Exploding Oranges You fell on top of the pile, dragging me on top of you around of you inside of you, oranges exploding with dull thuds as hands searched for clasp and bodies somersaulted and reality escaped through mouths gaping around suns to clamp down on evading sunrise and dragon’s milk. “That was supposed to be the second stanza,” you insisted on being specific, missing the foreplay while wiping your sticky hands on my skin as juice slithered down your chin together with bitter peel rests, slippery seeds, and various elements trying to disconnect from my head to clean your facial features and the rest of your body’s features and munch unpeeled oranges. “Sometimes reality beats poetry,” I retorted, spitting seeds in the sun and watching them catch fire in your hair leaving me no choice but further squeeze the heart of oranges upon the fire and inside your mouth and beneath the arch of your body once you invited me to visit again and steamroll between our bodies more exploding oranges and exploding flint stones and exploding planets long dead and forgotten.

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Rain Dance We danced in the street, pouring rain yet no drop touched us our bodies undulating like thread thin snakes between drops the size of eggs, the only touches the occasional fleet of hand on skin sole hovering over puddle breath in breath, was it a miracle or the new body language of dancing out of desire and into passion? We lost the rhythm once fingers laced, hooked, welded and the downpour suddenly drenched us the grass knives cutting into our backs as we rolled and rolled and rolled the mud glazing into crumbling bricks the oven of our joined bodies the purifying hell dancing us out of passion and into ecstasy.

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Migratory let me migrate to the warmth of your delicate south and its delectable delicacies. there, where the silence is absolute after the storm, where the beauty of the torn petals strewn by the howling savagery is absolute after the storm, where the pain of fading shared indignity is absolute after the storm. where the storm is absolute.

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Legacy Not much I will bequeath, the world only infinitesimally richer by my temporary sojourn ahere, Belike some will read my iconoclastic verse, some my genial word spewed by a body benumbed by ague, Some more, I take heart, taking rest in the shadows I lined on paper beriming the beauty of bevy and woman and you, My books unwritten in lead unsmelted yet the sun a smile richer dramming vapors above my scribbled sentences, Feel the ardor in the ordeal of my fingers, woman, as they dehisce between their cupidity of skin and the beseeching of proffering your skin to paper.

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Corroding Impatience Corroding impatience, acid shivers cut fissures along my nerve paths rolling poisonous desires in the depths thus plowed, the mephitic emanation of boiling sweat and algae rich breath purifying into the attar of roses marrying lilac by an offertory of eye blinks strumming butterflies off those images strung upon memories of you. I see you in the primal valley torn inside a mountain’s rib Falcons caring for your shadow, dangling vines your flailing crib, And an avalanche of boulders plying gashes through the pines Melts in sunshine laden bubbles dying in your body’s wine... The floor curves dangerously downwards, the minutes to pass as many stones in pockets hours as many stomping elephants days each a trunk groaning under ripened fruit and heavy rain and nesting birds crushing breast bone splinters into the flesh of heart and waiting for the miracle of passing night to ease the load as stone after elephant after tree disintegrate into the wrinkles of a burgeoning smile. You stole a dream from morning’s armor smiling protests out of way Dipping in its pouring colors all of clouds and part of day, Waves of diving armadillos lacing pearls to your hair Strew a mist of scales and petals into evening’s sweet despair... My body turns into a sailor’s knot, curled fingers anchoring diamond nails deep into peeling layers of glass trying to mold it into that one grain hourglass ending the infinity of the wait by a twist of the wrist and watching fascinated the landing, the explosion at the bottom multiplied a million times by the explosion of the door and your teeth sinking the love into my neck. The swish of silk invades the room with rolling laughter’s lambent tease And carries in its ribboned tail the whiff of east’s caressing breeze, I feel the fleeting touch of hands unbuttoning my cotton vest Before you land inside my arms to curl your heart against my chest... Time stops, I do not know the face I knew as your beauty is reborn once again and you envelope me with yet another side of the rainbow and another side of the butterfly and I will never sate blanketing myself with you at the end of the inevitability of patience.

