Wineyards What is this wine made of? you asked for the thirteenth time, your voice slurred, sipping. You count? I count. Was made meadow flowers, monday showers, curling peels of midnight carrots chewed by rainbow feathered parrots, crying willows, soggy pillows soaking grief off dusky garrets. What is this wine made of? you asked for the fifth time, your voice trembling, kissing. You count? I count. Was made lips imploring, tongues exploring, crashing pebbles down the valleys long that linden guarded alley, minted juleps, budding tulips dressing for the grand finale. What was this wine made of? you asked for the first time, your voice panting, sighing. You count? I... what?... sorry, what... oh, count?... my voice slurred, trembling, panting. Is made rhymes enshrining, limbs entwining, hip to hip in anger fusing chest to chest deluge infusing nipples crushing fires gushing scathe through skin and bone diffusing.

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Parading Colors parading in front of my eyes images to come... purple, underlining your eyes with memories once blue... now the red spilling into them up from lips waking to life and from a heart returning from misery’s fields, green, the color of mistakes chaining my will to stone laden baskets crimpled sheets wrapped around each stone broken promises wrapped around each sheet, white, hope’s feathers filling the void between us rolling around us like an oversized down bracelet saving our sanity as solitude turns music and music turns hesitating handhold, feel it? fingers braiding in need muscles knotting...

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Sisyphus, Retold Dragged my bed to the middle of the garden stripping it on the way of sheets, blankets, mattress, all falling behind marking a trail of wet bedlam and havoc and decisions yet to be taken impassively waiting for sanity to return as I plowed two deep furrows in the rain soaked earth and finally let the dragging end fall down with a thump getting rid of my hanging clothes and lying down naked to shiver happily on the wet planks the rain pouring its cleansing needles into my eyes and mouth and chest. I woke up at the itch of dotted red beetles crawling on my fingers and I carefully shook my hand watching them take off passing with a thankful buzz down way from my nose and up into the dripping branches, a bleak sun trying in vain to dry my steaming lump of clothing. I gathered the sheets, blankets, mattress, humid shirt and trousers and shoes, the bed, picked a piece of sun and threw it in watching them smoke then blaze. I did not wait for the black smoke to clear, just stood up and started walking in the new world, unashamed of my nakedness, love, age, one can be born anytime anywhere, I thought, and started climbing the mountain I just fell off days ago. I will find the berries to eat and the leaves to dress and the branches to build and the crevices to avoid and the bears and the vultures and the snakes to guide my way. I looked back at the heart dragging behind on steel chains the knife in my hand, hesitating... the steel too strong the flesh too weak... then turned and kept climbing. Soon I will be on my knees, soon on my belly, there is a sun there waiting at the top. It is worth the torment, and the fall.

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The Art Of Gravitation When gravitation dipped its thin finger in your eye and dragged your purple mascara down your cheeks, its rugged brush leaving traces around your skin’s pores and around specks of dust and beauty grains an ephemeral masterpiece of asymmetrical randomness following unknown laws of human emotions ending in purple tinted tears hanging desperately to your chin and finally splashing heavily between handwritten letters, When gravitation curled its greedy soft fingers around your breasts liberating them from the confines of uplifting fashion and elastic bands and cotton padded cups and clasps and straps and lace stretching their beauty into that masterpiece of bouncing artful dance following the undulations of your hips and the spring of your step that only a gravitation’s hug can design and a lover’s cupping hand can undo without losing any of the entrancing grace, When gravitation failed to drown you inside the freshly laid white bedding in a glorious attempt to ensnare you in its masterful seduction plan, and in a frenzy of terrible vengeance pulled out its heavy sculpting maces and started hammering flat the nipples inside your breasts and the sleep creases into your right cheek and right arm and crushed the walls of that major blood vessel running up your thigh along the masterpiece of dormant femininity unaware of the assault and ending in your heart, driving unpleasant tingles down your leg, And when a lover’s hand negligently erased gravitation’s art wiping your tear cupping your breast and touching your nipple to life with love unending...

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Rebirthing Eros Open your door, Open your windows, all of them, Undress. All your clothes... yes, them too, of course, remove your earrings, your hair clips, your rings, wipe off your nail polish, lipstick glaze, the mascara leftovers, naked, clean, only skin to your skin and depth to your eyes and beat to your heart and then... float... yes, of course you can, try it, float... float... see?... told you... float till there’s only air to your skin and color to your eyes and serenity to your heart and you are so naked, so beautiful, so soft, ready to be born. Then... close your eyes. Open wide your mouth, wider, open wide your arms open your thighs, wider too, wait, I will wait to hear your wait then I will come to you and you will not know whence and when and how through the window, through the door, through... oh, sorry, forgot to ask, open up your mind as well, please... through your mind I will come to you and you will not know until you will know and I will tell you... touch... and I will tell you touch and you will touch yourself with... my fingers, with my dry lips, with the wet brush of my tongue, with my... touch!... now and wake up that dormant desire and the growling wolves and the pangs of hunger you never knew you owned, touch now and... no... no, don’t scream yet, no, not yet, just touch, wait. And the crust of my thighs scratches your silk and the curls of my chest caress your velvet and the hooks of my palms pitilessly penetrate in between your flesh and your tendons and your bones as your abdominal muscles coil and uncoil and recoil like snakes rolling in the pits of hell until the tip of your tongue touches the tip of my tongue... scream, now you can scream, scream... And after having consumed you, the scream turns breath the breath turns sigh the blue flame turns mist gathers into your eyes... now you can open them... and rolls down into your mouth, you taste it... No, it does not taste like salt, it tastes like... man. I close the windows, I close the door, I part, you hover a few moments longer greedily reaching into the parting sensations, then slowly sink inside your bed the warm blanket of poetry enveloping you and snuggling against you and you fall asleep.

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Search You went all the way to Shangri La to see blossoming blue poppy fields and leaves cupping into goblets of rain and trees dripping liquid apples, You went all the way to Walhalla to taste wine aging inside grapes and thick nectar fed to you by hummingbirds and vanilla flavored cotton candy spilling out of opening buds, I know you went also to Eden, you tried Elysium, Omeyocan, Nirvana, even visited the newly opened pastries shop down from your street and now you have plans for a trip to the garden of the Hesperides. Why all your travel? Because all you have to do is open that closet door in your bedroom and... look in the mirror. Oh, sorry, my mistake, forgot to tell you, undress first.

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Blaze In The Water if you want to drown then let me write you death was... before breathe in my ink live

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Thornbird lark your throat nightingale your hand robin your lip I see you, hear you... them... restless roaming around dissatisfied looking for that thorn a legend promised you and drunken with the moment of discovery you rush ahead into the inviting sharpth ready to crush your breast and give you death inside one moment of glory, torn clothes discarded along the way vocal cords clearing towards the ultimate moment with one audacious move your naked breast thrusts forwards impaling itself upon... the thorn pierces my flesh when your impetus pushes the back of my hand into the deadly tapering end breaking it in between my bones, and your nipple eviscerates my palm when my fingers crush your breast and I give you the dream and I give you life. and the lark and the nightingale and the robin coalesce into that triple trill which tells the world you reached Elysium, sing...

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Criminal You hang on to its arm as it grabs you underneath armpits and drags you up to your feet one of your arms around its shoulders and you feel the muscle supporting you and the promise and you think you see a light and you think you feel a breeze and you think you hear voices, you start limping along in the tunnel’s darkness banging your head against unseen sharp rock edges twisting your ankle inside sudden potholes yet you smile, you trust, you start feeling the warmth you... slide suddenly along the rugged walls of a large pit, deeper still, the hand around your middle slipping away your arm around the powerful shoulders losing the grip and you reach a deeper bottom scratched, battered, crying anew when you realize that the light you saw was inside your eyelids and the breeze was your breath and the voices were the echoes of your own hesitating steps, and hope remains at the top of the pit not laughing at you just indifferent and promising you to find you again and pick you up again to let you fall even deeper still. You are human, all you can do is cry.

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Let Go Hanging by your fingertips to a razor wire gravitation clinging desperately to your ankles like a memory, afraid to fall together with you into abandon unknowing of the depth, unknowing of the lands below... hell, beauty, veldt? Your eyes closed. Open your eyes. Look. There is a world. Let go. And as the hurricane embraces the arrow of your falling body your skirts blow above your head... cut the skirts loose, your hair flutters in a sea of ribbons... unknot the ribbons, nylons tear against stretched toes and silk invades forbidden valleys and lace clutches angrily inflamed summits... rip the nylon and the silk and the lace and fall to your fate blazing through life like a flesh meteor cleaving the hearts wishing to embrace you and the hands aching to hold you and the lips burning to touch you and live to look back and smile. Your desire sated. Your final lair a sea called fire...

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The Woman Beneath a mountain the woman lies twenty wedding gowns her dowry fresh camel milk her bath waiting for a lover’s mouth to melt the ice in her breast and cut the wedding gowns to ribbons and tie to her hair. I cut a hole in the mountain and she beckons me in. “Come in,” she says. “Come out,” I say showing her the shears, my lips, and an empty poetry book.

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Sea Maiden You left your warm coral bed asking to become woman. Shells your nails, and seaweed your hair and pearls your teeth. And my eyes? you did not ask, I did not yet give you a mouth. And white sand your skin and white pebbles your breasts and white sponge your belly. You did not not ask again, just waited. And dolphin’s calls your mouth. And my eyes? you asked, I gave you a mouth. And your eyes rays of sun breaking inside the foam of waves. You blinked. I combed your hair braiding into it anemones and sunflowers. Then you left me.

