back to Poems...

 

The Ultimate Dimension Could have been the fifth. Maybe the fifty-fifth, safer, allowing other dimensions to be discovered yet keeping its absolute, undefeatable status. Indomitable. Ultimate. The ultimate dimension. Age. Age. Age. The echo in my mind. On paper. Age. Space, time, those uniform, shapeless, endless, no begin no end dimensions sized by our impossibility to size them same as the other still to be discovered leading to fifty five yet halting, ending there. Fifty fifth. Or shall I poetize it into filthy filth. Age. Of a deformity misleading, deceiving, lying. Shaped so well. Sized so well. Begin. End. The brainless beginning, the brainless end, nothing before and nothing after, whatever legends popular or urban maintain. And in between a few drops of love, some drops of happiness and all around these every variety possible of pain, indifference, toil, fatigue, disappointment, insanity, seas and oceans of these and acolytes and so many measurement units of the dimension lost to... sleep, damn horrible wasteful sleep. I always nurtured a morbid fascination for those mathematical series of infinite members and finite sum total, the infinity of nothings adding to a nothing total, like life, like the ultimate dimension, like age.

• back to list   • back   • next

Verses I cupped my palms around your verses, a nest, watched the thin shells of your thoughts crack and thousands of clamorous mouths started screaming for nourishment, I watched your heart crumble to feed them flight...

• back to list   • back   • next

Cigarette I tore a page from your book, rolled it densely densely and put a match to its end. No need for tobacco. I puffed in, inhaling deeply, then again, then again, burning words settling into my lungs before seeping into my blood stream while I kept busy exhaling pure paper, ash. I looked at the book lying next to me. Enough for a lifetime.

• back to list   • back   • next

Like Ultimate Vision Cows in the middle of the highway, snakes pouring from exhausts with tail-less goats stampeding across rooftops and chickens obeying fetch!... Armageddon for children. Or for lovers. Or for who-the-hell-cares conjointly with volcanoes on the moon and red-tailed meteors on my roof and naked you taking away my breath and all fear of any kind of Armageddon. I count my ribs again, making sure you are missing while you tiptoe in the room overtly parading your bouncing pride and rave of flailing snakes trying to turn me stone when I avert my eyes to meet the viciously lashing tongues in the mirror and the part of me turning stone is the one that nails you to the wall and prevents you from sliding to the floor alongside those slashing canines you hook into my lower lip hanging the rest of you onto me like a summer’s blossoming garland.

• back to list   • back   • next

Sometimes. Always. Sometimes I sit. Sometimes I listen to AC/DC. Sometimes I follow birds with eyes, ears. Irrelevant. I always find you. On the chair, in the crazy guitar riffs, in birds' feathers – nightingale, crow or eagle. Sometimes I growl. To a driver cutting in front, to a neighbor wise-ass, to the taxman's letter. To a failed rhyme. I find you. Always. Even when I don't find the rhyme you crawl into my lap and knit anew my untangling sanity threads. You button my shirt you zip my trousers you lace my shoes before you button zip lace yours. Sometimes you don't, either of, which is fine with me as long as you are willing to perch on the bedhead like a lark ready to jump me like a cobra ready to rend me like a hyena hungering for months in a cage with nothing but stuffed teddy-bears for company, always. Sometimes you play hopscotch on my prostrate figure after you suck me dry of every ounce of passion, sometimes you drive thousands of miles to find a linden tree in that part of the world where they are still blooming to bathe my body in the essence of its flowers before the rite of ascension, sometimes you pour nails into my shoes just for the pleasure of pulling them out, one by one from my feet, as good an excuse as any to pull me out of the rest of my clothes for closer inspection of eventual collateral damage even on unaffected body parts, affecting them nevertheless, differently. Always with a grin to put to shame any Cheshire creature, visible or not. Sometimes I dream. Never sometimes of you.

• back to list   • back   • next

The Wait Where did your body conceal its infernal submission to caroling passion and mortal delights contriving the harrowing war of attrition ordained to enkindle my sky's Northern Lights and feigning surrender to life's grubby measure usurping the melody hidden within while lying in wait for the roborant treasure embedded in promises tinted with sin? When you slide libertarian, whimsical fingers between your impatient, lascivious thighs evoking a scent that eternally lingers at mind's end of vision and reason's demise, do gargoyles pour pitch from the tower of churches to smite all of sanity's counterfeit smiles and as your reality drunkenly lurches, an unsummoned pain your serenity riles? What plays in that sumptuous garden protected by decorous lashes coquettishly drawn, I wonder if passions forever neglected, or craves long forgotten in yesterday's yawn, your mystery drips with the feminine essence that mothers the marvel embedded in rhyme, you wake within candor's averse evanescence... oh, tamer of dragons and killer of time.

• back to list   • back   • next

memento to be left stranded between your thighs to wait for death to strike me of old age while chasing those perfumes you unlocked for me and when too tired to fall asleep alongside knowledge in omnibus operibus tuis memorare novissima tua... thus to acclaim the sin and mortality and cry the yesterdays lost and sing the tomorrows still awaiting me looking up at the valley between your breasts or down at the nails of your toes or nowhere except into that hell mistaken for paradise or vice versa while pulling feathers from angel wings and sharing with you the philosophy of flesh memento vivere...

• back to list   • back   • next

Various Kinds Of Magic I walk the streets hanging on to your skirt like a lost kid, aged sixty plus in bones yet not more than twenty in scattered mind and mind abettors... thoughts, oh, those perennial, immature abettors, thoughts. You show me the lamps at the top of lampposts and I see archangels flashing swords aimlessly. You show me swans mid of a dirty pond and I see Odette in a pas-de-deux alone. You show me a four-leaf clover and I see green winged butterflies mating. I experiment with leaving the hold on your skirt and lamps burn and ponds cover with oil stains and goats eat all clover undiscriminatingly until I hastily take hold of your skirt's folds once again and the world's magic reinstates. Magic! I shout pointing at yet another archangel, how many since I started following your folds? I even offer you a bunch of flowers I tore from a public garden never releasing my other hand's hold, and you accept with the grace of Odette. Can you pirouette on a four-leaf clover? I ask and you say you can even on one leaf of a four-leaf clover and prove it even with my hand still clawing wretchedly at your skirt, or maybe because of it? and the archangels appreciate and applaud. Magic, you say, there is more magic if you let go of my skirt, you promise unclenching my fingers one by one... Promise? I whimper, Promise, you whisper and as I pull back dejectedly into a corner you take hold of the hem of the dress and something wonderful starts to unfold. Beating archangels, Odette and clover. Suddenly I do not mind even the goats. Wow! Talking of magic...