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Cage I think of you in terms of flesh. and mud. when bones enmesh. and raging fires rape the blood. my dreams my cage of lust. and awe. above my crust. beneath your feline purr and claw. a blanket built of sweat. and sigh. your silhouette. my morning patch of skin and sky. a wake-up call of smile. and song. a childish guile. a woman dragging suns along. I think of you in terms of day. and lair. your words' bouquet. your blazing trail of love and flare.

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love me show me the white there, beyond the hem of skirt above the muscle of thigh, beneath the white of cotton, show me the white of flesh. fascinate me with the soft, the soft supporting the rigidness of nipple and shrouding the music of existence, beneath the soft of shirt and crude of button, fascinate me with the soft of flesh. trap me with the hard behind the gate’s red and inside the serpent’s cavern ready to bite lumps off my body and love them into its depths of throat, beneath the gaze shying underneath eyelids underneath arches, trap me with the hard of bone and flesh. love me.

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I Call It Love tireless libido, timeless lechery, tameless lust, the alligator... "pussycat..." sheds its human masquerade as razors... "milk-teeth..." sink viciously in malformed male breasts and a primal growl... "meow..." peels skin away from boiling flesh. "wow..." she cuddles against me, "all this me?" I look down at her, scales and tails and fangs reality invading my imagination alongside with chrysanthemums budding inside her palms and pelicans swimming in her eyes... I shake my head wildly... "is it a yes?" she asks, "or a now?" yes or now what? I shake my head again thinking to find a balance between the worlds my horselike manner obvious in more than one way. I feel the pussycat... "alligator..." start crawling above me its milk-teeth... "razors..." sliding beneath the roots of my chest hairs and its meow... "growl..." curdling the wine in my glass before curdling the blood in my veins as a forest of ten-digited lianas tangles our bodies and the beasts war their bleeding passage into the calamity of calm and of it's over. "it's not over yet," the she-beast turns human for seconds and rasps against me licking the battered poppies away from our wounds and readying the slaughter fields for an encore of Armageddon.

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The Land Somewhere, about midway between knees and breasts, beneath the legendary white reefs of hidden ribs and above the tumultuous spasms of mountainous thighs, lies the land. There, where the crow picks its olive branch each morning and the tiger cuddles sleepily with newborn lambs and the whale chases its tail in the frolicking frenzy of spilling pearls and diving cormorants. Wonder the land, the one which is two like never the land like ever the glades home to the loss of innocence and the rebirthing of virginity and the cry of life as it separates the light from the dark and the after from the before. I touch it in the awe of fear and bewonderment knowing of the deceiving calm in its monstrous fathoms about to release the savagery of fire tongues singing me into that momentary death I wish eternal. And after eternity ends I kiss the flesh waiting to be kissed back by sprouting eternity once again.

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Empty? Empty? No, I am not, I will never be not even when I die, I will be full of poems never to be written and stories never to be given a title and love... oh, all the love left to be bestowed and stuttering into oblivion there beneath the motionless bars of bone. Why hurry? For every word I write there are uncountable I won’t and titles no one will ever hang above a story and ideas hiding inside phrases leaving the virtuality of life now for the virtuality of life after with others wondering... or maybe not which one would have been the next. Content? Yes, for as long as there is a love I know of and a woman who knows of me and only the poems written and the titles given and the love bestowed before rather than the one unknown after is what she counts and recounts when her fingers die inside my mouth and mine live inside hers.