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Lover's I touched the skin on your back with the back of my hand. Your flesh turned rough your kiss wild, you guided my hand all the way into hell and out my body following. I bathed you in jasmine’s essence and dried you with my regards. Then you rolled out of my bed and never returned.

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Nightingale Winter Your beak clamped inside a fist of frozen tears, The chill of parting lover dragging early winter into your life. Let me cuddle it inside my mouth and whisper back into it the stories of fairies and gentle dragons chased out of your dreams, And as the ice thaws to salt your silence opens into trill blanketing my lungs with exploding carnations.

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Bridge I saw it wobbling, the bridge taking you from yesterday to tomorrow today forgotten in its puny misery and insignificance, so many the columns supporting it... what can I be but one, maybe... I could smell the rust eating into the shine of the nickel, the moss gaining over the once nicely hanging flower pots the foot of rock... crumbling, so familiar the smells from my own once home sweet home... I grated my teeth, shove my shoulders under a corner, heaved... no, nothing else on my mind but the brainless responsibility of a sturdy pillar knowing of no other duty than save the path, save the flower pots, save the nests of tomorrow’s nightingales nestling in between the flowers.

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Rider In The Sky Glean the world inside your laughter From this now and ever after And while forest’s rambling singers Pick the grapes between your fingers Let your tongue with mine entangle As those tears your eyelids spangle. Munch the pears to drooling nectar Calming sorrow’s stubborn specter Then while feeding me the syrup Hook your foot into the stirrup To cut lanes through wheat and flower Watching dreams my mind devour. Let me gaze the clouds each morning Time you streak with little warning Waiting for your mane to flutter Right through sun’s explosive stutter Till my lips ungroomed and ashen Catch your crumbs of lurid passion.

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Insurrection How does one hear the songs unsung, the beauty untold? One does not. Lost. I saw it lying on its side, close to the tall building’s wall, its wing broken its feather stained with caked mud and blood, a bird. Cars and dogs and children rushing by unhearing the thousands of words unwritten. Hey, what are you doing? I shouted from far away seeing it drag itself towards the wall and starting to climb clumsily, its small claws hanging precariously to every bit of asperity to every speck of petrified dust. You will fall to your death, I shouted again seeing it losing its grip half way up, hanging pendulum wise on one foot then doggedly catching its grip again along the waterspout reaching the roof crawling underneath the gutter perching on the gutter’s edge with one wing flapping uselessly like a canvas corner ripped off the easel... Don’t... I called one last time, knowing birds don’t speak human, trying to bridge the species gap in that one desperate call. I know it did not say it when it said it is to fly or to die and let go of its hold falling towards the asphalt like a rolling pebble. No... I almost heard myself scream when suddenly I heard a thunderous clap the wing locking back in place a shriek of pain... and the little shape graciously soared back skywards above the indifferent rumbling cars and barking dogs and laughing children the lark emerging from the mud the shriek turning melody my regard following it till it reached the sun and fell into it. My eyes teared with the intensity of the glare, and of the music.

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Vinyl Undress, naked, not like the day you were born but like now, your breasts full your hips round your legs smoothly shaved, the smell of woman evading your discarded clothing and your sunken desires and enveloping a skin turned sandpaper by the morning chill, Slam on the records player the best of black vinyl tangos you have, no, not a CD, black warm crackling vinyl then imagine me in your arms hug me so tight that the salt squeezes out of the sweat and pieces of coal between our chests turn diamonds... worry not, no one ever got pregnant from raving imagination... and then start dancing. No, don’t stop until the soles of your feet start to bleed and the needle has cut through the vinyl shaping it after your smile.

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Caretaker Beautiful on that high pedestal the adulating mob worshipping your whiteness your forms those words hiding inside the marble unseen till seen, Beautiful, Lonely. I wonder if they hear those grains of the desert you so love filling in the liquid chambers of your heart the sparking creases of your brain your iris... so deep, white. The night comes, the mob leaves the museum doors close and the only memory of their visit are mud traces on the floor a few lost chewing gum wraps some notes in the guests book, echoes... dying. I pick up my mop, my bucket, my broom, and walk the halls cleaning, polishing, alone with works of art and works of heart and life frozen inside eternity. I stop at your feet gazing up, trying to catch that eye seeing all yet not seeing me, I take the ladder and climb up stopping right in front of you no one knows not even you. The marble... cold under my lips melting, quivering when I bite into it, slobber all over it my hand reaching for the heart, for the sand, a stain of pink waking up on a stain of white as your marble nipple turns glowing coal and your breast screams in lust preventing me from reaching your heart marble loins part and I invade your body with flesh wants and pouring life. I descend, crying. looking up as soft flesh turns marble once more, tears lost in the murky depths of my bucket Beauty untouchable as ever ready for next day’s adulating eyes and adoring din. No one knows the caretaker’s secret and marble’s sin.

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Alien the woman, so lonely in her prideful pain in her prideless need sobbing her nights into the volcano’s gaping mouth and watching streaking tears explode into her much beloved doves I touched her shoulder with fingertips attached to the nerve ends of my words, she thanked me leaving pieces of her skin under my fingernails oblivious to the moment I ripped my way down her shoulder blade and waist I tiptoed away respectful of her memories and hopes and dreams and doves allowing swarming sparks chase me way beyond the volcano’s mouth with she not knowing the woman, stubbornly trying to extinguish the volcano’s thirst with her eyes while the alien observer I sends her flowers and admiration

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The Poet In Me It is probably the poet in me. I blink, then forget to unblink for many moments lingering in that fairies land called Whatifs. Happiness is an oasis surrounded by ever rolling dunes in melancholic yellow. Then, the moment gone, I finally unblink and turn my head towards the palm trees and the ripe figs and the bubbling brook with its clear waters chilling my skin and burning my throat.

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your Poetry the warmth in the softness of soot carrying the memory of the fire creating it there, in the explosive furnaces feeding your mind and hand. i let my finger cross the page top left to bottom right, the black smear tracing my finger’s tip grabbing those of your ink splinters so delicately embedded in your art and painting it black, and red, and heroic smiles in pain. i look at my stretch of skin which touched divinity of inspiration and let the color sink and light my marrow. don’t wonder why i glow nights.

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? Allow me your fantasies. Don’t let your mouth hang open too long reading lines in wonder of dreaming and daring, I fear that your innocent indecency may be mistaken for an invitation for wine to visit your palate and breeze to penetrate between exploding buttons and fingers to test the dangers of the adventurous borderline between silk and skin. Mistaken?

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in between questions arms encircling me did you mean around my chest or around my waist or... lower? did you envisage my fingers sinking into that dense forest growing above the nape of your neck uprooting silk fibers to bind around wrists and down ears and above dancing ankles to catch the wind with ribbons and kites and headless stems? did you feel the fire engulfing the ends of bones and the deserts of skin and burning out of way those absolutely ridiculous props of civilization called clothes? when your mouth opened did you mean abandon?

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the Room there’s a room, don’t look for it, you won’t find it though you know it as you know your insides as i know your insides. you are there already your mouth wide open gasping for air gasping for love gasping for flesh to fill the emptiness of that ravenous cavity cursed with virginal white of teeth and virginal red of tongue and virginal appetite for liquid coal pouring down your throat. to satiate your nights, thus liberating your fingers for that divine dive into my caverns at risk of beheading. that’s about my ravenous cavity, what about my marvelous cavity? you write, your mouth too busy gulping life. and your marvelous cavity unravels itself under the magic of deft fingers... mine or yours?... at psalms of revelation... mine or yours?... beneath shivering fingertips... mine, oh, mine... and as it gazes down brazenly at adulating invader eyes it slowly descends to meet its worshipers facing immediate annihilation preferring all terrors of peril to one desert of ignorance. the moment the touch the bones’ cutting blaze death and you feed me your milk as my lips open up your poetry book and my treacherous tongue leaves me behind splashing drunkenly inside your intimate orchards and exploding barrels of wine.

