Lover The ribbons round your ankles red, blue, green, yellow, the ribbons round your wrists blue, red, yellow, green, the ribbons tying your hair into unruly bouquets yellow, red, green, blue, purple, turquoise, amethyst, ruby, rose, lilac, cymbals, naked the rest of you skin, skin, skin... You jumped from tile to tile skipping one, skipping two, skipping reclining me as you balanced an apple walking on your toes along the bed frame dropping it for an orange then for cherries hanging down your ears then a cork still dripping wine then chasing a speck of dust reflecting early rays which you tried to keep on the tip of your nose, I had problems defining you as belonging to the grasshoppers family, or frogs family, or gazelles, or swans, or humans of female gender or lovers... I made a mistake opened the window... did not think of defining you as butterfly when you squeezed through the thin crack and flew away. I cried. Don’t cry, I felt the weight of a garden rest on my shoulder and the perfumes following and the rustling of beetles and the chirrup of birds and the tickle of centipedes and your breath smiling with a logic of its own as it dragged all of you back into the room. I rushed to close the window while you walked upside down on the ceiling humming to yourself my songs and your words and heavy drops of rain with thick honey cores. I brought you a present, you said, smirking. You undid all your ribbons then undid all my clothes then placed the drop of sun you held in a fisted hand between your lips and offered me death by fire. Did you fly all the way to the sun? I asked, incredulous. No, silly, you let the cymbals answer with your toes playing, I stole it from you, I just flew out to cheat some buds into opening. You were probably lying, your story made no sense, and I lay down on the floor watching you tie ribbons to clothes to rugs to bed sheets to the chair leg and sending the other end through the glass into the other sun then waiting for flaming marbles to roll back into the room and pose as falling stars... so childish of them... while you insisted that I join you on the ceiling making love upside down amongst buzzing flowers.

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Act glints, salt saturated lakes trapped between bellies, chests, clasping palms, tiny rivulets staining bed sheets as insurgent bodies pound each other for the right to momentary death and resurgence. spasms, body flooding body with the strange perfumes of intimate liqueurs, drunken mouths invading bitter crevices as pieces of flesh insist on changing owner groping for a hold in and around and through slippery curves. moans, decaying into the gasping finale of an orchestrated bodily debacle, chain links breaking away from ankles as nails pull back from perforated skin and a chunk of shared humanity threshing incoherently breaks apart. quiet, fingertips dip somnolently into wetlands liberated of susurrant fires, pupils regain a round innocence lost for few moments as welding fireworks sizzle out behind eyelids and wounds refuse to release their clutch on wounds whispering love.

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Autumnal Up to my knees in rotting leaves, stank, mud and breaking twigs and frightened bugs crawling into boots with chilly rain drops trekking between collar and shivering shoulder blades... another armful of autumnal death into the plastic sack, bend, grab, unbend, shove, bend, grab... that terrible pain cutting my spine’s tail end... bend, grab... fingernails the black of starless midnight splintering, unbend, shove... your hand... Your hand? your hand, what is your hand doing sliding there between belt and flesh groping for the obviously primitive side of me and with one mighty heave dropping me on the rot careless for the mud and breaking twigs and frightened bugs as it frees me of unnecessary modesty and my bare bottom half matches your bare bottom half... where those your skirts flying overhead?... who gives a damn about the sudden downpour soaking into garment leftovers and cleansing bared flesh busy with that untalented poetry called making love in the dirt while the steam exploding underneath our messy entanglement kicks geysers up to treetops’ last hanging leaves turning them soggy dust? We lie, hugging, shamelessly exposing the naked paleness of after love and mud dresses us and breaking twigs bite us and frightened bugs dry fat behinds to the warmth of frolicking whiffs emanating from laborious breath and skin refusing to unweld from skin.

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Eyes the eyes of pain lining the insides of fingers pushing against chest looking at a heart locked in the prison of ribs chanting lonesomeness. the eyes of passion lining fingers twining fingers pushing against chest crushing breast inside a twin hold aiming to quash heart’s chant and seed it shared fire. eyes lining ceiling and walls and bed sheets watching fingers and hearts and breasts and ribs ignite smarting in the smothering smoke rising from shapeless smoldering bodies.

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Silhouette You admired yourself in the full length mirror naked, frontwise, then sidewise, then... Halt!... I shouted as you were about to turn backwise and as you froze I picked up the scissors and started cutting out your silhouette in the glass. You cannot cut the glass with your scissors, you remarked, nevertheless not daring to move and pulling an upset mumble back from me... Everybody tries to tell me what I can and can’t do with my fantasies... as I kept cutting and chopping at curves and angles. It was easy to follow the ankle line, the curve up to your thigh and waist and spine, it got tougher with your hair as I worked out ends and splits, moving on to your front... forehead, nose, a complex eyelash, down, neck, a nipple surrounded by tiny skin pimples took a while, smoothly on down your belly a mess of intricacies round your intimacy your knee toe in then toe out then toe in... And now if I move then all you see reflecting is chairs, walls, no more the softness of me and the paleness of me and the shivering skin of me... shaped glass, spiritless. True, I concurred, picking up the silhouetted mirror and letting it drop to the floor breaking into a few big shards, hundreds of small shards and silver dust. You smiled and puffed out of my existence. I started collecting the big shards, the small shards, the silver dust, and then painstakingly began sticking them to each other. This will keep me alive now for that little stretch of eternity until you puff into my life once again.

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Your Words your words undress me, soak into my clothes turning them to mush and as the forming mud starts sliding down to my ankles your hands slide in its wake ironing my skin caressing intimately my flesh cleansing, soothing, inviting. I collapse in a quivering heap void of collagen and keratin and dentin, liquid flesh enchased with shapeless crumbs of desire now seeping through the carpet into floor cracks flooding contorted worm canals to the finality of concrete cavities. wait... you write inside my lingering mouth and drag me like a limp blanket atop of your nakedness saving me from the cavities and the canals and the cracks bathing in me, wallowing in me, my flesh in turn cleansing you and penetrating your welcoming insides absorbing strength, gulping life as collagen and keratin and dentin and veins and tendons and muscles conquer my deformities turn me flesh turn me body turn me human-he until once again your words dress me fever devastating.

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FireWheels Don’t bare the flesh above your knee, sitting by my side as the one hundred fifty diesel horses between my legs pull us at one hundred and fifty miles an hour away from pieces of screaming asphalt cracking behind right into the tunneling air ahead and a dying distance to somewhere uncared. Keep your hand... in your pocket, if you don’t have one then sew one and then sew it closed keeping that struggling hand locked inside a textile prison away from impulsive mischief and stubborn insubordination to reason. No, don’t lean my way forcing my eyes into the promised valley and my nose into the apple of your hair and my mouth trying to save its tongue from the vise of your teeth, the deathly temptation of sin beating against the windshield ravishing your body through my senses. Sorry, I give up, the metallic silver spins agonizingly into a tree and I bare your flesh beyond your waist and free all hands from the tyranny of prisons and plough the valley and fist the hair and as my tongue loses its virginity under the guillotine of your teeth the shower of exploding glass and splinters and rubble severs our skin amidst the agony of bodies sacrificing sanity on the altar of exploding tires and shared ecstasy.

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Songs Of Love oh, lady of alabaster breasts, tainting my thoughts carmine with the sin of eudialytes enchased in the blinding white pouring your dragoness blood into that wound of mine called mouth. don’t hide your beauty inside the confines of smothering silk and gashing lace imposed upon you by a world ignorant to the delicacy of the art of flesh masterfully sculpted by a hand not mine for pleasures mine. braid yourself into sunshine fibers before grabbing the kite of your discarded cloth and attire and flying sunwards to dump them into the unforgiving furnace following your nakedness back to earth your hair on fire. your scream of abandon sings enveloping me inside its bell ridden gossamer-fragile thrill and as I gulp down your red offer of blood and fire and flesh blindfolded by your encircling thighs you sip my life through one limp hanging thumb.