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Of Care And Things I don’t care your not wearing a blue ribbon in your hair and around your wrist and around your waist and dragging it behind you from your left ankle or right or both like a kite about to take off. I don’t care your not combing your hair in curls empty of air and full of heart in a pony’s wild tail or a schoolgirl’s tame braids one or two... is there a three?... or not combing it at all as you get out of bed and hit three walls before finding the door to the bathroom to leave it open as you lazily take care of the morning. I don’t care your eating with your mouth open and your eyes open and your negligee open all the way down to your bellybutton and beyond as you mix the yolk with the crumbs with the apple juice and I lick clean the corners of your mouth just so nothing gets wasted of food and breath. I don’t care your singing when I sleep or your sleeping when I sing and I have to carry your dead weight and bouncing breasts and muscled belly stretching into calming shadows while I dance around before I stomp one footed and finally fall exhausted to the floor with you... still asleep. I don’t care your making love standing or lying or bathing with no bubbles and rivers of steam on top of the mountain or in back of the bus or on a cinema chair when all that counts is the spots of my skin you count and the tips of my fingers you demand and the number of times you faint breathlessly. How could I care your beauty?

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Homely Scenes Your wet hair inside a huge towel turkish-turban styled your bare feet flip-flopping around in king size plastic galoshes the wet leftovers of your skin hosted by a bathrobe missing one button and dragging the hem... “no other queen has ever been more beautiful,” I volunteered an unasked for half-rhymed opinion munching on my microwave defrozen hamburger. You spied my expression in the mirror, looking for hints of good-humored mockery weighing the brush against the nail-polish bottle as a possible good-humored missile... “other?” you decided on the civilized way of settling disputes, making words not wars. I had to jump the species gap so I wiped the mayonnaise leftovers on back of my sleeve and repeated, empathically “no other!” hoping this would do the trick. Women are probably as thick headed as they say since you started undoing the towel turkish-turban styled letting a cascade of undulating hair-thin ribbons embrace your neck... “queen, you said?!...” making it clear that it was not clear and neither was the final punctuation in your voice clear to me... “...so you think of me as a queen?” you thankfully elaborated further dropping one king-sized galosh to the floor, the unmistakable sound of plastic meeting tile sounding crystal tinkle to my ears. Nothing was as thick as impassable to my flawless persuasive powers once my mind set on digging out truths unknown and facts unperceived by lesser minds... sorry... “I don’t think,” I insisted to be specific and for whatever reason you nodded affirmatively even before I finished my exposé, women are mind readers probably, I hated to admit, “you are a queen and no other was ever more beautiful.” There was sincerity in my voice, why not - after all I was sincere, the only thing I was unsure of was if I placed ever in the right place in the sentence. I picked a few crispy french fries and munched on, delightedly. You dropped the other king-sized galosh to the floor and I didn’t even hear this one tinkling as your hand reached instantly for the missing button of that hem-dragging bathrobe, and discovering the stupid mistake reached for the one higher up then the one higher up then the one higher up... “you will choke to death...” you whispered even though I don’t think I heard the words, merely imagined as you picked up the dangerous mush from my petrified mouth and dropped it to the floor replacing it with a queenly tongue specialized in unpetrifying the most stubborn of fossils. Queens have a way with skins... theirs or not... I found it out the kingly way.

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Cupfuls I grabbed cupfuls of flesh from underneath your clothes, your skin invisible to my fingers as they groped for doors sculpted between ribs and teeth and thighs finally settling for those cupfuls of flesh. I gored cupfuls of cloth dangling red anger above your flesh, the knight in me dealing death to the cruelty of buttons and instant extermination to seams and hems and once mocking trimmings finally settling for those cupfuls of cloth. I gulped cupfuls of breath evading your inflamed lungs, until we suddenly tumbled into each other the stones beneath our fallen bodies finding deliverance through bubbling liquid to dispersing vapor as we wasted ecstasy into flaring skin flakes finally settling for those cupfuls of breath.