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Signing Session of course I queued up, patiently. I lie, of course, but I do not want to sound short breathed, or short tempered or short toleranced or short indulgenced or impatient. or short Englished. which of course, I am. all of these. of course they queued up, didn’t expect anything else, actually I just sat in a corner watching them wait for your scribble to loop and wiggle and twist. I was delighted. of course. you even smiled my way, of course, it might have been to the wall behind me. there are of course some more of course’s. of course I brought the book with me, of course, why else did I come? of course, why else did I come I know and no one else, well, maybe one else. of course I brought also my body with me else how would the book have arrived on its own? postal services? hey, I don’t need wise guys in this poem be they even gals. where will you sign it? bottom of the first page, bottom of my belly, bottom of my mouth? yes. what will you sign it with? your golden capped pen before it melts in your hold, your five fingers groping for flesh on its way to boiling agony, your stampeding teeth leaving bleeding potholes all over my lower lip? yes. yes is not an answer. yes is all the answers. I gave up, I had no choice. I queued up patiently (ha), my turn arrived, you looked up at me I asked you answered, you smiled once more and this time certainly at me... of course I had a choice but why not give up when it is so convenient to give up and so promising and writing poems becomes such hard labor with muscles trembling into anticipative disintegration. I decided to wait for yes, wondering at the brevity of perfection. of course perfection. you vanished. * the clash it sounded like hail it looked like dust it gathered light from the corners of earth materializing into fluttering skirts baring slim, barely materialized ankles mounting towards muscled, transparent still yet promising already thighs joining at the crossroads of existence evolving into body swelling into hips and breasts and dark nipples and curving lips pouring sparkles into eyes and nails into fingertips and a sigh escaping from barely formed tongue and throat and lungs... a whisper... was it a whisper?... as you inhaled divinity and the skirts deserted your newly ascending flesh, invisible strings attached to thousands of your body’s anchors snapping one by one letting a hand drop, then a leg, then another leg and finally all of you dropped on all of me as I lay in deceitfully innocent wait above the pile of itching hay and the creator of you released the creator you upon my world your flailing tentacles pulling me out of earthly attire to squeeze the sharp ends of straw into my punctured spine and the blunt ends of palms around my desiring craves and the red of mouth into red of mouth and wretched tongue pieces. who penetrated whose corporeal lair? who sucked whose life through node-less straws bridging eviscerated lips to dripping bodily fountains and bursting skin sores to bursting skin sores burning like the floors of hell on inauguration day? you sang, the trickle from your lip to mine as thin as the end of day the hay smelling of lilac and of no more innocent you. you never smiled before like you smiled after. * departure the desert flows into the sea the mountains flow into the desert hordes of white butterflies desert the north pole to invade the mountains... new world? you ask before i turn my back for the last time. new world, i answer, my finger touching fleetingly the ink stains at the bottom of the first page, the blue stains surrounding the lust at the bottom of your belly, the blood stains drying on your lacerated bottom lip. blood, lust, ink, i add. life, you say but i don’t hear you anymore as the huge engine swallows the whole of me.

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Tips under attack, are you naked already or shall i undress you if undressing is pulling open the two halves of shirt and the three halves of camisole disregarding the explosion of buttons and that one sleeve ending away from the rest of your body at the cost of silk, dragging skirt and intimate satin and hosiery down to toes or is it toes up to waist line or irrelevant as elastic bands and zippers and seams simply give in screeching, was there a brassiere?... never paid attention it is nowhere now as my tools of torture invade your premises and crevices and apices and you squeal and thresh and whiplash under the onslaught of those terrible tips of trade beginning with the one ending my tongue and painting blisters around your nipples through the many ending my many fingers plowing ruts inside your flesh and ending with the deep throated one delimiting that fat, stiffening worm assiduously spitting white stains of fire down your guts way and up your guts way and any which way turns your moans celestial euphony.

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Undefined there is something strange in your voice, undefined, so strange that acceptance is as meaningless as denial, it rolls off the words as if they were messengers strange to the message, it breathes in the background as if there was life waking up at a call you didn’t even make, maybe it is not even your voice but your being, and the voice is just another attribute like height, weight, and my hearing is tuned to another layer of you, invisible, real, the real you layer. the hidden woman. the woman. you don’t walk on water, no one does, I doubt Jesus ever did, yet I see flowers at your feet and though I don’t know if you walk on them you certainly seed them.

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Rhyme bird, your grey of feather asleep in sprawling heather soaks in rainbow’s seed awaking deep a heart of tender aching cut by supple braids of leather, deep a breast biting the tether with a passion raking. girl, of gaze exotic let your touch pyrotic kindle butterflies of fire through those loins consumed by ire when a rhyme of words quixotic lands a kiss of fluff erotic raging with desire.

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deception if there is something I do not yet own of you is eyes. I know they must be dark, I know they must be deep, I know they must be soft, warm, glimmering, hidden behind those downcast eyelids that keep the savagery of fire tied to arm thick chains and feed it morsels of human fantasy to rein its rage behind those deceivingly innocent eyelashes. if there is something I do not yet own of you is thoughts. I know they must be fluttering, I know they must be vibrating, I know they must be soft, warm, glimmering, hidden amongst those flowing verses that guard the demons of passion down rock sealed cellars and feed them morsels of human dreams to curb their howls behind those deceivingly caressing words. if there is something I do not yet own of you is flesh. I know it must be smooth, I know it must be quivering, I know it must be soft, warm, glimmering, hidden underneath those layers of garment that strangle the beast of lust within steel lined fabric and feed it morsels of human phantasms to bridle its tempest behind those deceivingly demure smiles.

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Spelleology And if I call you your names you never dreamed to have and tell you your secrets you never wished to know and break your mirrors in front of you to show you your nakedness in those thousand reflections of your flames of glory that others whispered to your physical skin yet I bit inside your mental breast, will that be sufficient to drive you into the insanity of flying, crawling, swimming my way and slap my face into two swivels around an arid throat for daring truths? You flew, crawled, swam, slapped and the buds on your palm exploded, fragrances the thickness of tears and the color of a nipple yet to be uncovered inundating me, “Jasmine,” I said, “was worth it,” I said, “Worth what?” you said, “Hell’s anteroom of passion,” I said, and looked at you. Didn’t know your beauty, you blinded me. Was about time I started my poem, I started writing it with my left hand, left to right. “Are you left handed?” you asked. “No, it is the hand closer to my heart,” I answered, moving the pen to the right hand and writing right to left. “And now? Do you have two hearts?” “No, it is the hand closer to your heart,” I answered, breaking the pen in two and crossing the arms and the writing. “I see, ambidexter,” you said. “Yes, ambiance dependent ambidexterity. The worship of symmetry. The symmetry of eyes. The symmetry of cheeks. The symmetry of breasts and the palms cupping them left to right and right to left left to left and right to right left right to right and right left to left and the other way around.” “Sounds like ambivalent ambiance dependent ambidexterity.” Smile. Pause. “There’s a center to symmetries,” you added. “The center might be preferable to the symmetry,” you added. “You may start worshiping centricity,” you added. I wasn’t blind anymore, there were red-hot horseshoes floating in your eyes and they were stampeding all over me. “Yes, the universe rotates around a black hole and everything gets sucked into it,” I managed a scientific allegory meaning anatomical reality. You left it unconfirmed, broke my heart and the tension pulling away my unfinished poem and reading it aloud “love, above... love, above... love, above...” then looking at me, was it questioningly or quizzically? “Stutter?” you asked. “Corny, can’t concentrate” I justified. “Corny?” you asked. “Linguistically polite,” I justified my politically correct linguistics. Beauty came second to intelligence as your laughter told me. Your top button opened all by itself. Magic. “Tell me, what rhymes with laughter?” “After.” “And after laughter?” “It almost rhymes with enthusiasm.” “Linguistically polite again?” “No, imperfect rhyme. Once I tried to rhyme luck.” “Muck.” “No, but it has to do with it. Wasn’t allowed by my editor, claimed I’d be triple X’d.” You provided me with a single X’d sample, internetically speaking. I almost lost my breath. “You should have tried population,” you said, wiping my lipstick. Your lipstick. Hmm... whatever lipstick, with all those blisters suddenly popping on my lips it didn’t feel like hell’s anteroom, rather like hell's halls. My brain was boiling too. “Population?” “Linguistically polite. Mental rhyme.” I was to blame. I claimed I worshipped symmetries. We laughed, then tried that after laughter imperfect rhyme. It was perfect. “Do you think that love-above has to do with positions?” you asked, changing positions. I was no macho. “Do you think that triple-nipple has to do with aliens?” I asked, counting. You were no alien. “Do you think that cogito-ergo-sum is misspelled?” you continued your inquisition of our shared body. We couldn’t share mind, fortunately, or I would have wallowed in jasmine once again. “You mean that extra letter?” “Uhuh.” I might have been a poet at the time, though certainly not at the moment and anyway, had no idea what the onomatopoeia for guttural yes could be, especially from a mouth full with that sane, unnatural stuff. So I grabbed a bunch of vowels and consonants and jammed them into the stanza. “Maybe they were being linguistically polite?” You almost choked, laughing your head off for about an hour while not giving up on the sane, unnatural stuff. Suited me fine. “Shall I spell it correctly, educating the readers?” I didn’t ask for a literal answer. You could have answered with grunts, letting me cope with the spelling, with interpreting. You decided to go the literal way giving up on that sane, unnatural stuff. Idiotic, suicidal me. “And risk being triple X’d?” You had a point there. “Did I tell you you were for a long time my succubus?” I told you. “Did I tell you you were for a long time my incubus?” you told me. Didn’t know men and women called that differently. We did some more after laughter. It was getting late. Late in day, late in time. Late in life. Called you your names you dreamed, told you your secrets you wished, broke your mirrors and brought each shard to your eyes so you could see your nakedness, all of it. “How does the mirror remember what it sees, to show me? Magic?” “Technology of poetry. Like technology of pottery. Touch it. Change it. Burn it in.” It wasn’t a full answer. It wasn’t a correct answer. It wasn’t an incorrect answer. It was the only answer. “Did you hear about honorificabilitudinitatibus?” As a matter of fact, I did. “Yes, Shakespeare’s hapax legomenon.” “Do you have a hapax legomenon as well?” “Yes.” You waited. “You.” It was the answer you waited for. The following after laughter was incredible. You thundered away - swam, crawled, flew. I gathered some lipstick stains, some glittering shards, a shorn button. Tried to press it all in my fist, cut myself didn’t know if it was lipstick or blood, it dripped - must have been blood, I tasted it - it tasted lipstick. Went around the room once more then tried to run chasing a moth, chasing a shadow, chasing the lingering molecules of that mélange of after laughter and jasmine, thinking of linguistic incongruities which made it worth living or dying in a castle of words and dreams and inexistent keys to puzzles forever unsolved except in poets’ minds, laughter and slaughter, charm and harm, lust and lost... I saw you, didn’t have to keep my eye stuck to your bedroom’s keyhole I hid a mirror shard in your luggage. You undressed, you dropped above the covers, not underneath allowing my eyes to see, roam, wander, intrude, die as your body swam in the linen, your eyes swam in the sea, your mind swimming in words leaving flittering shadows on your white patches of skin and mixing there with fingerprints seeded by hungry hands, mine. You looked my way. How... how... how... yes, I did sound like the neighbor’s Chihuahua, I moved the mental needle to the next mental grove - how did you know? You measured the thickness of your nipple between thumb and forefinger, then brought the curled fingers carefully to your mouth and blew the chimera my way, your mouth forming words. Damn mirror, all it could bring over were damn images and I was no damn lips reader. Why do you do that? and I wouldn’t have known that I asked it loudly if not for the damn neighbor’s damn Chihuahua. How... how... how... no, not the Chihuahua, my mental needle melting once more as you smiled, cocked your head to one side (damn you mirror yet again, unidirectional sound transmission, huh?) picked up your lipstick and crowded some meaningless letters on the shard: g-h-o-t-i-e-k-n I hardly had time to copy them down, that the mirror went dark. No, lady, at this game you don’t beat me, ghoti is as good as a family member to me. I set down to decipher, picking the right words right away, hiccough being the first, followed by mount, nation, ashen, know... passion, my lady was telling me passion. I sat down, eating each day an apple, waiting for that red nipple to reach me. Dragging a whole woman behind it.

