringing it back close to my nose,
    irrefutable proof of your humanity
    and my insanity.

    Make love to me, my love, you tell me
    letting senses guide me there where no other ventured before
    and waiting for me to fail
    irrefutable proof of my vulnerability
    and your superiority.

    Finally I perish again
    failing to hear your scream of contentment
    singing a one note love song
    to the willow hanging overhead.

    I stop wondering at your name, it is irrelevant.
    As long as you blossom with each single fingertip touch
    you are Poetess
    and I, the Philistine, wash your feet in my few moments of sanity.
    And I believe that Poetry
    is our daughter. Looking a lot like you.
    Beautiful.

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Love...

    to: ...I wonder whom, though she does not

    Love is a word used by us,
    the destitute,

    those who walked on water
    and climbed the Olympus
    and watched sunsets with eyes closed and mouths interwoven.

    We donít use summer, summer is past tense.
    We donít use eternally either,
    or maybe, or laughter, or bud.
    We may use if, from time to time
    when the wound is open
    and there is no salt close by
    and we want to remember what love is. Or was. Or is, nevertheless.

    It hides in words. Love.

    Not in grammar, not in metaphors,
    not in punctuation.
    It hides in hi,
    in once, in glass, in tomato,
    think of a word and you find it there
    if you want to.

    It does not take imagination,
    it takes... love.



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Of Love. And Sin.

    to: ...she knows?... I wonder... I know...

    I stretched there before you
    counting the blisters under your left heel, three
    and testing the curvature of the sole of your foot, both.
    I couldnít inspect the toenails so I did not know the color
    of the nail polish
    but I did smell the whiffs of femininity between the whiffs of acetone.
    Yet did not look up,
    did not want to see the origin of love
    and sin.

    I clothed you
    and smelled every square inch of skin
    and absorbed every cubic inch of sweat
    and molded myself snugly against your hips and around your ankles
    and between the folds of the source of humanity
    waiting for you to sit down
    then to roll from side to side
    and finally to walk for miles, rubbing me thin
    with oceans of love
    and waves of sin.

    I was a bench, when you sat.
    I was an ice cube when you drank.
    I was a window pane, your nose pressed against me when watching autumn
    and your breath painting me with the cave drawings residing in your lungs.
    I was a bed, when you made love to others
    and dandled you into the bliss of sleep
    after
    pushing slivers of wood under your fingernails
    before
    and creaking
    during...
    never complaining as long as you sang to me lullabies of love
    and sin.

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Life...

    to: whoever it may Koncern

    Life... meaningless without
    death.

    Alpha. Bravo. Charlie. Death. Give me your hand
    and let death find us
    after life.

    Donít give me your body, you never gave me your body.
    I own it. I did I will.
    Donít kiss me.
    You never stopped.


















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Life Around The Corner

    to: ...Sure ...Someone Special... Somewhere

    Life,
    probably just around the next corner
    waiting, again,

    jaws wide open
    fangs glinting with hungerís drool
    the growl of immediate gratification and satiety
    hanging at the entry to your ears,

    you take the corner.
    Lifeís fodder.

    My wish... dying.
    Dead?
    To wait for you around the next corner
    and rape you mind and body
    until you forget life around the corner
    and all you know is gratification and satiety

    curled up in my arms, and to hell with life around the corner.









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Ghosts

    to: M, the first the unique the only, the lost

    She was there. Suddenly.
    How long since I last saw her,
    ten years?
    how long since I last really saw her,
    forty years?

    She was there,
    suddenly,
    unchanged
    same ponytail same small face same blinding smile,

    her tongue was busy wetting her lips
    and then her mouth closed
    the tip of the tongue popping nevertheless, impertinently
    at the corner of her mouth,

    I bent forward, slowly,
    I mauled the tip of tongue with my lips
    and she allowed me
    then she pulled it in
    before bending towards me and letting her lips touch mine
    then tips of tongues touched
    then mouth mauled mouth and tongue mauled tongue
    then she pulled back,

    oh, so beautiful.

    And then she was gone. Again.
    For how long this time,
    another ten years, if I live that long?

    I opened my eyes and watched the darkness above me.
    Tears seem to have a way to find their path even in darkness
    to corners of eyes
    to sogginess of pillow,

    they have a way to never get lost.









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And when I die

    to: T, unforgoTTen, forever losT, I never knew unTil I knew

    And when I die, and when I die
    Iíll lose that maiden sweet of eye
    Who haunts my thoughts since days of yore
    And turns a hidden shard of lore
              unending sigh.

    And when I die, as do I must
    And when I shed my crumbling past
    Iíll lose the shadow of that smile
    That bathed me, for little while,
              in fairy dust.

    And when I die, from my day one
    And all the way to my day none
    I twined her softly through my rhyme
    My heart the breeze, her smile the chime,
              her face the sun.

    And when I die, Iíll take with me
    The memories sheíll never see
    Be they enchanted, laden myth,
    Or melancholic brimming with
              the dying we.

    And when I die, and when Iím gone
    Those memories of her will spawn,
    With recollections in cahoots
    Will mate with dandelion roots
              beneath my stone.

    *

    And when I die, thank God I do
    The black will sheathe the growing blue
    I leave this world, Iíve done my time,
    My getting born the only crime...
              and loving you.









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