• back to list   • back   • next

Mirror Mirror On The Wall I looked in the mirror then went to the doctor. A perfect body, it said. Since when do mirrors say things? He (the doctor) checked one shoulder and made the sign of the cross once. Then checked my other shoulder and made the sign of the cross twice. I did not allow him to check anything else as I believe in the jinx of three. He sent me to X-Ray and MRI and PET and Ultrasound and Thermography and many others where I left my hard-earned money where they pinched me and punctured me and undressed me to tell me everything that I knew already about my no cartilage my early death my need for one probably two artificial shoulders followed by six-seven-eight-etc months of revalidation consolidation probation emaciation emancipation emasculation, or what sounded very much like it and I left with a catalogue the size of a half-bible about a variety of mechanical and electrical and steel and plastic and so on contraptions in a variety of colors and sizes and price ranges from one billion to slightly more... I decided I was just fine. Mirror agreed. He (the doctor, another) asked me to pee in a variety of rotating tools then to pee in a variety of bottles in a variety of colors (the bottles) then to stop-start-stop-etc and then he hmmmed and hooomed and haruuumphed for a while prodding pushing palpating where not I even reached before reaching the valiant conclusion (and after pocketing valiant wads of watermarked paper cuts) that if I wanted to keep doing it at my valiant age I have to accept his proposed chemical support that is, what was its name? mostly bluish, mostly expensive something that starts with a V and ends with a... hmm... no, not Valium, no, not Vaseline, no, not Voltaren, Vagifem, Vicodin, Varta... oh, yes, starts with a V and ends with an A... Pfizer... yes‼ Vitamin A! I decided to eat bio carrots. Mirror agreed again. She (the doctor, female I think if to judge by her fees and feet) was supposed to investigate my toe which she did before sending me for colonoscopy which goes with my age she said and only too late I discovered has nothing to do with Greek architecture when six male burly wardens got hold of me and one miniature female warden did things unspeakable with a variety of kitchenware smiling and apologizing and telling me of my inner beauty (something my mirror did not tell me at all) before sending me home with a bless and a limp threatening to send pictures to my (she) doctor which needless to say I did not visit anymore. I showed Mirror my inner beauty and she cracked in envy and distress. I even posted it on my Facebook daring anyone to guess. He (yet another) was not allowed to call himself doctor but dentist claimed there was not enough gold in Fort Knox to provide for my age needs which was just well, I could not afford it anyway, so instead he volunteered a variety of options tested already on guinea pigs and corpses and since I did not answer (my mouth was clammed open) he assumed assertively as positively answered and started piling a variety of DIY tools next to me the most frightening of which was a torch blower (he apologized later on for the mistake, "for my roof" he said) and which I appreciated with my connoisseur eye including a Makita router and a Bosch cordless drill and a Black & Decker grinder plus a variety of hammers - iron and plastic and rubber and a 10kg one (that's 20 pounds for the aliens among you) and a variety of glues and a variety of sand paper grades 500 down to 40 and a variety of tie-wrap all sizes (depends on the customer...) I wasn't worried until he lined up a number of 10 inch nails when I tore through the three layers of tie-wraps and busted through the steel door like it was cigarette paper. He sent me the bill, nevertheless. Mirror agreed that the ladder effect of my teeth was sexy and allowed easier use of a straw implement and anyway she (Mirror) loved the way I kept decaying. She (the doctor, not the Greek one, female according to statistics) ordered me completely naked then inspected me minutely with a huge magnifying glass and (banned) asbestos gloves playing Etta James (you know which song) in the background before declaring my melanoma a melodrama my skin a crocodile disgrace my wrinkles a warning about the oncoming Apocalypse and her fee to be paid before she would return me the clothes. I left her the clothes. She threatened to change her diagnosis if I didn't pay thus effectively blackmailing me into taking a mortgage for the next five years or else. I did steal all the medical journals from her waiting room. I wanted to know everything about all the sicknesses I did not have just in case I live too long and I might get one of these. Didn't get anything except blisters, and there was nothing about it in those journals. Mirror claimed the black spots I called beauty spots are simply melanocytic nevi with the one at the end of my nose proving I was a witch. I tried to witch Mirror into a kitchen pan and failed. Proving mirrors don't know everything. She (the doctor, not the Greek one, female according to statistics) also had a mole at the end of her nose but this was no proof to anything. I heard her husband was a prince. He (the doctor, there are many preying on age, didn't you know?) told me that I have the knees of a young girl though I would have preferred to have the knees of an adult man but he seemed mighty pleased when he added that nevertheless he will have to drill three holes around – one for the light, one for the knife and one for God knows what thus he will remove whatever is broken and then I will be as good as new or rather old new or rather we'll see after but not necessarily play rugby or football or basketball or handball or baseball or hopscotch or rollerblades or bicycle and when I asked him about sex he was kinda circumlocutial (where the hell did I learn this word?) mentioning that as long as I followed doctor another's instructions and bought the thing that started with V and ended with A (i.e. Vitamin A as explained already) and ensured that in no case I rely on my knees to hover above whatever male/female/rubber/plant partner of my choice then in principle I may be able to lead a HH (happy'n'healthy) life as long as I did not abuse my healthy (i.e. repaired) body and limit said abuse to no more than once per year at which stage I decided that no wonder age is serious matter not suitable for young people and takes so many years of training while my she (not the doctor one) said she did not mind any hovering and neither did I, I decided, and Mirror defined me as the most beautiful in the room (the only one there) at which occasion I opened a bottle of champagne and poured it down the sink (liver problems said he, the doctor not yet mentioned). A perfect body, better not entrust it to doctors. Love, let's hang the mirror on the ceiling, what's your opinion? She (lover) agreed. We're still looking for a ladder but once we find it... oh-la-la‼!...

• back to list   • back   • next

choice you linger inside my empty clothes, I wonder who is looking for whom. evening falls, this evening, unlike the other evenings, I ache for you. the other evenings do not exist. did I tell you? I paint my roof making sure I don't fall, I listen to birds glad I ain't worm, I write sad there aren't ink stains on my finger tips. we make love when there isn't something better to do, I wonder why we make love always. I still feel the burn when you saddled my knee, do you remember making love with demanding fingers in plain view with no one seeing? as if it would matter. clouds play sheep today. leaves have fallen, months ago. I try to run between raindrops and come out soaked to my underwear, I wish you were here to dry them with your breath. words are a matter of choice, they choose me. I chose you. perfection.

• back to list   • back   • next

Pastels ...and every time you raised your hands your breasts would bounce like pebbles shooting across the lake and every time you bent in delight your breasts would push against the thin yarn shaping it in forms of desire unfulfilled and then you would raise your hands again and dance on heedless to my melting away in the cracks between the floor boards. I believe I even got sight of the roundness of flesh gazing from there, down below, upwards, way up high when you happened to pass above my puddle substance and drops of me stuck to your toes. Pieces of me were still asleep inside your sandals when you tossed them off and started undressing and I couldn't make it to the end... simply evaporating.

• back to list   • back   • next

Pastels, Three What about pastels two? There never was. Never will be. Liar! You know me better than I do, I guess. I pulled her dress down over her head smoothening it carefully on her shoulders, also on her breasts, concerned solely with the aesthetic aspects making sure it was stretched properly, smoothening it carefully on her hips, also on her buttocks, aesthetics my only concern as you know by now making sure it was stretched properly... You are such a pedant... I shove her feet into the pink sandals raising her legs slightly more than necessary not trying to peek along her legs but having no choice working so long and hard at the unfriendly buckles that I had no choice but to screw my neck this way, and then this way, and then raising her legs even higher than previously the buckles so mean to me... You are such a pedant... She pulled the trousers up my legs dealing extensively with the zipper trying to close it several times to her utter dissatisfaction thus trying it again and again then packing the source of the encumbrance better, then again, even better probably and then finally, with a satisfied, gentle, pat closing the matter to our shared satisfaction. You are such a pedant... She shove my feet into the sandals, no, not pink, brown and raising my leg this way then that way almost certainly trying to peek under my pants yet certainly failing until finally she gave up and closed the buckle to my great satisfaction and her visible disappointment. I didn't tell her anything about pedantry, it was clearly not the issue here. She hooked her elbow into mine and we went out. We walked slowly, in step, almost like soldiers on a private parade, her sandals tic-tic-ticing my sandals toc-toc-tocing. She pointed at a sky covered with stars Look there, a star! and I said yes, faking knowledge of her point of interest then I said Look above, a star! only for the pleasure of seeing the entire blinking canopy reflecting in her eyes. We got stiff necks after a while, returning home more by instinct than by sight, hitting every bench, mile stone, umbrella and dog beneath our field of vision. I'm probably covered with blue spots, and she finally succeeded to fit the key in the hole by kneeling in front of the door and bringing the keyhole into her field of vision. I promised to check every spot she could think of once I could lower my head, and she refused to wait asking me to use my hands instead. I believe I found a red spot, I ventured, And this is not one of the places that got bumped, she giggled, until we finally settled in a very uncomfortable position where we could see each other's eyes, hers still carrying star glints. I did not wonder, knowing of the other fires, even wilder, consuming her body. * Remember pastel two? I remembered. There was no need to promise, there was no need for promises between us.