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Crossroads To feel sorry for you? Joking, yes? To feel sorry for all those wretches who didn’t share your bed and flesh. To feel sorry for all those bastards who shared your bed and flesh but didn’t share your mind’s fire to be consumed by its offerings and their only memory to carry forward is their pleasures, yet none of yours. To feel sorry for me, for not sharing your bed and flesh yet having shared your mind’s fire and living that of your bed and flesh which you have offered me in between wretches and bastards and interminable streams of words ranging from hesitation to abandon of senses. There is a bench there, at the crossroads of the east-west with the north-south which we walk to-from different somewheres to continue from-to different elsewheres, after. You know of it, it is in your guide to life. I know of it too. I wrote it there. You wrote it in mine. Who wrote it first in whose? Or, if and after, we may find that it was the collusion of wretches and bastards who put the cross at the crossroads, maybe even built the bench. I lay claim to the flower. Don’t ask which flower, you may never know, you will always guess. I am there already, on the way to my elsewhere. I dropped the suitcase, sat on the bench, leg over leg, waiting. I see you approaching, on the way to your own elsewhere, you drag your suitcase on wheels, a bigger suitcase, I don’t think it carries more dreams than mine, probably more beauty. I can settle for that, I expected that. I guess also more shoes. I see you smile. I wanted you to smile. Hi. You cross legs too. Your skirt slides away from the knee. If I say you’re sexy will you find it insulting? I don’t mean it as compliment, just as information. If it was to be a compliment I would say desirable, alluring, seductive. Not fascinating. Fascination has to do with imagination, unreality, memories. That’s for later. Now it’s for the flesh, mind, and your explosive mix of them. You are desirable, alluring, seductive. Hi. Hesitation. I give you the flower. You drop it in your décolletage, I wonder how deep it fell. Dance? I propose. Waltz, what else, with clumsiness on my side and with a bit of luck as well I fall, and you catch me. I don’t fall, you don’t catch me, we dance. The flower somewhere there, it didn’t fall, I wonder why it didn’t fall, where it did fall, what does it smell like. Not the flower. Waltz is not supposed to be a touching dance, our thighs touch fleetingly, then solidly, then interlace and I feel your pulse. I am not supposed to feel your pulse, do you feel mine? Where is the flower? Past hesitation. Mouths interlace, hands interlace, eyelashes interlace, clothes interlace thread by thread by thread I have to find the flower knowing it not to be there which you don’t know knowing I don’t know the smell which you know knowing that knowing is meaningless when your fist clamps the knots of thread and my fist clamps the fist and we pull it all away cloth and shoes and nail polish and what is left is skin interlacing with skin with skin with skin much skin many skin all skin and penetrating skin when I drag you to the bench and as decking boards sink into your back cutting it to slices of pulsating flesh your loins cut my body into lumps of pulsating death. And pouring sweat is the sole reprieve as insistently lambent flames burn through the wood and bones. Silence. Oh... Abandon of senses. You pick up the suitcase handle, your nakedness doesn’t bother you, the flower does, but you do not ask as you start going towards your elsewhere and I start going to mine. So beautiful, a naked woman waltzing her way with a rolling suitcase. It is accepted mathematical certitude that all elsewheres finally meet somewhere. Unknown. Even to mathematicians. I said, I will never tell you about the flower, you will always have to guess.

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lap-count your head in my lap, your hair flowing all over I start counting them, each and every single hair on your scalp... hey, stop that giggle, not like monkeys do, like I do with a real academic goal in my mind... and you stop that giggle though from time to time you sound like something between a guggle and a guffaw. I take the first, smoothen it and lay it aside from the others though it keeps trying to jump back, one, so easy, two, three... by the time I reach eleven you stop giggling or guggling or guffawing and by thirteen you start cooing, by thirty five you purr like Tom who, finally, got a bellyful of Jerry though, when I declare victoriously one hundred! with no dreadlocks or knots or things, you don’t seem impressed and by one hundred and nine there’s no more sign of giggle but a lot of wiggle as you impatiently ask if there are many more to go. of course there are many more to go, you know your hair better than me and all I know are averages of one hundred thousand per head and I intend to add my soon (a few weeks?) acquired knowledge to the general pool... oops, talking too much, lost my count and have to start all over again. one... what about counting buttons, instead? you ask suavely, much easier, much less of them. much less doesn’t sound like perfect English to me but your words make sense and, anyway, it’s your body and anyway, it is much easier to keep count as I can open those counted already so as not to count them twice, one... a sharp intake of breath, you frighten me I hasten to put my hand on your heart, unfortunately there is a breast in between but I can feel it – thump, thump, thump, you are alive, thank goodness, I can go on, two, three... after each count checking your heart for safety, still a bit worried, as it seems to beat faster and faster but then, your breath is quite stormy, so I guess your blood gets oxygenated enough, what a great miracle is the human body, four, five... sorry for breaking six, my hand trembles with no reason... I reach twenty nine, the last one, thirty! I try to declare and for whatever reason my throat is constricted, maybe the same reason that made me, probably, skip a few numbers?... doesn’t really look like thirty and your shirt opens and falls both sides of your chest and a transparent piece of fabric covers your heart and the breast above it and a nipple above the same breast who seems to bite its way out of the fabric (who, not that, you should have seen that nipple biting) and another piece covers your no heart and its own breast above it and a nipple emulating the heart one... you have no more buttons to count? I hear a muffled voice that might have been yours (my ears constricted as well) and as it seems that you like me counting I pull the fabric out of the way and start a new cycle, this time counting nipples, one, one, one... yes, no mistake, I count the heart one several times, touching it each time with another finger, then with couples of fingers, then alternating left hand fingers with right hand fingers and by the time I reach two my fingers are a mess and I am a mess and you are a mess, two, two, one... just couldn’t stop myself from counting. morning finds us, our heads in each other’s lap, our mouths counting, each of us stuck at the count of one for a long time already... well, there is only one... hey, how can I say what one when there are different names to the subject of my count and that of yours? we don’t even count loudly, our upbringing having taught us about that unforgivable table sin of talking with our mouths full. we can moan, though, and we do it plenty.

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to know you... ...when you dance, is there wild hyssop sprouting between your toes underneath the fluttering cloud of hovering butterflies and exploding drops of sun, when your toes leave swirling traces in the clay’s indulging flesh and your thigh my morning graces there, where skin and silk enmesh? ...when you bathe, is there an invisible volcano smoldering beneath your ribs as water sizzles furiously around the pride of downy monuments and burning nipples, when your ribs demand my fingers for a trip inside the sun and a sirens’ chorus lingers while your body comes undone? ...when you make love, is there life beyond the imminent moment of raging death hidden innermost the folds converging into the gardens of Hesperides and immortality, when your death wakes to desire and your body reaves my arms slaying Ladon’s hundred choir as they glean your garden’s charms?

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scrabble-like-life-aberrations how many flowers are there in r? one, i answered, touching your mouth. and how many rivers, two? yes, and i touched your eyes, forcing you to blink. i would have preferred that you closed them for longer than just a blink, so i could touch you and you would wonder loudly who touches you in qualitative, rather than quantitative bewonderment. then there is no lust in r, right? it sounded intuitively correct, but was terribly wrong and with your eyes, unfortunately, open i could not prove it. endless, i answered and did not touch you. days passed. you do not touch me. i undressed you, still not touching you. days passed you do not touch me, you repeated, shivering, not with cold. close your eyes. why? days passed. endless no lust or endless lust? you were right, you were so damn right that i blushed. what is three in r? error? warrior. narrator? of resurrection. who? whose? i was about to not answer, your eyes open. how much lust is there in u? i did not care your eyes were open, i had to answer. you had to be told. i touched you. lust. endless. endless lust. and dream? endless. i wished you were dressed so i could teach you tatters, thirsty so i could teach you mirage, cold so i could teach you bottomless sun and iceberg magic, i was dressed, thirsty, cold so you taught me with fingernails knocking letters off my spine and nipples sculpting words off my teeth and thighs carving poems off my loins. how many lives are there in i? one. and happiness? immeasurable. and love? endless, i answered, sealing your mouth and making love to you.