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You Laughed I will hide the moon behind the sun, if you tell me, I will pull a bouquet from beyond the mirror, if you tell me, I will write poetry aligned right and rhyming left, if you tell me. You laughed, sadly. So easy your travails. I tell you and you paint the sun on page one and the moon on page two, I tell you and you put the mirror in front of a garden and jump over it, I tell you and you write your poetry in Aramaic. Will you love me, if I tell you? Yes, I answered. You laughed, sadly. Kiss me, you said, Caress my hair, you said, Make love to me, you said. I tried, I failed, so many the miles. See? you said, you cannot kiss me, caress my hair, make love to me. You laughed, sadly. I hate sadness, yours. I pulled the moon away and hid it behind the sun to show off, crawled into the mirror's silver and gleaned a huge bouquet to prove it possible, wrote you poetry aligned right and rhyming left, in English...           sing the nightingales with morning             spring invades your naked breast ...yet it still did not seem enough. You still laughed, still sadly. I cannot kiss you, I said, true. I cannot caress your hair, cannot make love to you, true And yet I love you, I said, and you did not tell me. Isn't this what you asked? I waited. You laughed.

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Apassionata Break your nails, peeling the oranges to feed me and the paint off enshrouding clothes to bare me and the bark off trees pushing against your arching back as I gulp those chunks of flesh cowardly deserting you and tie you with my clothes’ tatters to the blazing bed of an excoriated trunk to paint you with lascivious eyes. Call in the rain, to extinguish the bed and the flesh and the flaming flowers field cleansing your body from yesterday for tomorrow when I will once more cup my hands and sweep your pouring sweat till overflow to drench my food in your salt and quench your thirst with my offer of invading ecstasy and carnal tenderness. Don’t name it passion, name it art and mirth and abandon and majesty the blue trails of tongues lashing at an infinity of skin plains calling defiance upon a cloudless sky and the red of fatigue and the yellow of sleepless nights and the unbearable white of sunless body hideouts mystifying all self proclaimed connoisseurs of the perfection in the mastery of lust. Clean the tip of your pen, in your mouth on my cottons rip it through the bedding losing all those letters which would have become words to poems as seduction takes over your mind and insanity is tamed into temptation and as we sink into a barrel of last year’s rotten fruit and foliage the leftovers of our bodily secretions ferment into the liqueur which drove inebriated gods into that single moment of chivalrous sanity to create desire.

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Poor Mercurius Hallucinating The eyelid descends for a microsecond lifting upon a you older by a microsecond more beautiful by centuries. I try it again, and you are older by one additional microsecond and millennia older is your beauty. I do not dare try it once more, lest I turn a mercury blob rushing my shaky self your way splitting into brothers and sisters the many times twins and triplets and sextuplets of me getting lost down sewers, lining bottoms of rat hideouts, drops of me imprisoned forever in thermometers glass and battery compounds and tooth fillings until all that is left over to reach you is insufficient to grow to anything bigger than a stain on your carpet to be chased by the cat. I blink. Better a stain on carpet near you then skin inside clothes away from so much beauty.

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Crudely Metaphorless Piece for piece, I removed your shirt you removed my shirt, I removed your bra you removed my singlet, shoe for shoe, sock for stocking... I found myself naked long before you shivering as I continued unveiling your skin’s art, I was cold... was this the reason? I reached the last piece, the paramount, the ultimate, your panties flew out the window and as someone three floors below started cursing (the idiot, cursing his bliss...) I cupped my hands over your breasts letting the nipples stiffen between thumbs and forefingers and allowing you to pull me over you loins joining over an ecstatic bed singing its monotonous creaking melody attuned to our harmonious undulations, your ankles locked around my waist your fingers locked into my spine your mouth locked upon my tongue ensnaring enslaving encroaching skins melting into each other dragging behind flesh, muscles, bones, reason until that amorphous shape once defined as us flowed through the bed sheet texture, mattress sponge, bed cracks soaking into the thick carpet like the syrup of roses and jasmine and flamboyant sunflower flames... Oh, sorry, promised no metaphors, guess that reality is so much stronger than me, poet.

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tableau in white creaking snow, dead leaves, the almost dark between almost night and almost passed day... a magical outline of earthly white against dying celestial fire and a lone wolf howling in the faraway invisible forest for beauty? of hunger? in search of mate calling me for a tumble in the snow before wet muzzle turns growling fangs showing off to the pack? your hand in my pocket, my hand in my pocket, my other hand blowing your red nose into the cold hankie afraid to fall in the spell and fire of those bright eyes reflecting the death of day and the birth of bewitchment... which one is more beautiful? you... I say closing each eye with a kiss and the mouth with two. no other shoe traces in the snow, just the four trailing us and then just two for as long as it takes me to carry you to the white laden bench where I sit with you in my lap and as the melting snow partly soaks into my pants chilling my flesh and partly drips, building tiny icicles underneath me, you shove cold palms inside my coat inside my shirt almost inside my skin testing my stony nipples my shivering muscles and that steaming locomotive continuously ramming its way out of my chest and straight into your cupped palm. you don’t say – I love you, you write it right between my ribs. I say it for you. I love you.

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beast the beast bellows its violent reds down under the curving west imploring me to open once more the gate, way across, lest it dies. I inherit the bellow, the violent reds, sinking them into your curving flesh knowing the key to birthing east hides in the torn flowers of your dress and that of your skin’s crushed pollen escaping my hunger. you will need the blue too, you remind me breaking the vials lining your eyes trusting me with the last of world’s liquid velvet. I rush eastways once more, just in time to unlock the gates and the beast bellows its anger anew watching its lover in my mortal’s arms, cursed in its eternity and eternally dying love and dying lovers. I wonder who will open the gates after us? no one, there’s no love after us, you whisper once more accepting the bellow and the violent reds as your dress’ flowers blossom into tatters between my fingers and the pollen tints the velvet once more into sun.

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Regression when fingers touch before bodies when eyes touch before fingers when love is a word yet unborn budding in the shared womb of eyes which did not yet touch and hearts on a questing trail and shivering pieces of skin unfamiliar yet with shivering pieces of skin is when you know that eyes will touch before fingers, following, before bodies, following, and hearts flicker into the inexistence of eternity and skin simply... burns

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Kshiraniraka twine my fingers to your toes, then my toes to your toes... the other ones, roll your hair to the nape of my neck hiding us under the farrago of your tousle as your nose squashes into my cheek and our teeth twine and our lips knot fourteen times seven for each day and seven for each of your body’s wonders, wash your soiled silks in the lakes of my mouth beating them against the boughs lining the insides of my chest and the stones cowering beneath my navel and the white bones carrying memories of you puncturing my hide and my skin and my fur from the inside, stretch them to dry neck to tied wrists to tied ankles hardly aware of burning smells in the guttural noises escaping a constricted throat busy drinking you, twine the insides of knees to insides of elbows armpit to crotch to armpit to crotch waiting for the prison of mouth to release the viper of creeping tongue, dribbling poisons of sesame and rice and milk and water into the prison of mouth awaiting wide open underneath with its sleeping slithering viper coiled inside ready to braid into one stiff carnal trunk with limbs and bellies and palms and shoulders and cremated seeds of orange and sunflower and apple and plum, wash your toes inside my cupped palms wash your nipples inside my cupped palms drop the memories of milk and the salt of sweat and the bleeding drops of roses to disturb the clarity of water into a bubbling mire of scrumptious wines and strawberries mush for you to drink and feed me with, delicious mouth sating ravenous gorge.