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Unatomically So you can sit on me and write your life’s story, just make sure there is nothing between your skin and mine except for those treacherous cutis anserina. you can change position as much as you wish from comfortable to too comfortable, pay no attention to that horrible succession of earthly tremors as my flesh loses all inhibition expressing growing impatience in a ritual of myoclonic twitches. it is my chivalrous intention to prevent the chill of night invade your body, my palm’s intent is not to investigate your thighs but rather prevent heat from flowing away as the radiation reflects back from my caring fingers helping you maintain crucial homeostasis. there is of course my second palm definitely disassociated from those most gallant of aspirations, with a most insulting disregard to your creativity as it beguiles you into thinking it weighs your breasts while actually it offers me the rigidity of your mammary papilla. oh, so you prefer me to sit on you and write my life story? it would have been possible if not for your incessant knismesis of those of my areas rich in pheomelanin along with your incessant probing of my cremasteric muscle leading to that slightly disturbing flood inside my corpora cavernosa. * hmm (you say) what about dropping the anatomy? hmm (I say) what about joining the anatomy? mmm (we say).

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Late Night I lie with you between the pages of a book, all past stories of love underneath us, above us all the stories still to be written, our story hesitating between quill and pen and brush as it enfolds us with indecision. “indecision of what?” of quill and pen and brush of paper and silk and flower fields of humming sunset and tinkling butterfly and contorted word. “or all?” you always have the solution, and I roll the page around us hiding from those stories of love past and caring not of those stories of love to be written busy writing my own with your tools. woman, the sea has spit the sand and the sand has spit the pearl and you stole the pearl to bring me, the cloud has expelled the dew and the dew has expelled the poppy and you stole the poppy to bring me, the tree has shed the foliage and the foliage has shed the dragonfly and you stole the dragonfly to bring me. I make love to you and your skin is the pencil and my skin is the parchment and the words are meaningless to all but us as our tongues vibrate in harmony with fingertips and with comets about to invade the pages not yet written.

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Variations In Four Letters I stop and stare around the bustling city square... where did we stop? the waffles shop with thick vanilla cream on top, the tee shirt spot where you have bought one shirt and paid with smiles a lot, the rotting post where all and most of drunkards pee and winos coast, the glassy pots with sunken yachts and corny gold and silver dots, those shining tops above the shops beneath a summer's egg-sized drops?... I gaze a while and find your shoe, my dream, your smile...

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Incomparables big words you think? you did not see my heart. not to mention my other thing even bigger than the heart. my liver, I mean. so don’t you tell me about my big words, they are small compared to her smile when she makes love. ok, makes love to me, if you insist... poetic analphabetism is rife, I know, I wish poetic hunger would be as rife too because I could feed a nation. why is it only after I die that I will become famous? there is a certain amount of social injustice to that joining the rest of social injustices yet incomparably smaller... says who? of course I can write short words, one letter’d two letter’d three letter’d words and poems, if you insist I can write even short letters, red letters, bingo letters whatever it means, shorter even than, you know, my liver. I will stick to the big. whenever I feel like it. if I feel like it. if she makes love like it. which she makes always. love. big. let Scylla bite six chunks off my flesh and Charybdis swallow the rest of it and in between munch and drown I will bite six apples off my lover’s boiling flesh and swallow the rest of its agonizing orchard hungering for her the way of monsters and gods. big words you think? beautiful words you think? like centaurea cyanus and lanicera caprifolium and bellis perennis? like her?

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Watcher I watch myself from far, high away my insignificance diminished by the power tele-lenses I use feeling like David watching Bat Sheba all his tools thumbs against indexes against eyes while mine are the 21x Zeiss-Ikon-zero-chromatic-aberration-fully-multi-coated’s of the mind, both of us consociating with the Peeping Tom’s of this world watching flesh, he watching woman I watching man watching woman. I watching I falling in love with woman. The sinful definition in the universal Book of Synonyms woman: female, she, lady, cummer, girl, maid, las, colleen, gal... written by a bunch of gynandromorphic eunuchs lost in the blinding fog of narrow scholasticism to unsee the one missing definition woman: fire. Gynarchy. Reality. The path alongside the pit. Looking for the hole in the wall to jump in and scream ecstatic death. Finding it. David. Samson. Adam. Man. I watch I wearing woman after I am naked and I can’t cover myself enough with it as she invaginates me into her mouth and loins and still my shivers threaten a solar cataclysm until the solano pouring from her gaping lungs invests my veins with raking barbed wire and she impales her breast’s nipple against the barbs blissfully exploding middle of the poppies efflorescing upon my once desert of skin.