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Thump! You did not stretch your toes. I did not bend down, our lips were level they touched. I did not want to die. No, I wasn’t that young, but not before knowing the rest of you. “You float,” I whispered between four lips. Thump! You disappeared two inches lower. “You broke the magic. I didn’t float,” you blamed me, your tone defining my key responsibility in the disappearance of the dinosaurs. “I am not,” I pouted, letting you cross your arm into mine and drag me away. I couldn’t see your lips anymore, only when peeking rightwards. “You were and you are.” “Were and are what?” “Were responsible for the dinosaurs. Are responsible for breaking the magic.” “You floated,” I insisted doggedly, “you thumped to the floor, proof!” Not that I cared, you were leaning my way, I could feel your breast pushing into my arm. “No,” the tone this time defining me three year old and with a lisp, “the floor thumped into me. Up!” Now, now, this was an angle I didn’t think of. But there was a flaw to your logic. “Impossible, I was on the floor, your mouth aligned with mine, I should have felt the acceleration.” “So? yes, you were, yes, I was, no, I did not float.” I was about to protest. “We floated,” you concluded triumphantly, squeezing my arm a bit more. Your breast a piece of rock. Since when do rocks drive men insane? What? Preposterous. Then, physically speaking, the floor would have had to hit me first, carry me above you, hit you, thump, stop... preposterous. Though, come to think of it, what was that jar tearing through my spine a short moment before your thump? The one I thought was fireworks? Well, they were green stars and red stars. Your breast insisted. I decided to forgo physical matters for the benefit of physiological ones. “Is it your heart?” I asked, watching the thump showing through your shirt, feeling it in my arm, watching the button working hard at not breaking. You watched mine, I never paid attention to it till now, it behaved the same. I guess it was your heart. Mine was mine. “No.” You should not have answered. So what was it? A cat? You took out a cat and put it in the basket you were carrying, “Couldn’t leave the poor thing alone.” You closed your shirt again. “Now it is my heart.” The thump now twice as strong. Twice a strong as mine. The poor cat must have taken quite a beating. “This is a crazy world,” I remarked. “This is your poetry,” you answered, calmly, squeezing my fingers. There was undeniable promise in that squeeze, I guess it said... take it as far as you dare, I’ll always take it one step further. * Two palms. One fist. Wooden door. Open. Close. Cat food. Two palms. One fist. Door. Another door. A bed frame, brass. A mirror, crystal. A woman, you. A dying specimen of shivering humanity, I. Two palms. One fist. A cat. Out of the bed, cat! A bed, smooth like a virgin’s belly, except for the cat. Out of the bed, cat! Your left, thumping half an inch out of your chest, my left, thumping one full inch out, winning the thumping contest, like cartoon characters in a tri-di movie thump! thump! thump! meow!?... (okay, final, cat out, door closed) Free me! free me! we tell at the same instant, hands reaching for top buttons at the same instant. Buttons. One, two, ten. Shirts fall. Shoes. Thump, thump, thump, thump. Belts. Click. Open, pull, wiggle, down. Matching whites. Safe, for the moment. Unmatching whites, yours. Off, first. The engine under your ribs goes insane, half inch turning one and a half, winning the contest, the cage creaking, almost breaking, my palm shoots forwards to protect you... liar!... I cup your breast, the matching whites, off... both... skin, only and always skin... The mattress swallows us, drinks us, chews us with its linen teeth our enamel joining in the melee as burning palms blister and scorched throats groan and bellies applaud while body parts engulf body parts harvesting cupfuls of sweat and mouthfuls of saliva and bodyfuls of exploding elixir... thump! thump! thump!... sorry!... I mutter, feeling your bleeding lip in my mouth and you don’t call me liar, you know I know I am. You smile, oh, your smile. You smile, oh, your smile. You smile, oh... oh... what are you doing?... I watch your naked poetry bouncing all the way to the door... oh, no!... “kitty, kitty...” but I do not really mind as you turn around and I am presented a glorious view of the reverse side of the bouncing poetry bouncing as well, though differently, and some of my interest is not bouncing at all. “Poor thing, it mustn’t feel neglected.” You slide between the mattress and my body, sighing contentedly when my hands discover everything that bounced and some other parts of me settle around the non bouncing parts, the cat settling between my shoulders. I wonder who of you two is purring. I find out, soon enough, it is the cat. When your thumping starts again and your mouth loses first its lips then its mind inside mine and we throw away mattress and linen and cat falling on the metal frame and as the red-hot iron springs brand ribbons of smoldering ruts in our flesh we sink everything that is flesh inside everything that is flesh thumping nectar into our lives. * “Meow...” you plagiarize, some time, much later. Oh, you, bad girl, such unacceptable behavior for a poet... your ensuing punishment terrible. I move one hand, most ostentatiously, starting to caress the cat until such time as you repent. “Meow...” you repeat, and I am about to move also the second hand from nipple to cat when you bat eyes, get on all fours above me, those hanging fruits maddeningly close, and murmur... “...this time I merely plagiarized myself, no?” The tribunal in my head protests... infamy! the one in my body screams... clemency! (I wonder for whom) I, the implacable judge and jury decide... You imbecile! I shout to my own self, not aloud, ashamed in my uncovered imbecility then my cat hand joins my nipple hand my thighs penetrate between yours my mouth curses the moments lost idling and attacks the congregation residing in yours with all tools of flesh and ivory and muscle and oxygen and nitrogen and groan while our bodies shamelessly plagiarize their earlier music of thump! thump! thump! slowly turning into the cacophony of thump! meow! thump! meow! thump! meow!... The meow wins in the end, even when we don’t hear anything anymore, having wrecked the walls of Eden and settled in the incredible bliss of stupefaction.

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Deathrow I volunteered to close them, the buttons, each clanking with the finality of a deathrow-cell’s bolt, first... clank! second... clank! third... by the time I reached the one before last my brain was a mess of mush and I, the poor copycat of a gibbering idiot... one before last... clank! I couldn’t bring myself to close the last one try as I did, I couldn’t. You volunteered to help. You pulled my trembling hands aside, gently, then your fingers touched the one before last, I didn’t have time enough to point your mistake... you opened it... mmm... you waited, my shivers could have powered three hundred-kilowatt power stations and yet I found enough control to hold the one before the one before last... I opened it... mmmmmm... you saved me the embarrassment, and continued to the one before the one before the one before last... mmmmmmmmm... by the time we... who was it?... reached the first the m’s ribbon could circle the Earth three times around the equator with enough left to smother the sun. We smothered the sun.

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Ashes Idiots, the scientists, thank God they are. Spreading the blame from the flatulent sheep of New Zeeland to the gasoline guzzling Cadillac’s of Elvis. Irrelevant that he died before. Because he isn’t really dead, as every self-respecting member of the CrackPot party knows. Idiots, the scientists, thank God they are otherwise they would have sentenced you to the stake. You, the one to blame for global warming. Woman. Lover. Witch. Or is it Fairy? Tell me, you never told me how old you are. Millions, tens of millions of years? Cause you brought about the demise of the dinosaurs, not that you wished it, and the best you could repent was seeding us, humans, instead, right? You burned that ugly Kalahari scar in the heart of the continent and only compensation you found was lining it up with breathtaking sunsets, correct? You boiled death into that mighty lake of the Jordan Rift Valley and tears of remorse sculpted magnificent salt sculptures alongside full-moon’s reflected magic, you wouldn’t deny it, would you? You stumble at times, and your toe lends its scathe to the ground sending entire worm congregations scurrying down to the chillier safety of Earth’s magma belly, You smile at times, your forgetful enthusiasm carrying your face southwards, for moments, and ancient icebergs melt, victims to that momentary dazzle, I think of you, at times and I turn ashes.

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sharp sharp, like the sharp, culminating end of orgasm, your poetry, like the raving appetite of your carnivorous nipple biting chunks of mouth from inside out, like the viper escaping my control to pierce your hymen and spit its hot, delicious poison into your womb. you’re a virgin until you make love to me. and as I lie, there, next to you bleeding, you know how sharp your poetry is.

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Fauna & Flora tell me of making love to me. of letting loose the birds and the bees and the tyrannosaurus rex and my fauna amidst the flowers and the trees and the dionaea muscipula and your flora to thrash in your mud and drink your springs dry and cross the species gap through the portal to your wilderness and beauty. open your eyes. open your mouth, open your thighs, clench fists around the bed posts to bathe me in the abandon of your most intimate of perfumes and as the saber clustered jaws are about to rip your roots open the labia close around the ugly head and ingurgitate it breath, scales and hide. and now, who is the prey? you murmur, and all I want is die forever in your hunger.