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Rewriting I remember an airport a man at the airport a hug, a smile, I was scared, he kissed me, his hug... I remember a woman ready to run away shy, turning to face me as I put my arms around her, returning my kiss, scared... I remember the room I took off her coat he undressed me, he touched my breasts for the first time I touched her breasts for the first time he undressed me completely, I undid his belt, I forgot his shoes I fell on the bed, the trousers around my ankles I laughed embarrassed, happy, sudden rioting in my mind she looked tense, she helped me out of the mess of clothes he touched me, my womanhood, his tongue aroused me I saw her, smelled her, tasted her, I raved for her, I raged for her we rolled under the sheets, over the sheets we rolled on the floor I screamed I howled we rested hugging the whole night, we made love again and again we rested hugging the whole night, we made love again and again. I remember a woman I will never forget giving me her innocence, her body, her love. I remember a man I will never forget taking my innocence, my body, giving me his love.

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Ascension no, not a rhyme I want but a poem, not drops but rain, forget the ridiculous winds for the hurricane and cataclysm for the chaos. regard me, as my howl works its way into nightingale and the thorn breaks into velvet the desert fills a glass of water and loneliness ascends into you. paint my lips green while violet shoots through my tip of tongue and watching the yellow of rubies ooze between my fingers teach me the other colors of your world. I walk wondering at the wings to my toes and the laughter trailing me as air invades the space of my passing... when did you touch your marvel into me?

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Première I looked at my public, all the one of it, and I asked ain’t my inkwell summer spilling from the tip of angel quills and my fingers pearls milling clothing passion’s roving hills, don’t the sun immerse desires in those words emblazing ears as a flare my wrist inspires with its glowing souvenirs? you looked up at me from the dusk of a dim lit hall smiling I have counted stars a million stumbling as I danced along to the sounds of dreams emerging with my waking morning song once I tasted of that potion steaming from your paper’s crust with inebriating flavors born in seeds of rhyming lust. I turned on the lights, pointing to the empty rows of chairs in that huge hall, tens, hundreds, you the only spectator, first row, middle. you stood up, swaying provocatively to the last row, leftmost chair, sat in it, clapped your hands, moved to the next, sat, clapped, next, next, row after row after row, all the chairs, finally back to the first row, middle. I will be your choice of witness writing verses with my mouth as you move the northern speckle into skies descending south and if wayward be your poem ruffling passers’ prissy glares I will bare your skin with sunset painting lust with dying flares. you closed your eyes all your senses reduced to nothing except for your hearing as I listen to the rustle time your skirts are flitting by and impressions stir and bustle creeping through my dimming eye, I will know to win my battle when your hands invade my shores and your mouth’s oppressing rattle lashes fire through my pores. you floated over to me and we made love there, on the stage, the theatre burning around us.

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Daydreams Night falls into morning. You pass through the flavors rituals skipping in your mind a few less pleasant to start with and focusing on mint, coffee, lipstick... where does the jasmine originate from this cold morning?... oh, a passing old lady's invasive perfume as you hurry towards the bus where you find it impossible to skip some other unpleasant favors... gasoline, sweat, unwashed socks and bubble gum smelling of old tires... You close your eyes hanging to the handhold and jumping a few miles, thousands of them finding yourself dangling from my loincloth as I jump from tree to tree yowling Tarzan style grabbing you by the hair (there's an alligators infested swamp underneath), both of us hoping that your tattered bra falls by its own accord saving us some unnecessary work later on. You smile, then wince in sudden pain as an old matron steps on your toe moving from the back of the bus to the front not even apologizing. No, not the one with jasmine, this is one with sweat and huge buttocks as your toe knows already. You bend to peep through the window, still some way to go, and you close your eyes trying to reach the mosquitoes infested jungle once more, in vain. You sigh, settling for a lagoon and a lizard creature resembling me in general lines and freaking the shit out of you... you laugh aloud startling yourself into opening your eyes and looking at grim faces crowding you in, surprised at your laughter and envious of your dreams. They pull a bit away, one never knows... drugs, sex maniac, foreigner?... Two stations to go, who will it be the one for the last stretch?... Superman, Spiderman, Batgirl... oops... you blush peeking around, hoping no one heard... no one heard... Batman, Flash Gordon, Woody Allen?... this time you don't hold it in, exploding in a tear ridden laughter, the widening circle around you helping you to skip off the bus, throwing kisses to indignant passengers carrying on. The day might be a nice one after all. You pull the collar tight around your neck and kiss one chosen at hazard - Superman - promising me that the only long johns you will ever be interested in investigating their content are mine. Liar! I do not wear long johns, I shout back letting you nevertheless investigate their contents and tell me your impressions long after you finish your hysterical hiccupping.

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Escaping The Quiet I snap my fingers, first thumb and middle finger then thumb and ring finger, try other combinations... doesn’t work, the sound dull, uncommitted. I try rapping the table top with my fingers better luck there, all five fingers inclusive the thumb, sounds good on a wooden table top, not perfect. I wish I could play guitar, or banjo, or violin, what the hell – even cymbals would do or the breaking of a window or the snapping of a match. I sneeze... thank God for little favors. I sneeze again, God seems to be listening today. I love you, I don’t hear and I would give a full poem for hearing it now, even a book... well, a thin book. How thin? pips a voice from somewhere undefined and I hurry to snap and rap and sneeze just to wake up from the hallucination. How thin? pips the voice once more this time pip-snapping and pip-rapping and pip-sneezing as well, kind of telling me... what? that I am pip-sane? haha... How thin? and I know there will not be a fourth. As thin as all yesterdays tied to all tomorrows minus one hour for love making. Every day? Every day. I love you, I hear. I started long time ago, I will not finish long time ago to come as I pass it, living for the one hour a day when I live all that I write in all yesterdays tied to all tomorrows minus the one hour.

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Washing Your Toes pour the warm water between your toes, think of it as rain feeding your toenails summer flowers in winter. do not let it reach your ankles, let it be my job to dip fingertips to the bottom of the bowl and drag them up till ankles are a remote memory and the flowers find secret ways to seed heaven helped by hesitating fingers. open the skies then close them again after you lose your virginity to my roaming senses, do not insist as the sky refuses to close inhaling smells of you and perfumes of the dance your toes lost to the water. spill the bowl and follow the steaming trail to the sea, watch waves curling into fluttering sheets ointing your body blue and covering your nipples shells and your toenails pearls.

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Possessions What’s more to life than flesh? I asked. Poetry, she said. Yours will be poetry, flesh, life, she added. I have already all these, I said. Mine, she said.

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Intro past the age of love... ever? children reaching out to it teenagers groping for it adults tasting it biting it gulping it mouthfuls and I. and I? I look backwards, forwards I was. all. I am. all. reaching, groping, tasting it biting it gulping it mouthfuls. I cut my flesh finding me past the age of love. past the age of love? maybe. past the rage? never.

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Splash drops, sliding from my eyes not tears sweat. they never hang long enough to my eyelash to reach down to you without breaking damn body and physics next design should make us sweat rubber or plastic or ridiculous stardust. drops, landing to your eye corner sliding down your cheeks rejected by the soggy pillow to follow the sad destiny of tiles and splash. splash. you cry, i say looking down at your flaming body. i do, you unquestioningly accept my verdict and one more drop as i penetrate your adytum once more my outsides rasping against your insides and the splash turns tide.

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Telekinesis My Foot Do you want me to write a poem? Now? One minute from now? When? Just tell me. All I have to do is close my eyes and the poem writes itself, the pen scratching the paper, words following even after the ink dries and the sharp end breaks. Ha... telekinesis my foot. Three mind strands braiding to one mind string tying knots into words and tangles into sentences and no pen out there to resist temptation. Do you want me to write a book? It will take more than a minute. Give me a... day?