• back to list   • back   • next

Hair Hair, elegantly separates to strands under the nudge of artificial teeth last shower drops soaking into the intimacy of a shoulder's skin while incense-like soft perfumes burn my nostrils into the expectancy of... expectation. Your hair aflame, split ends harbor sparks running all the way to roots like so many nanosuns mixed with crushed poppy petals smearing a trail of smolderless coal in between blinding me with desire... blind. I grab your hair, by the roots, fingers and web clench into the perfection of trap with the silken yarn's fire corroding though skin and bones down to emotions and bubbling on until my convulsing lungs ache for devastation murdering my senses... dead. You drop on the sheets, your hair exploding, like a crushed tomato like a scared flamingoes flock like a collapsing sun and you look like a haloed saint committed to absolute sin allowing suicidal moths to pull hair ends into a tri dimensionality neighboring the perfect ecstasy of... perfection. I invade your hair, I shatter perfection, I war the convoluting dragons biting their way from my hidden recesses into your body's layers of incandescent pollen and bubbling cauldrons finally unleashing them to paint your areolas and perineum and philtrum to end into the caving-in depths of the... depth.

• back to list   • back   • next

Pastels, Two Finally. Finally? Yes, you promised. Pastels two. I did not promise. You did. She stuck out a tongue that could reach the moon and retrieved it immediately before I could clamp it between my teeth. Butterfly colors. Not butterflies, just colors flittering underneath her eyelashes, before her eyes. A veil, hiding her thoughts. She could not hide her thoughts completely, I found them in her palms. Soft, velvety, flittering like the colors, Your thoughts have color, I said catching her by the waist and throwing her in the air to the real butterfly she wanted to reach. She did not reach. Not that she really wanted. Just wanted to listen to it, she said. I didn't peek under her skirt, not that I did not want to, just wasn't sure it goes with pastels. I did though touch the tips of her breasts when she descended, I believe this does go with pastels. She put her head on my shoulder allowing me to guide her to the end of the world, the butterfly hanging on to her other ear, a living earing. Along the way we sat on a bench the end of the world being far and the butterfly being tired. She too. Do you love me? she asked. Yes said the butterfly, and I was reluctant to correct it. It started raining stars. Drops of water too. And fireflies. I watched the stars dressing her and the drops undressing her and the fireflies turning her into shimmering pyre and people looked at us curiously as we continued towards the end of the world with the butterfly our only satellite. The moon in your eyes, there are two, I commented looking into her eyes. It was night. It wasn't cold. The wolves were silent. Your tips of fingers, they are warm, I commented. The tops of the trees bent, ascertaining my comment. I watched for a moment back. Her steps left luminous pools getting lost in the distance, Artificial decoration, I commented. She stopped, kissed me, leaned her head again on my shoulder and continued walking. I believe I looked ridiculous with all those stars and drops and fireflies hanging on to my lips. I want them back, she said. I waited for this request, oh, I waited for this request...

• back to list   • back   • next

The Expectation The expectation. Getting longer the less time there is to expect. Like a kid waiting for his second ice-cream, after tasting the first, like a poet waiting for recognition, like an Olympic long distance runner seeing the accolades previous champions got and imagining his to come, this time. Unlike a lover knowing it all, more like a lover knowing nothing and imagining everything and expecting more than everything. I watch the watch, wall – wrist – computer – car – church tower... maybe one would be more forthcoming, less scrupulous, maybe one would be hit be a meteorite... none, complete collusion, conspiration, connivance, I even try a little bribe... "a new battery Mr. watch?..." no response. The long arm moves another fraction of arc and the expectation gets longer, somehow. Maybe a bit of skirt flutter, I try closing my eyes, it helps, a bit. Maybe a bit of a skirt hem indulgently lifting? Helps, even slightly more. Then what about no skirt at all, I burst and the rest of my day is ruined with mountains of accumulating expectation matter that just get heavier, and higher, and longer. Yes, mountains can get also longer in this case. I decide there is nothing I can do. So I might as well cut the grass, trim the hedge, paint the walls, action induced numbness and another day passes. Somehow, still, the expectation just keeps growing. Did I just discover the end of entropy?

• back to list   • back   • next

Halves Half way up through your body and I lose my way, willingly, resting there where I could spend the other half of my life if half there would have been. I find my way, willingly, exiting there where I did not spend the other less-than-half of my life and I find repose on the left half of the first half of the last half way, up, listening to the regular chirp, rustle, purl, pummel, slug penetrating through overlapping layers of desire and nipple my infuriated eye and mouth and finger warring cruelly, desperately for nipple rights and desire concessions, a half lunacy of a half witted owner. The finger wins by default as I continue upwards, dragging along eye mouth and relevant appendices to find half of a mouth system called lower lip and half of a tooth system called lower maxilla and an entire vicious system called tongue that traps me further halving my wits and doubling my lunacy as it guides our forgotten lower halves into blind indecency till death does us unite. Or is it the other way around? Death dies. The unit splits into component parts, crawling halves wither to wrinkled skin separating along split lines smeared with essence of life and flowing salt and the appeased growls of chastened tigers.

• back to list   • back   • next

Promises, Promises You promised to devour me, to gobble me up skin and flesh and bones and shoes... ...no? no shoes?... then trousers?... oh, neither trousers, you prefer no trousers, truth is I prefer no trousers too, no trousers socks shirt under shirt under... yes, I guessed this was your intent, no under either, no under under nothing under nothing... You promised to make sure I am ripe, well-ripened well-seasoned well-aged... hey, what do you mean well-aged? oh, I see, well-aged like wine, like olive oil, like pickles... are you sure this is a compliment?... for you to bite, masticate, suck, swallow, ingest, gnaw, crunch... careful! don't break a tooth on... ok, at that stage there is no risk to break any tooth, agreed, though I suggest a defibrillator in the vicinity in case of cardiac arrest. Mine. What do you mean food cannot get cardiac arrest? You promised to make me remember that I forgot, or never knew or never thought worth knowing or remembering or never imagined such scientific resolve could rest at the tip of fingertips at the tip of hairs at the tip of tongues... only one? are you sure?... nothing scientific you say? neither mirage? so what about these shivers and what about these goosebumps, yes, inclusive the big goosebump, and what about the collapsed lungs and constricted arteries and atomic warfare in my ears and in my belly? All part of your promise? Oh!... Do you always keep your promises? Oh!... Yes, I see, you did purchase a defibrillator. Intelligent move, though I doubt my own intelligence at demanding that you keep your promises though I start having serious doubts about though I'm kind of doubtful though... huh?... oh!... hmm?!... mmm!...

• back to list   • back   • next

Answer When you stretch all the way from the North Pole to the South of the bed I measure the flatness of your chest and worry about permanent deformation. Then you subside to your earlier, human form and fit one resurrected nipple into my mouth to calm and pacify me. It does not... on the contrary. Oh, glorious failure!

• back to list   • back   • next

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 in 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. No 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.

• back to list   • back   • next

Eternities 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.

• back to list   • back   • next

Guess I guess that the first time my fingers penetrated the enclave of your shirt we shared death, for the first time. Remember? You cannot, dead people do not remember things, they wake up "after" knowing nothing except the now and the before, not in between the two. I wonder, was there an earthquake? I guess that the second time my fingers ventured, elsewhere, we shared death again. Can death be as glorious as that, as memorable as life, or more? Or as unmemorable? I guess that I will keep guessing. Whenever my fingers find the life that I lose third time and on and ever that this is some kind of eternality that sews us inside the same shroud third time and on and ever. What good is memory anyway? To tell us of loss, passed opportunities, decayed senses and sensations, never again's. I prefer the guess. I guess that once my fingers abuse of your kindness again we die again, together. Then we wake up guessing again, waiting again, knowing somehow that death is life and there is no fire left burning down Earth's core since we consumed it all. At least for a little while. Pour me some sweet wine. Kiss me. Seat your nakedness on my knees and tell me that we'll never end guessing what your nakedness on my knees feels like.

• back to list   • back   • next

Dice I repeat myself. I even repeat saying that I repeat myself, I know. After all there are so and so many ideas and words allocated to the compartments of my mind, and so and so many dice these can be written on and throwing them again and again is bound to repeat a sequence, sometimes. True, I try from time to time to add variety by adding a die I stole elsewhere, or a die with more than six faces like an octahedron or a dodecahedron... looking for other types as well though I sometimes cheat and mix in a sphere, ball, marble getting infinite compositions, most meaningless. Yes, sometimes I use a loaded die, yes, this is cheating big time, yes, I love certain combinations and have no choice but cheat. Is love cheating? I write about your shirt. I always write about your shirt. I write about your skirt, shoes, legs, places where legs end... or begin. I always write about your skirt, shoes, legs, places where legs end or begin. I write about pelicans. This is when I use a marble, hardly repeating itself. I write about your breasts. I always write about your breasts. Why not write about wonders? There are more than seven, there are seven plus two. Maybe I will try another dimension, not of space, but rather of color. The more the number of bits the more the number of colors, moving into millions, probably even billions, trillions. Probably too many for our too insensitive eyes. Still, I am sure I am still going to repeat myself and still write about your shirt and the rest, like you see the number of still's in this sentence. Blocked in an interminable loop, a ray blocked between two mirrors and exterminating itself into either death or momentary laser, another word for death. Maybe because your shirt and the rest is all that counts.