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The Stain I rushed forward... halt!... your palm shot forward, the shimmer around your finger ends unmistakable. I stopped. You stepped to the pool side, stretched, jumped feet first the slashed arrows of joined toes, pelvis, dangling breasts cutting the water with a hiss turning whistle turning bedlam turning hell as a geyser shot upwards like an atomic mushroom sucking the whole of the pool into a frightful display of steam and rainbows... You rested there, standing on the bare, tiled bottom humid stains rapidly drying away from your skin mist surrounding you... now, hurry, make love to me... and I jumped after you, tearing my clothes along the way to lose mind and body inside you. I started hurting. I pulled back, watching the tiles blistering, cracking, the shimmer back to your finger ends, lambent flames rising lecherously from ankles to belly, to mouth licking your skin clean of my touches... how dare they?... I advanced, disregarding your warning and placed my index on your nipple, watching my fingertip go up in flames a stain of black, carbonized bone resting on your flesh like a primitive, one word poem. This is a touch nothing will remove, I said. My lips flamed, the pain insupportably beautiful. This is a touch nothing will remove, you said, moving your lips away from my mouth. Thank you for pain, I said. You watched your blackened nipple. Thank you, for poetry, you said.

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colors I paint your curls colors, from chameleon-green to wine-burgundy with in between reds, and violets and blues and phosphors, I glide each and every steely spiral through pursed lips, then pull it straight with tips of fingers to touch the root with tip of tongue in pagan adulation, I dip my thumb in you, suck it in rebellion before rubbing it gently against each root to wipe it clean of color, you are ready for love making. I am tired. I fall asleep. I wake up from your softness and you laugh. Your face looks like a variegated zebra, and you make love to me. Then you stand up and you make waltz to me. Naked? I ask. Is there any other way? you ask.

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ocean open your fist to palm, let the ocean spill. you opened your fist. you returned, many days later, to the room with the brass bed and silk bedding. now is the time to make love, you said. not yet, I said, opening your fist to palm and carrying bucketfuls of pearls to feed the ravenous tongues of foaming waves. finally I dropped the bucket, trembling with fatigue. now is the time to make love, I said. not yet, you said, dipping a soft sponge in you and wiping every nook clean of sweat, stank, stupor. now is the time to make love, you said. you sank to the bottom of the silk and I sank to the bottom of you feeding my hunger on the endless strawberry fields of your breasts. now is the time to sigh, you said, and we sighed. our bodies the vibrating, over-tuned strings of violins, the ocean a boiling cauldron of fighting vipers. I hear baby dolphins singing, you sang. I smell wild flowers praying, I prayed. the brass a contorted mass of metal, the silk gaping toothless, smoldering mouths.

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dimensions measure me with the life-line of your open palm. find how many times it fits between my mouth and my toe once your little finger escapes the death trap of my teeth and decides to wander. no, don’t stop at using the left, try also with the right to ascertain accuracies and tolerances and units, do you do it in inches or millimeters? shivers. mine or yours? the shivers, the sighs. no, not yet with your lips, first with your fingertips, of course more than life-lines especially when you do it with your pinky... oh, sorry, it still hurts? revenge? ok... oh... that’s not revenge, that’s emasculation... oooh... amends gladly accepted, always... oooooh... who’s is this thin voice, actually?... do you know that flesh heat expansion coefficient is bigger than metal? do I really need to prove it? no, I thought so. shall I now measure you? no, not in life-line units, in tongue-tip units. is it ok? first... over clothes. yes, after, under clothes. of course I promise to undress you in between, what kind of a man do you think I am, inconsiderate? don’t care actually, I think I will start with your eyes. you prefer mouth? fine, I’m no body-parts racist, mouth it is. ummmmeoummiummm... thanks, baby, for a moment I thought I’m gonna lose my measuring tool. you know your teeth are squirrel sharp? Yes, I once was bitten by a squirrel, it was summer and... sorry, talking too much instead of measuring, where was I? (quiet. sorry, no onomatopoeia to describe it to its variations. of course not absolute quiet, the disturbing kind of quiet like a locomotive puffing out of station) (many hours later) undress you... now? (many more hours later, locomotive metamorphosed to jumbo jet, etc) yes, I admit, your skyline is much nicer than mine, sure, the hills, certainly, the v... v... (sorry for the stutter)... vava... valleys. thanks for the clap. (almost broke my spine. long kiss, that’s for healing the uncomely stutter) now? * we clamped. we clumped, clasped, crammed, like octopusi suckers upon wet glass panels like nine inch nails inside rain soaked trunks like... how does one define which is the real pain - the one between teeth, the one underneath nails, the one in the crushing embrace of convulsing muscles? how does one define which is the real lust - the one between teeth, the one underneath nails, the one in the crushing embrace of convulsing muscles as we gulp other’s body’s outsides and other’s body’s insides and loins grow lianas welding their shudder inside a constrictor’s grip while around us bedposts buckle and window panes warp and bedding unthreads into primal cotton bolls and flax bast and silk cocoons enwrapping our quavering flesh with that primal glow of the first man kissing the first woman ever? how does one define passion? when we fall into the sea and we reach bottom with last of sizzling pools evaporating around us and dead fish and withering algae salt lumps clutter the bottom of that newly born moonscape? put your head against my nipple, then let me put mine against yours, followed by my mouth followed by my finger followed by your finger followed by your closing palm followed by my thrusting pelvis followed by your wrapping thighs until nothing is left bedposts window panes bolls bast cocoons dead fish withering algae salt lumps we. * measure me with the thickness of hair covering your intimacy. let it caress me, if it takes a lifetime. a lifetime is the measure of as long as it takes.

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mtuplets... ...like marvelous, magnificent, magical, majestic, mind-boggling... yes, the last kind of pulled by the hair... that’s a French expression... what about melodious? yes, though kind of a different idea... what about mignonne? sounds like French too. it is. same like the meandrously deformed marvelous, magnificent... sure, malicious sounds like delicious but it’s not. comes from French too. what about mast... hey!... erful? oh!... hmm... I’d rather stick with mind-boggling, mere modern English. mythical, mysterious? are you trying to seduce me or melt me? would make it easier to undress you. masterpiece? this is a noun. am I a noun? a soft noun. like marigold, marguerite... these are flowers. you are flower. she smiled. finally. mischievously. yes, comes from French too. sounds like deliciously, too. miaow! her mouth moist, her mood mellow, her mellisonant murmur mangling my marrow to mud, my moth-eaten heart masquerading mighty marauding mastodon before metamorphosing minuscule maundering mouse when I decided to give up on my m’s, muttering (oops!) an inaudible... let’s make love? do I hear a question mark? it was high time for an exclamation. not mark. so I stopped talking and started doing. mmmmm... (my favorite)

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Search Swim with me through wine’s delusion, Let me guide your yearning’s paces When your heart concedes confusion as it sheds perfervid traces, Leave your clothing neatly folded, Let me be your passion’s monger As your breast is gently molded by my fingers’ wasting hunger, Be the virgin, hug the vision When you yield to my suasion And I make that first incision... see the butterfly invasion, See the rainbows’ raining color When your spine curves in submission And my howl’s your body’s sculler through a world in lasting fission... Quiet. Now, you count the flowers Sprouting round your blushing nipples As the fading lust devours, leaving ever lasting ripples.

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walk on don’t walk on water, even if you can. walk on me, even if you can’t. i will help. send me your toes, don’t worry you didn’t cut your toenails, or filed them or polished them not even if you just tiptoed out of the shower and drops of soap mix with drops of water mix with drops of you and slide into the corner of my mouth as you step on me, over me, dance. send me your ankles, before they move down to your toes and before they move up to my next destination and just as my fingers roll around them measuring circumference and elegance and distance to that other destination i mentioned and can’t forget, i will let you roll them on my teeth way of corncob and on my lips way of ice cream and on my tip of tongue way of honey fighting its knowing into my educated conscience and its promise into my primeval beast. send me your thighs. send me your thighs. send me the destination of your thighs from the vortex of the vee of your valley to the vertex of the vestibulum of your venus my eyes to enchant and my mouth to delight and my senses to obliterate as you slide and you ride and you glide smearing me with the leftovers of your satisfaction before and after and during the unceremonious demand sinking fangs in my shoulder and claws in my spine and thin screams in my eardrums while i sink in you. don’t walk on water, you can. walk on me. you can.

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hey, hey, look in the mirror, what do you see? no, you don’t have to undress before though, if I was the mirror, I would have preferred you... almost. almost dressed or almost undressed? depends. depends on what you did before. or what are you going to do after, and with whom... oh, cannot be both the mirror and the whom, difficult choice. you’re right, knew you to be as sharp as the shards of glass you hide behind lips and the shard of lust you hide between your verses, you’re right I could be one or the other, depends when and for what, now, why didn’t I think about it? maybe because I was too busy bandaging my wounds? sure, not yet those behind lips, yet already those between verses. verses unwritten yet, you say? what about already cutting? hey, I am the one who bleeds, thus the one to know. hey, look into my words, what do you see? yes, you better undress, at least during. or before. not after, since there will be nothing to undress after, at most some dregs, maybe some dressless buttons, maybe a torn strap still hanging to a white shoulder still hanging to a brassiere cup still hanging to one covered breast, how did I miss this one, was I so blind? how can you blame someone who looks straight into the sun? of course you can ask why it was with a telescope, you should be ready to a most idiotic answer. or romantic. or neither. or both. or none. or poetry, did you know that the border between great poetry and idiocy... ok, let’s call it insanity, sounds better though more irrevocable in its finality... did you know that the border between great poetry and insanity is inexistent? not that each of one is the other but rather that they cover up for each other. and when they try to cross those inexistent borders they suddenly discover the missing thorns and razor-wire and grapples and the blood mixes and the suns mix and humans succumb? hey, how did I get to abstracts when I want to talk lust? hey, look into your fantasies, what do you see? my wings? no, you wrote those there. your wings? no, I wrote those there. our sharing sweat and sharing blood and sharing bones? yes, this looks more like my fantasy. hey, I never excluded sharing fantasies with you, did I?