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Bottomless Cruelty I will not touch your nipple. I will watch your body thresh when scimitars overtake fingertips to cut through raw nerve ends populating the dense jungles of skull then chase them down the bony ridges of a disjointed spine as they pointlessly try to lose my sniffing hounds deep into that throbbing enclave at the crossroads of your body. I will invade the humidity of your mouth with the bite of sour cherry and the stank of consumed desire and the choking presence of burnt oxygen finding blessed relief from my exploding chest straight into your straining lungs as I steal gulps off your breath. I will turn your flesh screaming wound and your fingers groping claws to assail the softening tissues of my body on a momentary rampage for vengeance before your tattered skin yields its sob for soothe. then I will.

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Punctuationless Reflections the one behind you behind the mirror the one in front of you between you and the mirror and the one behind the mirror and you behind the mirror reflecting on reflections being symmetrical or asymmetrical or twins or mental interpretations of physical manifestations and why left is right yet up is not down when I struggle to unclasp your bra just watching the mirror and failing to the point of tearing the lace impatiently I’ll show you you said unlacing my shoes’ reflections losing your bet you behind the mirror a clumsy clone of you in front of the mirror and failing miserably too to the point of tearing the laces impatiently too other laces these four of us making love weird I am not one for a commune style I think kicking the guts of the mirror with a bare heel despairing to see before falling on top of you on top of the bed a thousand me’s falling on top of a thousand you’s on top of a thousand beds all over the floor one advantage I did have thank goodness I was the only one bellowing

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Proliferation Dementia after you touched the red spot of your finger spread all over my body like a varicella virus intent on using my body as its dance floor a spiked heel puncturing the delicate tissue of my skin through the delicate tissue of my flesh down to the delicate tissue of my heart where the heel rested the shoe dangling and dangling and dangling ceaselessly from it mocking passing time. before you touched sanity composed one character long sentences hesitating only between space and tab flowing upwards like the torrential rain of a backspace stuck key intent on conquering the ten thousand scribbled pages of the last of humanity’s quotations saved from all the annihilated replicae of the Old Testament and the Magna Charta and the Declaration of Independence the cursor beeping and beeping and beeping first screen top left its conqueror’s psalm. between you touched the meaninglessness of timelessness when Moebius makes all ends reach all beginnings and after’s are just a mockery of before’s and vice versa and languages are but the one before the tower of Babel aimed for the sky with humanity restricted to one man and his extra rib barren of colors and of music and of never ending recurrence of blossom. once more you do not make much sense to anyone, she said. are you anyone? I asked I am lover, she said and I did not have to ask further.

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Trade the moon deserted my face pulling its ships back from Ofir to the bay of your eye, leaving them prey to storms and upheavals and tears when afraid to drop anchor inside the blue they sank with chests of Coriander and Frankincense and Pomegranate... you batted your eyes and splashed my upper lip with Myrrh and Cypress and sons of Lilac, the leftovers of pagan rites and drunken mornings of fingers smearing Aloes in exchange of Cumin between toes and around dancing ankles. I jumped in the puddle pieces of moon spraying up to my knees and as I lost my footing sliding on my back you landed in a grand écart next to me offering me the only incense I did not yet own... your femininity.

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Salad Cutting the tomato flesh, cutting the cucumber flesh, cutting the radish and the avocado and the eggplant the nick in my finger dripping red mixing with the oil and the vinegar and the yoghurt and the salt burning a blazing trail into my stream with onions poisoning my eyes and hot peppers cutting my entrails to curling ribbons. Miss you. I sink hungry teeth in the concoction unfamiliar with the taste of crunched olive seeds and stone hard rice grains mysteriously sneaking in as I munch mindlessly whatever hits the insides of my mouth, the iron of the fork screeching as it bends under the enamel battering with my tongue threshing around looking in vain for sanctum inside that insane manhole again and again bleeding its pain under the careless onslaught. Miss you. Anything else is... anything else. One more savage bite and half a garlic bulb joins the masticating orgy cloves and parchment and scape leftovers prey to human t-rex I, tears exploding in elysian stenches of diallyl sulfides while allicin joins sodium chloride and capsaicin to engineer the blazing trail to blazing highway and my entrails to molecular kites dying each in its own sun as the rest of my body sinks into a sea of fishing hooks and mermaids. Miss you. How the hell to tell you that?

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The Pain Of Seasons In one and thousand summer trips I stole red roses from your lips And left the beds all cracked and dry For seeding lawns of bitter rye. In some and many winter calls Your lungs have died in sudden squalls When mouths unheeding reason’s mind The melting white with fire twined. In more and often autumn nights Your breasts alight between the bites I dressed your wounds sweet balsam taste And wrapped your chest blue sunset waste. In all and dead and birthing springs I braided sparks inside your wings When glowing ashes seized your down I heard a smile inside your frown.

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Trying, Word Of Honor I don’t write you good poetry. I don’t write you gratifying, elevating, glorifying poetry. I don’t write you poetry at all. Just words chained to each other by spaces and commas and carriage returns... ha, carriage returns, anachronistic expressions just like my words, just like love, glove, dove, words and expressions I impudently call poetry. And yet there is so much more I wish to say. I start pulling drawers, I check behind mirrors, beneath shaking tiles and inside wall cracks, places where I might have hidden some ideas, some flash and tremor and those pieces of sun I patched over with mud for humanity not to know of my theft and selfishness... where might I have stored these the many years ago when I burned my feathers and my eyelashes and eleven of my ten fingers sneaking into the garden of gods and filling my pockets lumps of glowing coal? I try to cry, maybe the sizzle will guide me... in vain, no trace. Funny, I suddenly laugh, imagining the mud burning away and the black holes on the sun’s face like missing teeth, like runners up a nylon stocking. And maybe it was all just the creative throes of a sick imagination? I try. I run ahead of you, throwing pieces of broken biscuits in front of your shoes listening in satisfaction to the crunching sounds of breaking texture and crumbling crystals of salt and sugar and baked flour not unlike the sounds of feet stepping on snow, or on crystal goblets, or on my outstretched fingers trapped there between sole and asphalt... so many birds chasing your heels and picking the manna hopping around your legs and sometimes fluttering up underneath your skirt as you laugh and shoo them away and I die in envy watching blinding pieces of white flesh and imagining the fire burning at the crossroads... maybe a piece of sun too? I forget my hand on the chair, just as you sit down, you don’t have to believe me of course whatever tale I tell of oops and ouch and so sorry as we both know I lie my life into hell just for the satisfaction of enduring your terrible revenge when you let all of your so and so many pounds of flesh and years of age and perfumed underwear crunch the joints of my bones in between the chair’s slats rocking back and forth on two legs and taking into your lap a few tomes of Encyclopedia Britannica for added effect... nothing to deter me as I try to squeeze my second hand underneath as well and you hop delightedly up and down the tomes squashing my toes falling in perfect undisciplined order and opening at passages from the Iliad and Romeo and Juliet and Antigone which I read grunting drunkenly under the heavenly onslaught of your bouncing softness. I chase you down the hill way to the chilly river unlacing your shoes off your dancing feet and you do not tumble undoing your clothes while making love to you and you do not tumble stuffing it all in bulging pockets until I look like a boulder and you lithe like a withe bears chasing the honey in your dragging garments and bees the exploding seeds in your hair, I trip on your shadow I stumble into water spiced with ice needles marking the way for you to follow and turning iceberg while you turn torch... never seen water dressing foam crinolines to your hips and sand turning glass sandals to your ankles and pebble geysers dripping gilded fish to swim inside your eyes and your finger pitilessly penetrating my belly button turning me slaving flesh to your beauty once more. I tried, see? You don’t see. You simply drag me to the bed making sure we reach it naked and teach me what fantasies are made of. I am not sure I will remember, you will have to teach me again...