• back to list   • back   • next

sojourns I remember the way into you, the way a blind man remembers all the hard corners and soft pillows on his endless pilgrimage inside the prison of his home, the way a pigeon pigeons and an elephant elephants and a dog dogs to his master, even after the master's death, I remember the petals' blossom in front of me and smolder in back of me, the nails I did not feel penetrating the soles of my feet and the terrible waves battling the ramparts of my insides, I remember that I forgot anything else but the way into you, I remember the way out of you, the knife pulling slowly out of the molten butter dripping gigantic sizzling drops into the quarry of rumpled bed sheets and staining your thighs with memories to become scars to become legends, the quivering flesh that was once me looking for your breast's haven and yet not daring to look backwards upon that way trodden so often into and out of because of its unassailable fright of it being the last way, I remember the way about to come in and then the way about to come out and then the echo of repetitions and the reflection of facing mirrors and birds pulling crumbs offered between your teeth while you guide me in my recurring blindness once more out to the land of recurring sight waiting to find my way in again.

• back to list   • back   • next

art we shared the body until death started leaving it when it split into its panting component parts, I, you, many breaths later, wondering how the utmost of art's creation, life, took only seconds to complete, wishing it was hours, knowing we were doomed to never see our efforts crowned with attainment yet thankful for the opportunity to nevertheless try again and again and again. a different, magnificent art of our own.

• back to list   • back   • next

Hallelujah! I’ve had enough of your smooth, silken skin. I’ve had enough of your bright eyes and sunny smile and gracious walk and everyone saying it in the first or fifth or twenty sixth stanza and everyone thinking himself the master of romance before proportionally fitting his head inside a wooden oak frame tinted with the green of laurels and smiling at the camera. Ha. Yes, himself and his, I talk to and about direct competition my side of the fence, ladies. So shut up! Ha. Some green laurels, pissed on by a dog earlier in the day. Ha. Smooth, silken skin like butterfly’s wing edges. Sure, and what about all those ule’s like macules or papules or pustules and all those tion’s like excoriation or induration or maceration and fissures that have nothing to do either with the ule’s or with the tion’s and telangiectasia that has nothing to do with ecstasia and all of which have to do with the one you adore love desire worship adore... yeah, I said it already. Where and how do you fit them in your adoring loving desiring worshipping adoring... yeah, I said it already, poetry? Like saying I love your papules... would it still be romance and poetry? Like saying I don’t give a shit about your telangiectasia would it still be romance and poetry and I do not speak about the shit word. Ha. Bright eyes my foot. Probably half myopic the other half astigmatic and the cerulean blue or the coal black or the forest green no more nor less than hematoma blue or fingernail black or frog green dots and spots and stains and all. Sunny smile my other foot. Lips cracked from too much cold and wrinkles built in from too many years and uneven teeth chipped from abrasion or abfraction or attrition or insufficient visits to the dentist if not coffee stained or cigarette hued or wine bitten. And gracious walk my missing third foot, discounting my future walking stick, when she limps with seventeen blisters and her knees crack every third step and bunions and hammertoes and corns and calluses and platar fasciitis God only knows what it means but certainly sounding somewhere between ungracious and ungrateful to me... Ha, one says, he should write an article on medicine, not a poem. Ha, I say. Are you sure? Because then the moment comes. And she spills some blue on those eyelids batting above the myopic astigmatism and she touches some red to those cracked lips hiding the unevenness of teeth and she pulls some silk from the tip of the toe to the depth of the crotch above all papules and telangiectasia and bunions and calluses and co. and trusts the pride of her breasts foreways and shakes the pride of her mane windways and your mind’s eye sees only the pride of her womanways along with the smooth, silken skin and her bright eyes and her sunny smile and her gracious walk and you admit that it was always there. The woman. Your woman. Not the blue. Not the red. Not the silk. Made her. Always there. She. The one. Before you claim her again from underneath the entire masquerade with all the animal ferocity that turned you always and anew the same one. Bits of silk and of lip and of pustule lie strewn around the room and you refuse to wake up into the possibility of the nightmare of none... none of the myopia, none of the wrinkles, none of the bunions... Oh, God Almighty, let’em pour!... as she rapes you again and again and all you can think of is Hallelujah!

• back to list   • back   • next

Reality Waiting. You approach from behind, your bare feet hardly make any noise on the tiled floor, they sound more like a dolphin’s flippers... hey, a mermaid’s?... I hear, rather than feel your breath on the back of my neck as fingertips slide slowly under my shirt, touch one of the vertebrae have no idea which and slide further up, maybe counting them and missing your count since you go back down and up and down then stop to gently tap the numerous muscles surrounding the shoulder which once were able to lift a truck, ok, an empty one and now hardly carry reason to justify even just their complex names though they suddenly shiver, uncontrollably, you smile. You allow the palms a symmetrical sideways movement one right one left, the same fingertips rustle through my goosebumps like a fairy’s feet skidding through forest’s drying foliage before they reach my armpits, move up, sideways, down... are these the muscles that once bent inch thick steel bars? they seem to be asking, no, these were inch thick iron bars, the biceps and triceps seem to be answering and I am sure there is quadriceps as well somewhere there, forgotten and proud and shivering with the ecstasy of those fingertips moving on towards the chest and its pectorals minor or major or whateveror, you smile. Sagging now. Once busting three rings off three rows of chains straddling them now hardly keeping astride a sad memory’s lane dust and gravitation calling while fingertips insisting on cruelly reminiscing them of passed times flutter atop dormant nipples waking them up to male pride and arrogance and vanity pinch and tease and ask for forgiveness same time as counting heartbeats and finding a healthy double and measuring the chest inflations and deflations and finding a healthier triple before that bellow that starts rising from the depths of my lungs covers up for the shame of shivering chunks of flesh and you smile. You turn me around. You know. What was, what is, what is coming. You don’t care. You don’t mind. You crave. Reality. Gentle fingers carrying gentler fingertips hastily metamorphose into rude grapples carrying steel hooks and under wear and over wear and any other wear rips way off seams alongside any misfortunate fabric happening near by curtains bed-sheets table-cloths rugs... ha!... rugs turn rags and skin turns gash and flesh turns meat and human shaped cork joins the frenzy of a hurricane that turns the sea into hell’s hell and the reality into end’s beginning. End’s end. It’s over. Hooks recede, grapples soften, hair tickles my nose and a gurgle not unlike sunset follows a soft tongue assuaging the battle’s open wounds and turning them into sunrise shaped scars. I have no time to wonder if the hair tickling my nose is straight or curled because I catch sight of you in the mirror and the world stops and you suddenly smile.

• back to list   • back   • next

Deflation Do you remember that unforgettable, magical moment when we did not meet? I wonder if remember the unforgettable qualifies for oxymoron. I mean, in its question form. It would probably qualify more for oxen and morons as human qualifiers rather than the combined form for the literary qualifier. Close parentheses. Never opened anyway. Another anomaly. Guess that that moment qualifies for lots of anomalies. Like the moment that should have opened the skies or raced the stars or mixed fantasy with magic into mental kaleidoscopes. There were many colored balloons on the streets that day, after. Deflated balloons, punctured, looking more like used condoms than symbols of festivities. There were also many dead butterflies, or dying. Crushed silver bells. Torn love letters. Never written poems. The earth did not stand still. It tried, too much inertia. I rested in the car one hour, then one day, then a lifetime... no, not in the car, in the deflated that followed the way of the balloons, the butterflies, the bells, the letters, the poems. I’m still there, obviously, I said a lifetime and I didn’t want to qualify for another oxymoron. Or ox. Or moron. Though I do. I most certainly do.