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Parading Colors Which of them? The red red? Or the crimson red? Or the pink red, the scarlet red, the burgundy, vermilion, alizarin, ruby, amaranth, the Ferrari red, the Coca Cola red, the IBM... “...blue!...” sorry, carried away, the heart of the cherry, the petal of the poppy, the death of the sun, molten iron... “...Canada’s Red Serge, Garibaldi’s Camicie Rosse, Boston’s Red Sox...” you were not playing smart ass, you wanted to show knowledge of matter, your lips. Quiet. Your lips, I repeated. Quiet. Your lips, the upper, the lower, the inner, the tip of the tongue, the palate my teeth pulling my tongue, lips fishing for the morning’s leftovers for the moment’s delights you didn’t tell me you had cherries for breakfast... “...I didn’t...” you were a bad liar, I knew you didn’t lie, your nipples. Quiet. Your nipples, I repeated. Quiet. Your nipples. the left, the right, the left, the right, the areolas creasing my fingers teasing my palm’s heel crushing my palm’s heel bleeding, punctured you didn’t tell me there are nails in your brassiere... “...I wear none...” I opened my eyes, leaving the frenzy of Eden just to ascertain, your loins. Quiet. Your loins, I repeated. Quiet. Your loins, I repeated in third, pulling the knees sunrise and sunset and invading the crimson, the pink, the scarlet, the Ferrari, the poppy with lust hanging in shreds at the ends of lips, tongue, fingers and exploding in blinding fireworks shrapnel you didn’t tell me of the liquid fire coursing through your desire... “...I’m sorry...” which you were not, which we were not, your passion. Fulmination. Cracking sun. Genesis. The thousands of cats lying asleep under our skin burst out in a melee of razor claws and razor wires and razor teeth slicing our skin to long fringed ribbons that knot and snarl and tangle flesh cutting through penetrating through in flesh, wounds, cavities, muscles sucking life from muscles mixing it with saliva and ambrosia and the milky white of tectonic plates sucking the life out of cracking timber while tongues thickly lined with stegosaurus spikes fight for the supremacy of widely open mouth caverns. The war is over. Armies slowly recede. Passion licks it wounds, dripping drops of life leaving behind it a trail of sparkling, boiling mud, never for a moment giving up its prey and pillage, your sighs follow, the shivers subdue. Quiet. I found another red, the crown in the jewel, I say, keeping close contacts with my spoils of war my finger the softness of newborn plumage around your nipple. “Where?” My finger reluctantly leaves the nipple and lifts up to your face touching your cheek. Red. Blush.

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Reality Damn, imagination. Let reality in. Your mellifluous curves, the shapely handfuls of flesh their reality the perfect fit in my palm, milk in a spoon, a stiletto’s hot blade cutting through a breakfast’s melting lump of butter. Your breast, let it discover the novelty of an unbridled nipple forcing a decision to either grow inwards or sink into my palm and burst out the back of it, Your nates, let their perfect smoothness be marred by cupping my life-line in hunger and adopting its morphology in the perfect vacuum bordering skin to skin, Your heel, let it forget a life of trodden slavery to a haughty body as it bites its machined perfection in between my wrist and my thumb and countless other fingers begging for lust denied all of years. My ragged lines, the shapeless gathering of flesh knocking at your door their reality the submissive molding to whichever deformation fits you. Let your after tomorrow’s memory be tomorrow’s reality.

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The 37th Chapter or After... touch!... Dip your toe in the ice-cream jar. The right one. The big one. Now, the left one. Yes, also the big one. The toe, I mean. No, not the ice-cream jar, the jam jar. Not raspberries, black cherries. Good. Now stretch. Your right leg all the way west, west is a bit further, girl, a bit more... that’s good, this is west. The left one now... no, not east, I am not that cruel, is south ok? Fine, let’s try south-south-west?... great, stay! What do you prefer, my thumbs or the tip of my tongue? Sorry, explanations after, not before... ok, my choice let it be. Thumbs. Which honey do you prefer – acacia, tupelo, linden... clover!? OK, clover it is, let me just make sure I do not overturn the jar as I settle between your thighs... I will try, I will try again, closer still?... close enough?... well, if you move that westward limb a few parts of an inch west-west-northwards... great, now ok? No, I will not touch you, yes, we are close, yes, later, no, not with anything yet but thumbs... touch!... feel me? This is my right thumb, gently rubbing the honey in that open fold lining the joint of left thigh to belly, up, and down, up, and down, this now is my left thumb sliding along your right joint, hey, are you cold, why do you shiver, shall I try to smoothen your curls? I know, it is worth trying no?... first rub the honey into the roots, then stretch the curls, one by one, fine – two by two, then again, yes, if I pull my right your left curls, softly softly and my left your right curls, softly softly there is a whiff of pink showing up, may I caress a bit of honey inside?... not so deep?... oh, deeper you mean?... my right thumb’s right facing fingerprints tracing your depth’s left wall’s right facing smoothness... my God, I get lost in all this left right mess do you think that these are honey beads hanging to the ends of my eyelids, not if I judge by salt content... do you think I am about to sweat? do you think I am pouring sweat already? So, that which will happen now, is that my democratic thumb emulates its republican brother, and I will save us all the embarrassment of going through the left right rigmarole, ok? Do you think that those exploding beads falling from ends of eyelids there, among the honey laden curls try to compete with my thumbs? Can I now pull one thumb out... which would you prefer?... please, pull your thighs a bit wider, yes, I identified it there at the top, proud, rigid, throbbing, may I now just... touch!... God, what was that wrathful sigh? Now I can start writing my poetry. Hand me please that sheet of paper, thank you, let me try to smoothen it upon the mound of sticky curls, like that, a bit uneven, let me try to smoothen it once more, like that, hand me please the pen now... why does your hand shiver, honey? what do you mean mine shivers more? oh, I see, I wonder why, I will try to start writing anyway... oops, girl, what is this wet spot middle of the paper? No, I don’t think it is honey, let me smell it... no, definitely not honey, rather mordacious for being honey, girl, was it something else you wanted all along, not poetry? So why didn’t you say so? Sure, this is the reason your toes dipped in ice-cream one and jam the other, you like ice-cream and jam, no? Especially black cherries jam, no? What shall I do with the sticky paper? Who cares? Sure, who cares, you are right. OK, girl, take hold of it between your toes, don’t worry it is sturdy enough, you cannot damage it, roll it between your toes, rub off all of your ice-cream – melted, so what? – and jam around it, on it, in it... yes, you can start pulling it I know you are hungry, pull, pull, wait a moment – just let me turn around, now, better, easier? Yes, I start feeling your lips, girl, do you mind if I give up my thumbs, favoring - just for this once the tip of my tongue, I am going to touch you, girl, to clean that little tip from honey and passion, and need... no, I will be as gentle as a fire flame, almost there... oh, girl, I feel your lips start drinking, teasing... soon my mouth will touch too, do you feel my breath?... soon I will not be able to tell anymore, girl, my mouth full my lips sealed my tongue glued and no one will know that above was the embodiment of prudish PG compared to the coming triplish Triple X... almost, girl, almost... now... touch!...

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Waking Up Feeling like a rogue offender On his way to full surrender, I let skin to skin transgression Weave with fingers’ indiscretion last night’s splendor. Do you sleep, or seed the notion With that flesh devoid of motion Letting east’s ascending shimmer Feed me traces of your glimmer and emotion? Is there kinship in that mellow Beat beneath the breastly jello Where an early hours thunder Blessed me, when I set to plunder your sweet bellow? Smells of sun cut through defenses Fending off your weak pretenses, I try breathing through your nipple Yet your areola’s ripple robs my senses. Lazily, your smile starts dawning Moving on to shameless yawning Stretching tips of toes to fingers As my breath inside you lingers shivers spawning. First the grunt, the moaning follows, Pouring gasps fill morning’s hollows, Fingers dig inside my shoulders Cutting through my muscle boulders scaring swallows. Swift’s the death, all lewd and gory, Reaves the monster bed and quarry And as rage wanes to contentment I retreat with deep resentment from your glory. Oh, that smile of angel seeding From a lip that’s slightly bleeding, I retrieve my skin from ashes Begging for your kissing lashes, mercy pleading.

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Clouds I watch them closely clouds, fluffy, shapes never seen before so enticing that I start writing on them poetry. They will dissipate, I know, therefore I am writing on them memories of you which I don’t have, so appropriate no one will miss them but me. Not even you. They chase me, mirage? I wonder smiling back, I think they smiled first before dissipating. I have the concrete ready too. For the real memories.