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Brain cogs, and wheels, and cogwheels, sliding, biting, locking into the chemical transmission belts of my brain the bearings struggling a bit before, finally, running smoothly as bone balls roll inside well oiled grooves moving one finger, then another, then both, and irepeatable icopyable imperfections start spilling whatever it is my brain considers art. blue skipping from frown to frown hanging on to wrinkles well anchored to my skin and history, warmth looking for the shivers mistakenly identifying the needles of pleasure for icicles, lilac, oh, my famous lilac emanating from the holes in my heart and losing its war with the forest of shrubs enveloping my skull to finally cry flowers. clicks, the electronics taking over from the mechanics, yet still clicks, a real world competing with a chemical world until I snarl into the contraption’s mouthpiece irate at being disturbed and the suavity of familiar octaves buzzes its saw through mental shields shredding my ears, tapping a melodious code and sculpting with tiny air fingers another kind of art upon my eardrum feeding the fuel of life straight into my brains. I love you, says the voice turning my snarl whimper and my fangs wool and cogs and wheels and cogwheels turn liquid mush oozing alongside that stupid grin you plant on my face.

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White Clover I pilfered from kingdoms of feather and down Nine fathoms of lining to cushion your gown, Three mountains of sand and my choler of hammer To clothe you in pollen’s immaculate glamour, Three hundred then twenty the ribbons of silk And forty the barrels of dragoness milk To wrap you with layers of wild oleander While heralding stories of magic and candor, The splendor of perfume in yellow of wheat To gather the gale and the wind at your feet And whispers incrusted in butterfly’s chatter A violin’s velvet mid tresses to scatter... My lover, no softness will cosset my skin Not down and not pollen, nor sweet violin, You know of my healing and know my desire The softest of summer’s resplendent attire... I knew of that bed in the haunt of your nights The longing ensnaring your heart to its rites, I pulled up my sleeves and I smiled, bending over, Uprooting the roses and planting white clover.

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24 Hours The morning drags its weary bones through paths descending west In wake of fretting grains of night ascending sunset’s crest Themselves in chase of parting eve astride a dying day Rekindled into birthing light as morning slinks away. The circle’s done and never breaks and tulips hatch on silver lakes... A crawling blob of primal hell infests your eastern sill Vaingloriously pouring in, intent on mindless kill, You let its tendril touch your skin beneath the linen sheet And beast turns helpless snuggling cub asleep against your feet. You pull the sheet to let the larks invade the sneezing sky Then hordes of giggling butterflies escape your winking eye The crawling blob turns mighty sun and boils away the sea While snowbells bloom between your toes to dance your love for me. The morning’s done a stifled yawn crowns birthing day’s majestic dawn... Old lizards lose heroic tails at war over your shoe, The one you lost inside the muck of earth inhaling dew When chasing bashful daffodils in love with snapping oak And wedding buds to drunken shoots beneath the shadow’s cloak. You limp your way inside the hug of carpets sprouting wheat As trailing sparks attack your hem, your crushing heel to greet, Then lie amongst the waving spikes allowing passing birds To pull your dress above the knee and sing you loving words. The day is done a fleeting smile a blushing cheek devoid of guile... A pod of whales, like warring gods drive sabers in the sun Then nail its bulk to ocean’s floor until the night is done, My fingers reach beneath your skirts in search of blazing skin The orcas playing songs to love in whistles long and thin. I rip your silk, you rip my shirt, we rip the burning sheets Then pull a dragon’s whiskered nose from mountain’s deep retreats And as he bawls his way to clouds to bathe us in his breath We let the feral beasts of love lay claim to raving death. The evening’s done inside the flame lie crumbling scraps of blushing shame... I watch your silent form, asleep, above a heap of rags, And touch your swollen bottom lip as sorrow gently nags, Your beauty shorn to flower stains of blue and red and black Upon your breasts, between your thighs, around your curving back. I tie a ribbon to your wrist to scribe my rhyming plea Then dip a feather to your wound’s sweet-scented potpourri... When fingers clamp around my neck and bear me to your smile And shyly ask me, once again, to raise the dragon’s bile. The night is done when falling stars write tales of love inside the scars... The morning drags its weary bones through paths descending west In wake of fretting grains of night ascending sunset’s crest Themselves in chase of parting eve astride a dying day Rekindled into birthing light as morning slinks away.

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Chili Con Carne I tasted your flesh and before biting my eyes ran already streams and my nose rivers and my mouth sizzled... then I bit, and then I screamed cremated from the inside out caring not for the skin peeling backwards from my flesh as for your flesh pouring the red pepper of your nipples down my throat. Tequila? you asked mischievously riding my neck and ensuring death abandons duty under the onslaught of that deliciously cleaving chili con carne.

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Candle There is a candle in your chest. Yes, the size of a sun. I try to grab it, with hand, with hands, with mouth, all I get is burns third degree as it jokes and flickers and lashes. There is also love in my chest. The size of a sun? I don’t know, immeasurable. It soothes, caresses... Does it heal? ...heals. I try to reach it, I look up geological maps, astronomical maps, astrological maps, my hand, hands, mouth, burning, blisters exploding into water and blood and skin geysers. Where is it? I ask in desperation. Try my breast, you say and my hand and hands heal and my mouth dies... heaven is reached only after death, no?

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Mascara'ding dressed in your mascara, nothing else. tried to undress you completely using mostly lips, tongue. don’t pay attention, you said, comparing my state of undressing to yours and finding mascara the only difference. you took the pencil drawing two lines underneath my eyes. now we are equally dressed, you claimed, climbing on top of me. I guess I look like Rambo. you declined any comment and soon after I didn’t care. you cheated, there is mascara on your belly I complained later on, investigating. there is mascara on your belly too, you pointed out reminding me things I didn’t wish forgotten. let’s take care of it, you offered me your tongue and fingers and breasts. I accepted, offering you in return the rest of your skin.

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Love Writes wake up in softness the moon drags its velvet ships upon your cushions beneath your blankets don’t shiver it is not my hand it will come replacing velvet with skin and ships with fists opening to palms gliding my anchor drops into you moaning at the crossroads of civilization and wilderness the tsunami conquering your flesh crushing ships and palms and anchor sucking my life while ambidextrously writing your bloodthirsty verse upon my shoulder blades until sated you sleep in softness nectars of creation dripping slowly inside you

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Since Icarus I tied a ribbon to your waist, then ran away till it stretched tight and your feet left the ground losing your left shoe your skirt flapping losing the apple, you shrieked delighted frightened the first human kite since Icarus, hang on to that cloud!... I called out, hoping you heard me watching geese and cranes and storks stream past you crying indignation... absurd, a she-human flying?... damn sexist birds. I hesitated before... fly, lover, fly!... I called again letting go of my end of ribbon and running after the cloud, after you, until I hit a wild sow and fell headlong into stinking mud laughing my head off as the piglets started licking my face and the tuskless mom attacked my thick poetry tome grunting like a... boar. the heavenly view of pantiesless you desperately hanging on to that cloud flying to and fro above my head your skirt billowing your feet kicking losing your right shoe too larks zooming up and down feeding you strawberries and fermenting rotten cherries... I did not mind any more the piglets chewing my ears and it was mom now licking me again and again. you dropped on top of me the ribbon a monochromatic rainbow getting tangled amongst tree tops your cheeks an extension of your lips’ color your skirt a parachute, we hid underneath it feeding the boars green apples and making love.