• back to list   • back   • next

Flashbacks There is no order to them or logic. To that first egg I ate, found in the garden as a kid. To that first breast I uncovered. To that first passionate kiss tens of years later. Sometimes to seconds, or thirds if hotter than the firsts. Sometimes to never-happened’s. Flashbacks. Running away not even bloodhounds can find me there. Not even myself.

• back to list   • back   • next

Biblical, almost Unconsciously, you rested a moment in front of the open window the thin nightgown hanging loosely, sexilessly around your hips, thighs, like a torn bathroom curtain, or a textile barrel if textile barrels would’ve existed, my eyes moved higher up and suddenly the sexilessness turned inferno’s temptation as my eyes locked on the contour of the small breast with the small nipple further on along its curvature acting as an unconscious flesh hanger for that shapeless mess falling beneath it toward fathomless gravitation and the deeper abysses of my mind. Hold! I said. You held. Turn! I said. You turned. Hold! I said. You held. O, sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon, and thou, moon, in the valley of Aijalon!... OK, so there was no moon and the sun did not listen to my prayer but suddenly I found that love was not the only religion as my eyes descended to that shapelessly curtained area of afore searching for the source of the miracle and for a few glorious moments my world was composed solely of a few curly wisps marring the smooth divarication of your thighs from your body and burning upon my mind psalms from the Song of Songs Thy two breasts are like two fawns that are twins of a roe which feed among the lilies... Hold! I said. You turned. Turn! I said. You held. Hold! I said. You came. You kept coming until you were upon me and the shapeless curtain slid down from your shoulders giving in to fathomless gravitation and the deeper abysses of my mind and your flesh enveloped me in its various shapes and forms until the smells of Lebanon made place to the invariability of the smells emanating from your body and I was ready to write my own Canticles... later on. You look like you’ve seen a ghost, you said, once my horses disengaged from the carriage and went grazing in the valley of Aijalon. I’ve seen a miracle, I said, wondering if I should tell you the truth. Tell me the truth, you said. I’ve seen God, in your curves, I said. Then you are fated to die, you said, saddened. Such a glorious death, I said, making sure there was no doubt in whoever-makes-the-decision’s mind that my fate remained irrevocable.

• back to list   • back   • next

Champion I spilled the wine between her breasts, I rushed to drink it before it reached the floor then followed the trail from the carpet upwards gobbling the drops until I found body, I stayed there for quite a while, as long as she let me stay. I tried the same between her shoulder blades, I was getting an expert at rushing down then finding body on my way up and staying there for long whiles. Shall I try the same? she asked. She was almost as good as I was, I offered her to practice more, she accepted. When she was better than me I asked her to help me practice anew, it was only fair to help me back. She agreed. We kept beating each other’s record until, exhausted, we decided to take a break. We leaned against each other forehead to forehead, toes taking a solid grip in the carpet forming a perfectly inverted V with various body extremities loosely connected to our trunks... hands, hair, and other dissimilar... following the power lines to Earth’s gravitation center in answer to its warm, maternal call. You won, she said. I did? I answered, baffled. Now it’s time for the prizes ceremony. Ceremony? I answered, my baffledness growing. That will be an egg-hunt. Egg hunt? I kept bafflednessing my way through the intricacies of English seemingly adamant on getting rid of all the questions marks I had accumulated in my till-now insignificant life. It’s not Easter, I added, bravely preventing the addition of another question mark to the collection. Should it be only at Easter that people are allowed the joys of life? she contributed her own question mark and no answer was necessary to an obviously rhetorical question. Close your eyes! she commanded. I obeyed. By now we were vertical again, our bodies one inch apart everywhere it counted inclusive areas that strove to close the gap, we didn’t give in like some mindless animals. Open your eyes! she commanded. I obeyed. I saw a chocolate egg’s wrappings disposed of negligently on the bed with her body undulating luxuriously close to it like the innocent virgin that she was probably not. Innocent, I mean. Better find it fast, she susurrated, before it melts and becomes a mess. I found it slowly, making sure it became a mess and getting the relevant cleaning job administered to me. It was at moments like this that I objected to God’s, otherwise perfect, anatomical design, wishing he would have given us at least a chameleon sized tongue, it would have allowed me to make a much better job. Not that I did it badly, mind you, with that special attention to detail and minutiae which was always my trademark thus getting any job perfectly done. Especially such a delicate job. Not easy, without a job description I mean, you know, I wish there would have been a prize offered for it as well. By the way, I got proof that she was not an innocent virgin at all. Virgin, I mean.

• back to list   • back   • next

Metaphorica Your words would make a Lapis Lazuli blush, she said. My thoughts would turn a mother of seven into a virgin, I said. Your body shoots desire like a porcupine shoots quills, she said. This is a legend, I said. Which part? she said. Your body can sing a body to like a siren can sing a fleet to its death, I said. This is a legend, she said. Which part? I said. We decided to test our metaphors. I will leave you to your wonders, though there should be nothing to wonder about. At least I stopped wondering. She too.

• back to list   • back   • next

Music and Others I listen to Italian music. I watch Venere di Urbino. I compare them, compare the incomparable. Then compare both to you, also to your body as much as I remember it. Somehow I find notions of comparison anchored into my memory of you and I hasten to stick pins and tie silk threads between the relevant points... at a second thought I add silk ribbons and it looks like I created a colorful monster frog changing into dragon changing into butterfly the more I add ribbons. I hang some golden rings, some silver bells. I think I created a masterpiece. In my mind. I flip the LP over. Flip the painting as well but there’s nothing on the back side, probably some spider leftovers so I flip it back. I do succeed to change the lady’s position on the bed, slightly more revealing, I do not succeed to change even one note in the song playing. I try again to compare, to link, the magic seems to have been driven away by my fiddling, damn! I try Portuguese, Mexican, French, Japanese, Olympia, Maja, Danaë... I try even humming then sketching then both together. Nothing. Hey, I find an album. I find in it a soundless image of barefoot you picking a shell. I add a bit of waves, sounds, a bit of wind, sounds, pull up your skirt slightly above the knees fighting hard a desire to pull it further then open a top button... hmm, interesting, suddenly there is music of some kind and petals start shedding from your hair and a pearl rolls from your hand and you chase it into the sea until a whale swallows you and you never return. I mean you return, but you never return the same since your skin glitters like gold sand and your eyes shine like morning sun inside dew drops and your voice sings with the tunes of dolphins and violins and crystal beads. I turn off the vision. All of them. Turn off my mind, my thought, my daydream. Soon I will hold the miracle of bare you inside the bare of my arms and find notions of comparison to all and everything I ever thought magical. I will tie silk threads to your arms and silk ribbons to your ankles and thread pearls and beads and dew drops until you are as heavy as the whale and when you cannot move anymore I will tell you of my visions and make you part of them alongside Italian music and Venere di Urbino and Portuguese, Mexican, French, Japanese, Olympia, Maja, Danaë and all those thousands I forget next to you.

• back to list   • back   • next

Doing not I did not brush your hair after you washed it. I wasn’t there. I did not mop your sweat after toiling or your stickiness after love making or the mixture of dust and pollen and exhaust fumes that settled inside your ears and under your eyelashes and lined the insides of your mouth hanging in there like poison ivy, I wasn’t. There. Sorry. Nor was I whenever responsible for the blue stains adorning your breasts thighs lower back and upper back and lips matching bite by bite mine after seeding my life into you, before seeding my life into you, after, before, during, before, before, after, during, after... others did. Were. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there. Sorry. When the button tore from your blouse the hem of your skirt hung loose and there was a run to your stockings the width of a railroad the deep scratches the rails and the clutching hand the train for my first clumsy attempt your first clumsy surrender our first clumsy time I did not sew them all back in place. I couldn’t. I wonder where I was. I certainly was not there. On time. At time. That time. Then. I do not know even if there was any remonstration, following. I wonder. You know. I will still wonder. When the first wrinkle cornered your mouth, when was it? I did not see it being sculpted in your flesh. I will never ever see it, it will not happen again. That first. Wrinkle. In your flesh. Wonder? Wonder why I turn mad beast when I meet you now and rip your clothes and rave your flesh and leave the devastating colors of my conquest all around and all inside the adytum housing your breath and housing me for that short time measuring only against eternity, wonder? I try. To brush your hair, and sew your button, and mop your sweat. I will never succeed. I will keep trying. Maybe. Maybe you will forgive me. Sorry.