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The Heart Of The Lilac Open your gates, call me, To the nuphars covered mire where wounded dragons dive to sate their burning thirst with fire, Where suns come to die and a king dragonfly trades his wings for one night with a queen butterfly, Where a razor as sharp as the thrill of a harp cuts thin, bleeding ribbons through heart and through eye. I visited the white lilac. I visited the wild lilac. I visited the warbled, wizened, withered lilac asking for the way to the fire lilac. It told me look for it in the open wounds of dragons, in the glowing coal of dying suns and slices of dragonfly wings, in the tattered ribbons of eyes. In the tattered ribbons of heart. Turn on the tap, let water glide between your breasts, call me, Let the savage horse herds hiding deep in your words under softness of feather and frailty of manner and trills trailing dreams of a lone nightingale storm through hay and through day and through fingers’ bouquet prevail and assail like beleaguering hail like a gale through my ley. Show me the way into the thorn, into the claw, into the fang, into the heart of the lilac.

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Unalogue Your fire, where? Your blazing fingernail, where, how? The tip of your tongue running ahead of ruts cutting through the scaffolding of giving flesh blobs of boiling saliva rolling along the bleeding banks as deadly acid seeps into my heart and kicks it back to life, where, how, when?

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reason don’t open my fist, don’t tickle, sink it between your thighs cut with an axe, don’t. if you do the teeming, billions thick monarch nation will die never knowing why, i will, before i bleed to death, as the one caged kiss you placed on my palm dissipates into nothingness and there’s no reason to life to me or to monarchs.

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the chosen there was always one, since birth of sun, not much after birth of time, much after mother of time’s birth and death. a creature of the wild, always, almost always for the span of a generation, for the span of some of many years or many of some or all but a few always, almost always. years. rarely, a season and the chosen a flower and even rarer a day. the chosen a butterfly. guileless, ignorant, pure of heart to pull the sun into the sky then to put it back to bed. unknowledgeable of its duty. master, over life and death. innocent. the chosen. rarest, if ever, human. * you hit the alarm clock. you moan, you curse trying to find immediate variation on the f subject to address your job, your boss, your alarm clock, buzz again, snooze over, f again, then s, then you move to esperanto making yourself smile. you don’t know. no one knew before you, you don’t know. you will never, know. c’mon, woman, get your ass off bed, you have no choice, you have a job to do and you do not even know it. there is a sun. waiting.

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pleonasm the wine gliding inside you, sliding down the wrong side of your chest inside instead of outside instead of down your chin and down your neck and between your breasts, not bathing in the acid of your stomach but crawling beneath your bra carefully circumventing your navel and making its way underneath the elastic band reaching between your thighs to bathe, drown, die in the bubbling acid of your womanhood, where i will find it after pulling off all and the rest of the soggy over and under and superfluous garments to suck you dry and turn you burning leaf middle of the desert middle of the sun middle of the chaos of deliverance. your oh! the summum of pleonasm.

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Lust Demented Lying in bed, naked. Thinking about your nakedness. Thinking about purgatory and purgatorial flames enveloping me, you, us, the consummation of the act by the art penetration annihilation breath memories. Life. Beauty. Beauty. Yours. Body. Soul. Word I struggle inside my nakedness. I wobble wiggle warp, rigidity setting in together with images of a mouth opening yours thighs opening yours gaping maxillae sharing same space same tongue, same teeth, breath, gaping loins sharing same space same skin, friction, fluids, flames, fate. Nakedness, enveloping us both with its razor-wire cruelty forbidding anything but lust demented.

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arousal belly muscles flaccid, flabby, floppy, a touch a whisper inside navel’s skin and belly muscles turn steel, sinew, stone, rage hidden inside muscular tongs lashes, crushing vertebrae into disjointed links with a hyena bite as ankles lock around waist and my two halves ask for the pity of dying inside that adytum of shivering poetry and thirsty quicksand, your hunger sated, my death confirmed, you allow me to suckle the rigidity of flesh amidst the ruggedness of corona and endlessness of breast.

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between rhymes your little toe where shivers grow from whispers thin to tremors mean... I investigated it from head to... toe of toe, sounds funny doesn’t it? counted eccentric circles and concentric circles and open circles and scars and bits of peeling skin, lifting it closer to my eye to get a closer view, or so claiming and actually trying to get a better view there, where your skirt peeled higher and the thigh line met the cotton line met the thigh line and several tiny, rebellious curls evaded the cotton clasp unfurling lustful, spiraling ends out of the white shadow... was that a tiny, wet spot there spreading under my demanding regard and your ascending moans? I dared, stretched my index finger beyond your heel, beyond your knee, neared the spot, touched, pushed, tore, penetrated... rage or abandon as you tore me out of clothes and let the rest of me invade you plowing a blazing rut through your layers of cloth and flesh and the ceiling wrapped our struggle in a rain of stars and peeling plaster? a butterfly! a battle cry! the sunrise dies between your thighs.

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wound in womb not deafening thunder decibels following lightning, neither lightning preceding thunder with its thousands if kilowatt fire-horses making love to the heart of the blazing oak, silence. preceding the gasp. gasp, following silence, preceding silence. silence following gasp. before i touch. during. after. then pull away wallowing in perfumes and nectars and poems of that eternal wound in the womb which, this once, housed my humanity.

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like trotting elephants. like trotting snowflakes. heavy, loud, violent, like trotting elephants my lust poetry for you. like rut. like rave. like rage. none heavier than my desire. hushed, light, vulnerable, like trotting snowflakes my lust poetry for you. like wind. like waft. like whisper. none lighter than my touch. which do I choose? which do you choose? because the words are all the same.

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the source of life pull it down, the top line of your dress, pull it down beyond the mound of soft, white flesh that hosted the milk of life and the mound of hard, red fire that fed it, keep pulling, disregard snapping seams until you liberate the healed scar which adorns your belly and fed you your life, further, disregard my impatient howl and my impassionate rage, pull until the source of all life blinds the community of my senses and don’t give in to my demented demand until you reach mid thigh, and mid calf, and mid little toe and mid nothing and you are naked. and I will take your little toe in my mouth and suckle there the life of my poetry.

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Modesty Hand in hand? Letting the tree pass between us, or do we pass around it unclasping hands until it is gone and then we meet again the other side of it, what did we do with our hands? Hands? What did we do with the rest of our bodies as everything clasps with everything and trees keep shattering against that flesh boulder oblivious to anything but lust? We lie on our backs, your one hand modestly covering my modesty, your other hand modestly covering your eyes, my modesty does not carry as far as yours, I jump to my feet giving up on the pleasures of modesty coverage and start pulling dandelion heads blowing waves of lazy pappi upon your prostrated body, watching them hang to your scalp’s hair and eyebrows’ hair, and eyelashes, and nose hair and no, you shaved your armpits but they do hang to... Stop! I stop enumerating. Which does not stop me from watching further as they settle in imperfect v shape turning the shadow to milky, puffy snow calling, inviting, demanding. You worked so hard to cover my modesty, now you wish to uncover it? You formulate my thoughts into words, my desire into and awkwardly phrased invitation, I kneel, approach, blow... softly, oh, so softly... the snow melts, the shadow emerges, the glint... oh, madness... I swoop pounce my mouth assaults your modesty baring it, revealing it, climbing along a fluttering belly until mouth meets mouth and modesty meets modesty clasping, penetrating, clouds of pappi billowing all around us together with clouds of butterflies and apple-flower pollen in envy. And wonder. Hand in hand, the tree jumping above the hand clasp, your free hand dragging my clothes, my free hand clutching the bunch of pappi still carrying your intimate essence.

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Top Of The Food Chain Even your dog, if you had one, would have bitten me if he knew my thoughts of you. In envy. Even your parrot, if you had one, would have clawed my flesh away and stick a dangling piece on each of his talons for the world to see and beware, if he knew of my thoughts of you. In anticipation. The sun, you have three, one in the sky two in your eyes if he knew of my thoughts of you would have burned me from the inside out and then from the outside in leaving just a charred skeleton with a stone dangling from its neck an example to warn and to follow. In impotent, celestial rage. You don’t. Why? I am human. So? Better? Worse. Promise? Fact. You locked the door from the inside, two turns, all three locks. Then let the keys drop out of your hand, out of the window, one by one, and before the first had time to somersault once on the asphalt all twenty three stores below you bit. Armageddon, the little grand-grand-grand-son of you. I was still alive, though feeling like food at the top of the food chain. Why didn’t you say? You wiped my body with your skin. You didn’t ask.

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Lover Don’t fall in love with me I am not lover, I am sun. Ablaze in his own ferocious, pompous, self-imposed destructive inferno. Sunflowers, poppies, don’t follow me, don’t make love to me or you will die in the fire and I will not even know.

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White So, you decided to wait for the knight in white armor, the one astride a white winged beast preferably a horse, horse hide color irrelevant. Reality about to come knocking at knocking down your door, he comes, maybe, at most wearing a white t-shirt driving, maybe, a white Fiat Punto, maybe a Ford Focus, maybe not white, maybe with unmatching tires, maybe he won’t come at all. Happiness, made of grains, you remember the one you did not grab dropping in front of you aching for you, you stepped over, around, beneath, beside looking for the knight, hoping at least for the t-shirt... gravitation mercilessly pulling the grain down, grains fall, shatter, dust rolls with the wind. You watch yourself in the mirror, the only white in your hair, and the hole in your heart the size of the Sahara.

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Leonard Cohen I let the Leonard Cohen slide in, pushed the button to the relevant track and turned the volume to maximum, waiting. What did I expect, an Earth shattering experience, a miracle? The sounds started flowing. I waited a few more moments then started reducing the volume, until zero. Silence. The insolence of silence. Like the Waltz that never was. Like the end.

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