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d-e-s-i-r-e i paved the road to you cobblestones each marked with a single letter d-e-s-i-r-e randomly sunk into clay floating on sea floating on magma. i looked for those stains spelling desire right to left or left to right or at knight’s jump dragging you from one to the other and making love to you rooting in the clay or splaying in the sea or frying in the magma. sometimes i looked for days and you would find them before me thirsty inventing symmetries and geometries forcing your ankles to my knees and your knees to my head and as our joined uncountable knees jumbled we misspelled every possible combination of knees and letters in petrifying clay and drying sea and bubbling magma. we looked behind us those desert spots in that endless oasis or the other way around where letters chased lizards chasing flies chasing letters and the memory of our riotous passage was magnificent clay pearls inside sparkling sea pearls inside exploding magma pearls. shall we do it again? i asked and you just clammed up dragging me wordlessly backwards and failing to spell it all in reverse as our shivering carcasses illiterately knocked every single cobblestone out of its clay socket and sea grave and magma gurgling pit.

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Reflections you sloshed in the mud and a thousand moons jumped to life to die a crawling death from boot downwards to sole i tried to catch the one on the tip of your tongue yet it retreated hastily inside your mouth with tongue and summer open your eyes i commanded demanded begged but you refused knowing it to be moon’s last sanctuary i drew lines down your face with bitten orange and squashed cherry and crushed watermelon and slurped drunkenly those thousands of moons unable to hide from the ogre inhabiting my mouth before i undressed you i locked the forest and bolted the clearing and latched the burrows then laid your nakedness on the grass lone spectator to the shyness of that moon peeking from the depths of night’s blossoming pit

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Unborn Slide inside my shirt the whole of you, Wrap yourself around my torso a female ribbon snake pinching my nipple and yanking the hair on my chest and sinking tiny fangs between my ribs, Make love to me before undressing me foraging for clusters of grapes and odors of bitter cherries and deserted beehives still dripping the lives of long dead flowers, Undress me now letting mortality settle the hollow of your bite and spread its seed as I unwrap your coils and tie knots into your spine counting the days left of us, Don’t forget you carry my unborn love.

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Nature Bride A sun is hanging to your mouth by spider crafted threads, A swallows’ flight besieges crumbs amongst your morning’s shreds, And while your fingers dance the light Dispelling shrieks of crude delight A wayward wind bestrews its gusts upon your blooming beds. The clods of earth assail your toes with mud bequeathed tongues And climb toward your ankles’ pride upon bedraggled rungs, You laugh away the sleazy kiss Then reach inside your heart’s abyss Extorting words you’ll later paint inside your bursting lungs. You chase the erring golden moths beyond the shroud of night To touch inside the flimsy wings a dragon’s dreadful might And lay it over with your breath Before the coming trice of death Bestrides the little beasts with peace to glow inside your plight. You calm a mournful score of waves adrift upon a shore, You guide a bead of melting wax beyond a burning floor, And when the autumn creeps around You sit upon the rotting mound And try to cry your life anew inside that yellow gore. At peace, at last, the clothing dusk lays velvet to your skin, The grapes beneath your sleeping cheek allaying your chagrin, Inside your night you smell the oak, The stone, the root, the whiffs of smoke, Your lips bestowing on the world one tuneful violin.

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Cotton Killers dress your cottons white, the snow before touching ground the ire of magnesium flaring the blinding glare of a sun vainly trying to pierce the burnished face of silver, white. dress your cottons, white, from toes to ankle cup your breasts hug your essence drop from shoulders down to knees tie your hair circle your ring finger three times, white. I look at the pack of lupine cotton killers straining against their fetters, little finger to thumb, thumb to little finger, ten, the mightiest army facing your cotton since the day you were born ravenous in their adulation and worship and insatiable hunger for you, I unlock the seal pull the chain from the hoops... go! ten ogres attack your cotton fangs reaving and talons ripping and bills rending the toes to ankle and the cupping from breasts and the hugging from essence and the drapes and the ribbons and the rings baring to my eyes the white of your beauty and the tapestry of your uncovered skin and the blandishment of your hidden flesh, my pabulum. you killed my cotton, will you kill me as well? you ask and as I take over from the monsters still growling over the leftovers I shroud your toes to ankles in breath and wed your breasts to kisses and touch your essence with the magic wand of emboldened desire leaving your shoulders to knees inside my skin as your hair and your finger lash my chest with the white thread of cotton tatters.

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Hugging hugging water birds dragging long liquid tails between our chests and loins and thighs your wet hair sticking to my scalp while my eyelashes cut trails from the top to the bottom of your nipples. let us twine fingers as we light a holocaust under the water and our shared skin boils away and our twined toes break.

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Car Love Story a deep indent on your back round shaped after my steering wheel. I saw it when you removed your shirt and I removed my trousers and we removed everything else after. we were mindless before after to smells, stains, inconvenience, then looked for the discomfort of the back couch to snuggle into each other and sleep. next, the round indent will be across your breasts... I whispered into your hair temporarily leaving there the indent of five fingers each. the rain lulled us to sleep I first since, once I woke up, I found the indent of five fingers elsewhere.

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Double Parentheses I watch waves of sweat washing your body from the inside infiltrating my world through dilated pores and aroused skin bumps and swollen areolas from drop to blob to liquid bead flowing through the shallow gullies lining your sides and soaking till refuse into the drenched bedding. impatiently I pull the thick linen from underneath you and wring it above your sapless figure washing salt with salt until textile turns steel and sleep turns thresh when I crouch at your side waiting for the typhoon escaping my lungs to dry away the water and the honey and the milk. patiently I regard limpid crystals form on your skin adhering into sparkling worms on their way to become monster clusters when your body turns into a wondrous work of moaning art chastening into submission the shamefully exposed loins of Lot’s wife and the drying Dead Sea. I watch the violently dying glimmers of blinding white when I crush each and every lump in total disorder and my mind enjoys the sound of crunch seeding lurid blue roses inside your flesh as my thumb makes love to your skin.

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Duet in the series: guitar - in exactly 100 words I tap lightly on your ribs. Guitar, not xylophone, you laugh my gaucherie away forcing my talons out and in and down to draw five irregular strings across belly, dripping. A five string’ed one? I ask in wonder as my teeth start plucking the strings and your gaping mouth reverberates through all possible octaves from whisper to scream. Quindicesima? I suggest you sally forth beyond hearing limit watching the impregnated sun crack before glowing coal scraps enchase our shared loins. The ten contorted strings down my back evident only once I desert the linen and the awning of your body.

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Impatience in the series: guitar - in exactly 50 words before the door clicks out the world the ivory would have carved already its due and grapples dug culverts spine to rib and the nacre of buttons and the beads of necklace and the seam of cotton exploded your body the wailing fragility of guitar mine the irreverent stomping boot

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Guitar in the series: guitar - in exactly 25 words smashed it, to braid strings to your flailing hair and burn lacquered splinters incense to your altar and liberate my fingers to play your nipples

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when the guitar... in the series: guitar - in exactly 12.5 words dies i bury my sob in your belly. oh, those delightful, ascending perfumes...

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orchestrating the Heavenly Cacophony, Allegro in the series: guitar - in exactly 6.25 words mine: flute yours: intimately playing... ahmmm... lips

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Graveyard I sneaked in through the grill digging under tombstones to steal death its prey ripping thousands of strings from the eternally silenced mouths of smashed guitars and orphaned violins and pregnant cellos dead long before finishing birthing their grave oceans of beautiful sorrow and banjoes and harps and sitars and... I ran away losing part of my calf to the graveyard dog and my ear to silence’s swishing scythe, barely missing my artery and life. I hung them all in my forest from branches, and clouds, and birds then opened the door to your cage... run! I said and watched your savage shape run amongst the raining strings pieces of your skin tearing into the metal and pieces of your music tearing the metal back into vibrating life.