• back to list   • back   • next

Let's see... Let’s see, what do I miss mornings? The piece of Mortadella, one, or two, or three (can I have one more piece... please?...) that finds its way between your incisors like a 3-stars Michelin delicacy and my scrutiny does not reduce any your corrupted peasant gluttony, Your rolling ass, sometimes with panties sometimes without (you don’t mind, do you?... ha, if I mind...) on the way to the bathroom from the bathroom to the fridge from the fridge to the suitcase from the suitcase, The horrible black liquid you call yuck and I call bleh and we call elixir and everybody else calls slaughtered coffee that you postpone pouring down your throat (but I must...) one day, two days, a week, The even horribler (bad English is second nature to a poet) cat that sounds like a locomotive in heat after someone stepped on its tail (the cat’s, not the locomotive’s) which you fed as if it was the incarnation of Isis (really?...) and you the reincarnation of Cleopatra (oh, really?...) and I noncarnation at all (oh, no, not really...), You could have sung me a song though you didn’t but it was an option, you could have scrubbed my back though you didn’t but it was an option, you could have told me I was the most handsome man in the world though it would have been a lie and it was not an option, The never hurry of your regarding me, the never hurry of my taking your hand, the never hurry of us walking down then up then down then etcetera the beach the only hurry a jump left or sometimes right (this gull looks like’s he’s going to shit on our head...), The simplicity of it all, oh, the simplicity of it all and you the Regina of it all and I so feeling like telling you I love you.

• back to list   • back   • next

Rain It’s raining. Remember when we did not make love in the rain? I did not forget. How could I, how can I when all I ache for is the hair plastered to your scalp and the summery dress plastered to your curves and the transparency of panties plastered to your visible insides which I grope for and grab and grip to remove with one savage movement watching the rain cleanse you, before I dirty you, once again. Remember the scene, was it mid a daffodils field it did not happen? Scattered petals stick to your skin and crushed stems roll around your ankles witnesses to the debauchery that took place just moments ago in that delightful composition where you are the flower and I am the ogre and we are the art and the rest does not matter as we paint ourselves all over the canvas anew stains of doubtful origin mixing with the green of grass and the blue flooding your eyes. I don’t remember. There is nothing to remember, there is no time to forget once your hungry breast turns beast feeding on my giving mouth and my flesh begs forgiveness off your imploring fingernail before time convulses perilously close to demise before I start peeling the torn petals I seeded inside you before I halve you with my running finger unaware, unashamed, unavailing, “Remember the first time we made love in the rain?” you ask and I wake up to the reality of maybe.

• back to list   • back   • next

Rain, Two Of course I asked already the question, the same question, exactly, probably the same spelling the same punctuation the same rhyme scheme, rhythm scheme, the same innuendo... ha... innuendo my ass as the whore said to the bishop stepping through his discarded attire with flashing, green toenails... the same intention, malintention, lustintention, loveintention, love... do you believe in eternal intention and love love? I awake from slumber’s prison shaking cobwebs from my mind, Plucking drops of lilac’s perfume from the wrath of years maligned, The eroded line of reason stammers through a moment’s fear As, again, my finger lingers on that haunting, fading smear. Was it when I combed the thistles from your mane of knotted hair While my spine creaked a capella with the cabin’s wooden chair, Was it when you drank my vigor like a marshland’s hungry leech Clawing nails between the sessions from my body’s crumbling beech, When you rode the coiling muscle through the agony of lust Culling life’s emerging blossom from my years’ forgotten dust, When you baptized my numb finger in that lush, primeval swamp And accepted my submission with a victor’s sneering pomp, Or, when sharing mouth and language, tongue and whisper, tooth and blood The caress obliterating your assenting vestal bud You forgave my desecration with a heart impaled by love Laying it inside my fisthold like a fragile, bleeding dove, When I grabbed you by the glory of Medusa’s writhing coils Your incinerated sanctum my crusader’s law and spoils, When you dragged me through the thistle, thorn and bark invaded field Long before my ropy essence in your sanctum’s shrine was sealed, On the bed, the ruffled carpet, between nails and broken glass, With the stank of dying candles and the weary clank of brass, Still, the question bounces crudely like a dying storm’s refrain... Will we ever, ever ever, ever make love in the rain? Of course, I ask the question, again. Of course, the best questions are those left unanswered, I know. Until the answer. I know.

• back to list   • back   • next

Indecent I want to be indecent. I want to peek under your skirt and check the color of your panties and the line where they press against your flesh and the line where your flesh presses against them and imagine the way the crushed forms look hidden and imagine the way the liberated forms look unhidden and check for symmetries and asymmetries and anti-symmetries and co-symmetries and some betraying spots of lust. I want to let you undress me missing each button once and each zipper twice and each buckle three times just in order to try again and touch again and push and pull and drag again and again and again investigating before then investigating during and then finally investigating after looking for those betraying spots of lust. I want to search for you while you try to hide all the way around me and let you find me while I try to hide all the way inside you and while you discover unshed layers of cloth to rip off my waist I discover unshed layers of cloth to rip off your thighs sharing in the search for those tongued mouths and sharing in the search for those toothed mouths and sharing in the search for those toothless mouths when and where we finally share the betraying spots of lust.

• back to list   • back   • next

Hunger in X lines, various Hunger in 6 lines The loss equals emptiness, The emptiness equals crave, The crave equals pain, The pain equals torment, The torment equals madness, The madness equals my hunger for you. Hunger in 5 lines It is after I’ve gobbled up to my full pieces of your body and I lie content like a snake in the sun assimilating the physical and the psychical and the philosophical alongside the prejudicial to my sanity that I understand my hunger for you. Hunger in 4 lines Pull the melting prey from a python’s belly, Drag the slashed prey out of a lion’s claws, Rip the squirming prey off an alligator’s jaws, Cumulate the hunger and it is half my hunger for you. Hunger in 3 lines Sometimes I wake up inside your body and as you slowly digest me, satisfying your hunger for me I learn of my hunger for you. Hunger in 2 lines I can live in hunger, I can die of hunger, I am not willing to give up my hunger for you. Hunger in 1 line Nine days in the desert, and all I die of is my hunger for you. Hunger in 0 lines, because words aren’t needed when hunger is stronger than poetry

• back to list   • back   • next

Corny. So what? At times I find myself imagining. At times I find myself dreaming, visualizing, picturing the most corny trite cliché the most prosaic and most poetic images of you... At times I see you. Wearing a long, white evening gown glittering with sparkles of silver and diamond and dew and living fireflies scuttling out and into the undulating folds, a white train dragging for miles behind you as you advance step after step, golden sandal after golden sandal red painted toe after red painted toe with small colorful butterflies fluttering mindlessly around the low décolleté and around the wild curls descending way beyond the bare shoulders and around the thin, long fingernailed fingers that lift away from your body and invite me to dance. At times I see you. Dancing round and round and round the round floor your feet barely touching the shiny tiles your smile engulfing me and the room and the world and the orchestra hesitating between waltz and tango and dreamscapes with you never hesitating between dreamscapes and tango and waltz and star filled skyscapes, the fireflies following in your wake like sea foam and the small butterflies blinding my eyes, trying to guard me from the blindness of your radiance and failing. At times I see you in your nakedness, all pretense to civility and politeness and innocence desquamated leaving you in that pure perfect clean animalic form that demands my soul’s soul and my flesh’s flesh when I squeeze in my fist the red off the red roses building your bed and pour the bloody drops over your lips and nipples and between your toes to taste its bitterness with my tongue and mix it with the softness of the flesh and the sweetness of the breath before the breath makes way to breathlessness and after, if there ever is an after. At times I am not a poet. At times I love you. At times I feel like corny. So what?

• back to list   • back   • next

Ridiculous I tried to braid three thin streams of water into one plait, ridiculous... I failed, of course. I tried to squeeze blood from a red rose petal, ridiculous... I failed, of course. I tried to forget that we made love, once.

• back to list   • back   • next

Ellipses It’s been long since you shed your garments. They lie scattered on the floor, some on the bed, some even outside, in the garden probably dragged there by a stray cat or a stray pelican or a stray other lover... hey, I see you wagging your finger when reading this part, I will nevertheless keep it, adds to the poetry... The chair is not too comfortable, the thick slabs of plastic bite ravenously into your bare flesh leaving artificial, deep, horizontal, red furrows crossroading several times with the natural vertical one, a strangely undulating geometry I watch attentively when you get up and move away from me to drink a glass of water even though you’re not thirsty or to watch through the window even though there’s a brick wall there or to pick another pen even though yours is still writing and disappearing, unfortunately, when you turn around and move towards me... no, not really unfortunately, the new view superseding the previous one if not in size then certainly in elegant interest... You sit down again, write again, writhe again, I know the words you write by the way your hanging breasts wiggle now it is I, now love, I know what will follow... wrong! it is dancing and you turn your head and sparkle at me and crystal bell at me and your finger disappears from view for a moment mysteriously only to reappear not less mysteriously yet slightly shiny as it stretches toward me and I approach my face letting the strange smell invade my olfactory system climbing to my brain devastating a surface comparable only to the Alps forming then turning it into an avalanche of Alps crumbling to finally nudge the ancient sleeping beast into the Big Bang just the moment time was created... or shattered... or who cares... You slide off from me, watching the garments and the neighborhood on fire.

• back to list   • back   • next

Repetitive I hate the ending when there was no beginning. I hate the missing in-between when passion missed the chance to change into devastation and rage to turn into death before life again. I hate my hand away from your breast. I hate missing you. In my life.

• back to list   • back   • next

Walk Walk behind me. Step in my footsteps... guess where they were, are will be and tie your shoes to each other by their straps and drag them after you, maybe they will leave a rut as deep as an ant’s trail or Earth’s core or the other side of the universe where all ruts meet and I met you. Walk in front of me. Let my eyes follow the undulations of your flesh and the storm of your hair and the tips of your fingers as they draw circles then rainbows then butterflies and waves and lines unending always ending pointing my way, shall I catch them? You dance, maybe. You smile, maybe. I close my eyes and follow your smell and the smell of the tips of your toes after you stepped in sea water and through cut grass and on dry hay. Walk. Beside me. I will draw your profile above the horizon line then will write your eyes inside drooping boughs and if we have time I will touch your left breast seven times, like the times of wonder like the days of the week, like the age when I first smelled lilac. Walk, beside me, don’t hold my hand just sing while nibbling my ear and untying my shoes and tying the laces and ensuring I fall with you on top of me and the rest of the sky on top of us, swallowing us into the perfection of inexistence.

• back to list   • back   • next

Impressions They thought of us As father and daughter, ha, You thought of us as passion and desire, wow, I thought of us as summer rain and linden trees, yeah, We stopped thinking. Once we closed the door behind and we turned animals as frightening as fighting mongrels as tender as suckling puppies. As impossible as a flower huddling against the sun.

• back to list   • back   • next

Human I did not kneel to God and he raged, he had no choice. I knelt to you and you loved, you had a choice. I asked forgiveness from God, from you. God forgave. You did not.

• back to list   • back   • next

Miss your ass... Miss your ass, sunshine... So many s’s in such a short sentence... hey - s’s! woman, not asses, what is impaired here, I wonder - my accent or your hearing? Would you have preferred sunset? The same number of s’s... oho! you and your one assed mind... what do you mean I and my one assed mind, would you have preferred me with a multiple assed mind? Aha, see? Told you so. Miss you. We were seated in that crummy restaurant and I was eating my soup and you watched me eating my soup and Chris Rea was telling us about the Road to Hell and all I wanted at that moment was for the soup to never end and for Chris Rea to never end and for you to never end. We were on that hill thinking that no one sees us and caring not that no one sees us and you were looking for a four-leaf clover and I was looking for your body then I was looking for a four-leaf clover and you were looking for my body and finally you found the four-leaf clover and I found the four-leaf clover and we found our body, or is it bodies, or did it matter? It did, oh, it did. You pulled your skirt up until your undies were showing... well, maybe not, maybe it was my imagination... you pulled your skirt up until your undies were showing and started chasing first seagulls, then seaweed, then seashells investigating each for the eventual pearl though there was no chance for pearls but your laughter was all the pearl I needed and after you filled your pockets with mostly sand I took you to our room and undressed you completely making sure there were no shells in your fists and no wet undies to your hips and just pieces of me making believe for both. We watched swans. You sang. We were alone in the cinema. I peeled cucumbers and you made soup. You cried when you left. The cat made strange noises you claimed it was hungry I claimed it was crazy. You brought the wine, sweet. I watched you when you were not watching. I watched you when you were watching. The first time I was shy, the second time I was desperate. We always walked hand in hand. We always walked hand in hand. When we made love the last time it felt like the first time. Not vice-versa. You are beautiful with a flower behind your ear or with the sun messing your hair or with the wind stealing your skirt or barefoot or naked or dressed or chewing or sticking your tongue to me in the mirror hoping I see. Miss you. Miss your ass, sunset... You’re asleep, you don’t care for s’s. Or asses. Or how many. You dream of me. I know. Why else do I miss you?

• back to list   • back   • next

Bodies Sure, I love them. All your bodies. How many do you have? The morning body. Stiff from last night’s death, its overflowing refuse asking for a liberation you graciously grant to sounds of raging cataract turning soft rain and ending tinkling bells before mint flavors invade your mouth and artificial rain purges your skin leaving it fresh and chilly like a freshly peeled cucumber then half-transparent sheets of artificial skin put an end to that intimate sightseeing I was privileged to share followed by an additional layer of less transparent skins followed by some constricting contraptions around your feet after which you savagely pull off the warmth of the comforter from around my mellow body and with a smile dazzling the sun out of the room you pull my ears and smack my lips and point to the door like a puppy ready for its morning intake of life. Not one word uttered until that moment and yet, you told me the story of eternal beauty. Once again. The 11 o’clock. Body. You have one as well. The one after the first flood of words had passed from this world to no return and before the next flood is about to be unleashed upon me and while you keep the fridge’s door open contemplating the possibilities and opportunities inherent to its content and able to calm the few cramps of pre-hunger I keep my eyes on the outline against the fridge’s light and imagine it a bit rounder and a bit thinner and a bit lither and a bit stiffer and many other bits as well waiting for you to finally pick an apple and sink your teeth in it - is it gloriously or provocatively? - and turn towards me with that conqueror glint in your eyes hesitating between throwing the apple away and sinking your teeth into me finally deciding the apple was the better decision and I breathe my relief - is it? – waiting for the next o’clock when maybe there will be no apple left in the fridge and no choice left between your teeth. The 3 o’clock body. The 4 o’clock body. The 5:30 o’clock body, and I insist on my poetic license, and the other o’clocks. The night body. Your night body. My night body at some non-o’clock time, during the night. You left the top on. A bit chilly, you said. You said nothing about the bottom, I didn’t ask, didn’t want to know. You fell asleep, I could tell. I fell asleep too. I couldn’t tell but I knew when I woke up. You were still asleep. Restless? Maybe. You moved. I moved closer. You moved closer still. Still asleep, I could swear. I did not swear, didn’t want to wake you up, I touched. Your thigh. Bare. Higher up. Bare. Higher. Bare. I found about the bottom. Expectation? Invitation? I pushed further against you, you stirred, I pushed a bit more, you pushed against me, I felt your hand sliding from my chest to my thigh pausing in between longer than necessary for a good night wish or a pleasant dream or a pre good morning wish or anything else except delivering a message before continuing its way toward the knee which I objected to by delivering a return message formed as a moan or was it a groan or was it a wail or it does not matter what it was since it penetrated your eyelashes and found its way further to your brain commanding your hand to stop and start its move back, upwards... did it make it? Suddenly your whatever o’clock body was alive like a cat slashing like a cobra striking like a woman conquering and your top got lost same where your bottom got lost and your ripe flesh exploded in a thousand melted drops of salt and your insides exploded in the one perfume of hell making sure nothing was left of me except curling ribbons of skin peeling on the bed and a few drops of life rushing to meet your perfumes and the majestic beauty of your inner self. We fell asleep, never bothering to separate. Why separate perfection? The morning body, anew. Stiff from last night’s death, anew. Which death? you asked and I did not dare answer, afraid to break the magic of unknowledge.