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Passing ten eyes five times two starting life when they rise upon me and ending it with their setting, the long sleep between life and life filled with the temerity of abducting my body and turning it into quivering beast and burning hell and so many moments of death. life between beast and beast and hell and hell and death and death lost in those gardens chasing you and forests uprooting themselves ahead of you to suckle straight into roots the estranged morsels of skin in the wake of your passing. and after ten the nothingness of wait.

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Present I dressed myself twenty nakedness layers to lure you into undressing me the ink of grapes and the lipstick of oranges and the incense of apples. This makes three, there are seventeen to go. You count? I undress. Me? Us. I went on, reaching eight, then eleven then thirteen, fourteen... try as I may I couldn’t get past sixteen. You jeered and you taunted and you fleered and you mocked cutting my socks to ribbons and filling my shoes overcooked pasta... nothing helped, I was stuck. And yet it is so easy, you finally relented undressing me the last layer, you.

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Woman In Pain You of so many tears like you had none, your eyes dry your smile sunny your knees... breaking, a steely mix of muscle and will the mortar keeping together your crumbling insides. Woman in pain. You walked away lithe, proud, leaving me with the tears and the twitching lip and the petrified regard into the imminence of nowhere, yet I knew once that motorized sliding gate into hell cuts you away from my world your knees will give and your sun cloud and your eyes flood the city in vain wait for those swans you were so desperate to make me see. Hey, just a moment, don't open your eyes... look! those reflections swimming underneath your lake's surface, aren't they your tomorrow's swans?

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Dance and after you raised your arms to the sides of your body and snapped your fingers alongside eyelashes falling down over eyes and the pendulum of earrings... and after you started undulating, flowing, and streaming and slithering and slinking and sliding your body boneless your bones jointless your joints gristleless one with the light running away and the sound pouring in... and after you let straps off shoulders and shoes off toes followed by stockings off thighs unable to let skin off flesh and into my groping hands... and before you allowed the linen taste your sweats and lick your nectars and substitute its skin for that of yours which I robbed... you danced then danced again then danced once more.

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Milk or Sun? my top lip still white of your milk, the one you bathed in the one you fed me with as your breast hung above my face missing my mouth and compensating for the shameful mistake with another try and another... how many before I emptied you of life? the dead sun looking for a place to be buried and finding it among the roots of your hair certain to resurrect once you decide it is morning and time for life once more when you lick away that thin film of milk asking if I want more of it, milk or sun? you ask. milk, I say, saving yet again the world allowing the sun unlimited freedom to explode outwards of your room and while it burns drapes and clouds and the eyes of the valiant the dew hanging on to your nipple turns milk drop missing my mouth again, on purpose? I ask knowing the answer and waiting for the dead sun to visit once more our dead bodies.

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Under The Snowbells trying to hide underneath the snowbells looking up at the divinity of white smell and the unending line of your calf. you find me putting an end to my invasion into your momentous glory when your toes fail to open my buttons and your teeth take over snapping the thread at times deeper than cloth at times deeper than skin finally standing up again to admire your deed. I grab your knee to pull you down faster than your clothes can follow and as your nakedness covers mine fluttering garments finally reach down covering us both and the crushed snowbells between our bodies tell me the real fragrance of intimate you.

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Fatherly I kissed you on the forehead. I hated it. A fatherly, brotherly, motherly kiss, a papal kiss, a butterfly could have done the same though it would have probably gone up in flames. You hated it too, I know. I felt you almost grabbing my lips with yours then saw you forcing your neck muscles to contract and the forehead to come in the way before turning leaving. I kissed you on the forehead. While all I wanted was just a tiny peck on your lips just a tiny flame to invade my mouth just a tiny rip of your cloth and a claw and a scream and a rage and a bath of sweat and the joined bellow there on the cold tiles in front of everyone. I spit the pearl in my palm the one I collected from your forehead hung it around my neck until next time. I promise to spit it back into your mouth and then burn those bodies inside our clothes until all which is left of us is a pile of ashes and the pearl rolling inside of it.

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Knots the world passes to my left, i look, not comprehending, doors open windows close cars pass... cars... strange word rhyming with wheels probably in another language. status quo... the rock group, not the status, beats its drums into my skull through ears and memories and feet tapping the sequence into the rest of my bones. i shatter into particles of i miss you. if i could love as much as i can i would probably die inside one day, even maybe one hour, or less. i love as much as i can, insufficient to die inside one hour or less. linguistic knots if whoever can understand. i wonder how it would feel to love you in your language. i know how it feels in mine.

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Almost Reality I live inside creation, visions of you splashed upon the walls crawling in a spectrum of colors and shapes eternally changing, like a drop of kerosene finding home upon a freshly accumulated puddle of rain chasing a child breeze into never reaching exhaustion. I drop a thought, a pebble, and the visions ebb into tri-dimensional tides sliding to the floor by sheer weight drowning my ankles, then my knees, before they reach my mouth I still have time to miss you and then they start pouring down my throat feeding me an almost reality. I wake up, wet and thirsty for reality.

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Definition your talents so many your lust for life so deep I think and wonder then think and stop wondering just admiring the saber forests you passed through and the sharp pebbles always carrying in your shoes and that ship you drag behind on dry sand your past and still when the sun hits your opening mouth it splashes luxuriously inside finding there the music and the color to carry back out before your mouth closes again to form the definition of smile

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Wet Memories when was it that I counted the wet hairs stuck to your scalp yet hanging with impunity and impossibility to reach lower down to hide those dangling visions from another world and passion? was it when I busted down the glass door forcing my naked presence in the same one tile sized cell on the same one wet tile and as toes were dancing their slippery balancing act I forced the foam down your roots and my lips down your throat? was it when you opened the glass door inviting just my rubbing fingers in not counting on the rest of the hands following and then the rest of body and attachments the end result being a fire the hot shower could not extinguish? or, was it when I lay you on the dry linen watching the stain spread around you and when I finished two thick towels on your body and one on your hair the following events allowed us no choice but to start it all over once more? remember? we had to use hankies on each other as the towels were all gone, just keep wondering who of us two had more fun. I don’t remember though what we did the third time around.

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Apparition As if the sun broke down into billions of liquid prisms the world drowning under a rainbows' deluge cracked windows and flushed faces and panicking owls looking for relief down fox burrows... I rush out running counter current to the torrent of humanity careful not to be crushed by the stampeding wave and the blind adulation of reflection. They all look up stumble open mouthed close brained taking in the power of the pouring skies while I kneel down next to the one human the source of all this wonder. How did you know? she asks blinking her eyelids tied to the colors. I watched you blink and the colors dying the same instant, I answer. Is this all? she asks. No, I answer, looking at the flowers cascading from her mouth.

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Wandering fall asleep upon my back, let me wander across hills and down gullies and up ragged rocks vertiginously steep... be safe, smile, because once you wake up you might see my bleeding soles and my torn clothes yet the lilac will still bloom between my fingers and the titmouse nestle our tangled hair and mouths. sing once I let your lip escape my teeth which might be... a long time coming.

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Traces I pulled my fingers down your shoulder, the left of your back, your hip, your thigh... thin, sticky whiteness dragging along leaving pink traces... “Your skin, it is covered with cobwebs,” I said. “My skin, it is cobwebs,” you answered and I gasped, trying to cover my traces, impossible. “I am sorry,” I apologized, imagining the pain. “Don’t,” you said, “just do it once more." I pulled my fingers down your shoulder, the left of your back, your hip, your thigh... the white falling back into its traces, your skin intact... “You can hurt, you can mend,” you said, “my skin the raw matter, your fingers the tools, our minds… the artists.” I pulled my fingers down your shoulder, the left of your back, your hip, your thigh... blossoming flowers invading the traces down your skin.

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Transitions I woke up yearning for your warmth, Craving to slide underneath that blanket hosting your skin, Trying not to disturb your slumber, forgetting those invasive hands of yours living their separate life and trying to turn me into a four armed monster, Which are mine? I ask clearly disturbed as the octopus next to me adds two legs to the melee then a torso, and fangs, and the blanket's innocence is cruelly shattered by the interminable sounds of munching and crunching and grunting, Morpheus kicked out of his kingdom by an Eros gone berserk. I fall asleep the emptiness slowly filling up with pieces of you.

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Motor Alone, me and the motor. Last time it was me and the motor and your hand. With you attached at the other end. Pleasures, almost deadly, so beautiful, intense. I listen to the hum, frowning impatiently at the mechanical imperfection something’s wrong the motor needs tuning. Your tune.

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Existensia I swallow the highway, swallow a rain squished to molecular thickness underneath the wiper’s crushing rubber... imperialist! I shout watching it kill even the most innocent of droplets and for a second I cut its life too... so it learns the lesson and I almost learn the lesson myself barely missing the oncoming tail end of an eighteen wheeler. I touch the pedal suicide at the tip of my toes the artificial beast underneath me screeching wildly through its tin and plastic and leather mouths as it lurches between another eighteen wheeler and an ambulance dandling someone to certain death... damn driver, move your ass! I feel like screaming his way my tail lamps wagging despite. I hit the puddle same moment as my eyes hit the aquaplaning warning don’t know if it is my skill or the manufacturer’s design that carries me past the third eighteen wheeler this one sliding sideways more or less aiming my way leaving me with wonder in my heart at the sensation of metal crunching all around you. I sail past three cars camping mid of the road in ridiculous sexual juxtapositions people gesticulating under an artificial aura of a rotating blue light, I wonder if they are dancing in the rain or merely writing poetry. Luckily I find the break in time having entered an area too dark and too narrow and too hostile to my speed, the dog dragging the old lady behind him barking happily my way while she threatens me with her umbrella getting wet in the process. I turn off the motor turn off the lights turn off my mind and lean my forehead against the steering wheel trembling unwilling to give up my freedom and enter that huge prison beyond the door empty of you.

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Sides our shoes touching from time to time, the left side of your left shoe touching the right side of my right shoe, from time to time, the rest of the time it is your left thigh rubbing against my right thigh your hip against mine our fingers clenched, white, the dust behind us mingling into one cloud setting slowly inside the memory of our footsteps. our upper arms pressing underneath shoulders pressing our elbows pressing all of your left to all of my right even ears even ankles after undefined parts of me blended into undefined parts of you and vice versa when left and right and top and bottom and above and under lost all meaning now glistening as we finally lie side by side. our toes touching, twining, squeezing, your left toes between my right toes my left toes between your right toes knees to knees thighs to thighs and belly to belly and small nipples to big nipples as the water envelopes us gluing our skin to skin and our hair to hair and nothing passes between our mouths except for those tongues we barter.

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of color linger not in the world between worlds there where greys are masters and colors are not invented unborn same as the poets inexistent blink into your dream and pull up the corner of the curtain peeking beyond and allow yourself the gasp watching gazelles leap the ocean and snow flakes pile cobweb thin and snakes swallow rainbows to crawl elegantly between children and lovers and puppies let the corner of the curtain fall in the back of you as your voice finds the wonder of color

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Fox Carrying the basket of fruits to my mouth the splendor of your nakedness hidden by a mountain of pineapples and grapes and cherries and plums and hazelnuts... hazelnuts? you arch eyebrows laying down the basket to rummage inside it, frowning. I smile shrewdly, feeding my eyes to never reaching satiety on those apples dangling majestically from your chest. And whoever designed the lonesome strawberries sprouting downwards in innocent puzzlement was probably a God.

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telling of beauty there is something outrageously beautiful about you can’t define ask me and i will be tongue tied trying to find that which is obvious yet which i lack the words to paint i tried to read it back in my old poems in my new ones in those i did not yet write and even in those which others wrote... couldn’t find it sorry maybe it cannot be written in any words except those you do not hear sliding down my heart chambers and marking traces of flying suns and passing dragons i look at you and the only way to tell you of your beauty is just shut up and enjoy

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Toes-Talk the tiny whispers between our toes yours, sleepy, mine, freshly sliding under the blanket, cold, bringing snowless winter to your legs and sunless summer to your heart... whose were the shivers mine or yours? i tried to listen, what do toes talk about in that frightening darkness between the airless dome of wool and the waveless sea of linen when knees steal front stage and thighs take over from knees and hips and chests and everybody forgets toes-talk between the grunts and the sighs and the moans of all others. quiet. i hear strange sounds somewhere, far below and i beg you to hush for a moment listening... sobs, tiny, like the sound of buds opening and squirrels blinking. we pull the blanket away and we see buds opening and squirrels blinking and toes making love.

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Remembering The Chocolate Did I write you a poem about the first time? Frightened as I was and you even more I probably didn't. I know you wanted to run away from the airport. Did you also think about jumping off the train? Took a long time to kiss, the bus, the train, the train, luckily we had to wait in that deserted train station when we decided the only risk was not to kiss. Remember? The hug? The kiss? The first time I touched your breast? It was summer. No, it wasn't cold, there was sun and birds and flowers... no, not clouds, don't remember any, do you remember the carnival? What do you mean which carnival? people dancing in the streets, carousels, clowns, flame swallowers... Your memory fails you, my lady, you do at least remember the music, do you? Which music? The one in the room when you lay my head on your knees and you sang me something I did not understand a word of. Oh, you remember the music. Thank God, for a moment you got me worried there. I also remember the chocolate. The one pouring down from your eyes when I left and I couldn't help myself but gulp it down. Funny thing, chocolate, so bitter...

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Rain Mirrors I cup my palms under the rain the outpour rivaling the one Noah saved the beasts and his skin and kin from. My hands fill and I bend over to protect the gathered puddle from the ongoing slaughter and allow it to become mirror. The rain beats my skull my neck drowns my wear and underwear and body yet I remain bent waiting till seeing in the mirror you. I drink it slowly till all of you is inside me and I sit in the mud smiling.

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Fonts First I tried Times New Roman, played with bold, italics... hmmm... maybe Arial or Arial Narrow, didn't quite like it, hey, this one sounds good, exotic, LuzSans MediumItalic... nah, nothing special and colors help neither, maybe I should try exotic paper instead of exotic fonts and some perfume spray a few drops of colorful wax (I wish I was a woman, lipstick smears would help) maybe my thumb's fingerprints stained with the blood of this morning's shaving and some drops from the tap, I could always claim these were tears... What are you doing my love? she asked climbing her skin all over me (all she had on was skin and hair... no, I won't tell) and preventing me from reaching the printer and seeing the screen (her skin opaque as there was flesh inside of it). I am trying to tell you "I love you" in some original font and way, I answered unable to concentrate any longer as she finally decided to settle astride of my thighs a very compromising proposition for any act of creativity (NO! creativity and NOT creation) seen that I was wearing just my skin as well. Don't work so hard, she smiled, touching me in various places with various places and finally placing her index to my lips then looking at it closely, not yet cross-eyed but brow-wrinkled... there is something written here, don't recognize the font, she tried again better now, she claimed, lying (since it was good all along) I recognize the I, the l-o-v-e... I have a problem with the last word... (lying, told you). I placed my right index finger on her left index nipple pushing until it was flat with her areola and she gave in wincing... Me? she asked smart-alecky way, and I did no push any further afraid to hurt my finger. No! You! I snarled immediately sorry as she lost all tension in her legs and fell all the way down between my thighs... well, all the way down is a manner of speaking, there wasn't so much to fall down as she nicely settled around... ...oops, I think I talk too much.

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