• back to list   • back   • next

Snapshots, long, short, etc. Our long, romantic strolls to the supermarket, Our long, philosophical debates about preparing vegetables soup, Our long, torrid nights filled with sex... making love!... sex... making love!... sex... making love!... ok, making love... sex! Our short lives Monday to Friday or Wednesday to following Thursday or May 3rd to May 15th counting and all the long unlives in-between counting, Our eternal inexistence one hundred years from now... alongside with everyone else’s... alongside the eternal trail of pearls you left in mine, Our silences, many studded with words, more than silences, ridden with punctuation marks, more than words, flooded with hidden meanings, meaning, one. Our long, insistent handhold. Crushing... my heart. Crushing... mine.

• back to list   • back   • next

Hot? That was hot? That was not hot, THIS is hot. Tying one ankle to the bathroom door handle and the other to the bedroom’s candelabra and pulling until your shoulders are your only support and your dress falls down your face when I kneel in front of you counting the rebel curls peeking both sides of cottony invitation wet spots spreading into the flimsy textile from the cleavage in between subject to my finger’s encouraging forays into that well known eternally virgin ruthlessly hungry lush flesh The unzipping sound above my knees and sudden chill invasion reminiscent of earlier hell Joining the tearing sound somewhere between your navel and knees Just before ravenous mouths invade those lubricous, attar infested territories rummaging ravaging ravishing relishing in the ominous creation and release of art.

• back to list   • back   • next

don’t blame me, you started it countdown. ten. like the ten commandments, like the ten fingers, the monstrous importance diminishing with each passing day to come as my imagination clicks off my bucket list a monday, then a tuesday, then a wednesday... still to come my mind tells my body and vice-versa and each forgives the other for the gargantuan task ahead of them knowing that at the end of it all only butterflies will survive, and the spasm of locked fingers. * nine. are you sure? not nineteen? nineteen hundred, nineteen thousand? feels like nineteen million and i console myself by changing the count units from days to minutes, then to seconds, then to milliseconds, nanoseconds, shall i try picoseconds?... still too many but bearable, bearable like young nettle on sweating skin, like red-hot shackles around wounded ankles, like... nine. i imagine myself living with nine fingers, somehow, that seems easier. * eight. osam. opt. huit. acht. octo. octal. the bastard counting system between binary and hexadecimal that helped me share so much love with my computer talking the only language we both knew fluently, machine language, the language of brain to brain, heart to heart. direct. blood system to wiring system. i. it. we. so simple. 8008. 8080. 8088. Z80. KP580BM80. my life. you. octachord. octet. octave. octuplet. my music. you. octillion. octodecillion. my tinglings. for you. octogenarian. the horrible fate awaiting me soon made irrelevant by my crush. on you. with you. in you. octopus. i wish i had tentacles. and you. * seven. days. He created the world in six took a day off on the seventh. does it count as six or seven? i guess seven, end-to-end, peak-to-peak, total, complete, whole, etc. creation in reverse. starting at seven. demolishing, destroying, pulverizing. time. no need, it does it itself. to itself. to me. who cares? in seven days i will have seven days less to live. in seven days i come to life. again with you. with you. with you. i hear the flowers opening. * six. perfection. the perfect hexagonality of honey’s sweetness. the perfect geometricality of a cube’s surface. the perfect deafness of the devil till you have to call his name thrice before he even notices you. he? it? she? tetrahedron. diamond. tetragonal disphenoidal cellulation. carbon. life. you. my life. you. none of the sharp edges. all of the soft edges. waiting. at the end of six. days. * five days. sure, less than six, still, too much, close to infinity. a world, an entire world. like the pentateuch, like tradition, like you, my tradition, like the perfect atheist and yet holding the pentateuch, his tradition, you dearest to heart. no paradox. reality carries no paradox. a world in time in mind between us, around us, connecting us. five days. i asked for four and soon the powers to be will abide by my wish. i feel almost omnipotent. ok, so i can’t divide it by two, impotent there, without falling into the complexities of fractions, imaginary space, imagination, you, again, endlessly again, endlessly you... * four. one of those numbers that mean nothing to no one. unless you’re sitting on the chair waiting for the switch to be thrown. unless you’re still to fall after nine thousand nine hundred ninety six. unless you’re the one who lost a finger to fate. unless you’re four steps away from deliverance and counting, relentlessly. still counting. relentlessly. * well, let’s see – it rhymes with we, rhymes with tree, with sea, with free, and under my own decree even with insanity, or, in shakespeare’s timeless words just to be or not to be. three comes always after four. or before? or nevermore... matters not, oh, bliss and rose as my time through valleys flows, in my mind a triptych glows you, i, us in passion’s throes. * binary. 0 and 1. black and white. night and day. rhyming and rhymeless. man,woman. life. death. two. an entire world. any two points define a line. any two hearts define a love, or not. two days define the distance between now and eternity, which of course will change again tomorrow, and the day after, and i don’t want to think about the day after the day after. are you ready to converge two into chaos? i am. * one. God. one. Lover. one. Choice. and i made my choice because his choice was to give us free choice and if He wouldn’t have wanted us to have free choice he shouldn’t have made the choice to give us free choice and i guess He agrees with my choice or else He has no choice but to agree with my choice. still waiting for Him to strike me down, He didn’t yet so i guess He is still pondering or else He is not there to ponder though in view of our bumpy relationship for an entire life (mine) there is nothing He should ponder or get upset by, after all there was a certain understanding between us and i kept to mine and He to His. which makes sense in a world of singularities and single absolutes and grace. He still has one day to make up His mind about my choice, we’ll see. one. day. the day before none. day. * the day of none. day. zero. nothing. only colored marbles falling from rainbows and puncturing me like harpoons... ha, all the mythical misunderstanding regarding eros and his tiny arrows... ha! the none day when clothes turn pyre and flesh minced meat and asteroids may hurl towards earth for all we care in that moment of noneness and ecstatic despair.

• back to list   • back   • next

It’s that time of year, again. You’re not young, anymore. You’re over thirty, I think though judging by your bedroom ill-manners I wouldn’t give you a day over twenty nine, ok, maybe one day, two if you insist but not three, agreed? You don’t hang on to a sleigh, anymore. Like a couple years back with frosted hands and running nose and cheeks to make a mid-summer sunset pale and skatesless shoes gliding until heels... stilettos?... ok, stilettos grind to commas and finally break leaving just a bleeding layer between snow and flesh and that exhilarating feeling of life. You don’t stomp through fresh snow, anymore. Looking for those deep spots where your hat’s pompon disappears under snow’s surface and you risk getting buried alive turning all snow around you to a lake if one would just wait long enough... one never did, yes, remember the fire? the blaze? the hunger in your chest there, where I once touched? You don’t make love to me, anymore. You did, once, upon a time while watching the magic of colored bulbs or listening to the tinkle of crystalline bells or inhaling the frozen steam from my mouth and mixing it with leftovers of cinnamon and almonds and raisins to feed me such love that I keeled over with seizures of pleasure. I close my eyes. I wait. I wait. I wait. I wait. You always liked to make me wait, didn’t you? Cinnamon. Is it really cinnamon or the flittering edges of a dying memory or... or what?... says the voice and flittering edges of fingertips slide in between my fingers and flittering edges of lips transcend into my reality before transcending close to my mouth and flittering snowflakes melt on the edges of my eyelashes... hey, don’t cry!... who cries? it’s the damn snowflakes and frozen hands slide inside my shirt to pinch my nipples as stilettos crush my feet and with a wild gesture I tear off the pompon and the rest of whatever is not natural you and whatever is left reminds me of those bedroom ill-manners that betray your age and leaves me exposed to all and any kind of legal pursuits type statutory rape or class A misdemeanor or class B felony or who the hell cares when various parts of us lie knotted in a variety of maritime knots and you start feeding me cinnamon and almonds and raisins and all those colored bulbs and crystalline tinkles that are the real you. My mouth tastes like a salt mine. I do not open my eyes. I do not dare.

• back to list   • back