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The Color Of Promise Green, like the heart of a grass blade Torn by teeth looking for the bitter elixir, Red, like the bubbling drop of blood Flirting with antelope’s fleeing fur, Blue, like the iris-less eye of a spotless sky Watching itself unseeingly in a sea’s chasms. “As beautiful?” As enrapturing. The black, housing the miracle about to unravel, The white, home to the sweat following the unraveling The transparent, the moment of loss after the moment of sweat. “As colorless?” As colorful.

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The Chaste Side Of bite the bedposts’ heads off, spit them through the window pane, watch four hollow bodied spiders grow crack legs reflecting on the ceiling broken, multicolored images of naked shapes wrestling dementia in and out boiling leftovers of flesh. don’t watch the moon, holes the size of Antarctica drilling through paleness into darkness, the flames of trailing bed sheets planting surrealistic flags dragging an own supply of oxygen and irrationality and exploding seeds filling the holes with the first sunflowers ever the other side of the yellow blotch. howl the wolf-bitch way, there’s no shame in bleating, lowing, cawing, roaring, hissing the way there’s no shame in sunrising earthquaking erupting and once our outsides meet our insides in an immixture of liquefied wood and want and wall the burning cocoon enwrapping our singleness will break through the hollow spiders and sunflower caves to forget us on the chaste side of insanity.

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Metaphorsis I stuck my finger into the sun to the root of the last phalanx, pulled it out dripping the essence of orange orchards in bloom sprinkled with hearts of crushed lilac and dust of minced mint and started painting spiral traces with the crumbling fingertip down your thighs beneath your knees round and round and round your ankles all the way into my mouth... the searing sensation on my tongue divine. You did not define suns, rather volcanoes as you went on to scoop lava into your mouth, the jewels dropping underneath your eyes sliding like dancers and the sultry music of your growing smile defining the season as the flaming ring surrounding your teeth absorbed the fruits making intimate sounds of crunching and slurping round and round and round my flesh looking for those shreds of my mouth still alive with the intent of greed.

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In Betweens your morning falls into my morning, my evening falls into your evening, and in between morning to evening the noise of my pen scrapping into paper night’s portentous dreams and those dissipating womanly perfumes and the yawning invasion of leftover minutes hardly worthy to be lived in wake of the despotic paragon of delirious hours, and in between evening to morning the noise of your skin scrapping off mine day’s fortuitous encounters and those desecrating moments of forgetfulness and the blood deep cuts of pen telling of the evening to morning that died and the one about to begin its fulgid ingress into elysium.

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Souvenirs Leave here the banana peel for me to cuddle at night, Tear that nacre top button for me to hammer to stardust and stick to my ceiling, Spit at my feet for me to worship into the end of life.

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Morning Your lips taste like scrambled eggs, your fingers sticky with orange juice, your hair taking after Medusa on a windy day, Your gown... what gown? when it slides off your shoulders like a melting giant snowflake and your skin glows with opening pink carnations and your lips taste like apples and your fingers cut burning ruts starting on the desktop and continuing down my hips and your hair invades my field of vision cutting the sun into boiling marmalade slices blinding my skin before igniting it.

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Looooong... That looooong second, was it hours, days, weeks?... the miracles of static relativity. Frozen in that impasse of time from you've gone to you've returned my body beating all records, human and inhuman, of breathlessness... whales included. I knew I was dying, was that last breath in or out? The shape... the flurry... the mouth... another lung pumping life into my blood and forcing my eyes fully open once again. "...hey, were you here all that time?..." she asked. I looked at the sunken tile underneath my feet, the few "undefined hazard" signs placed around me by some overzealous cleaning lady... guess I was.

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Harvest I sowed shivers, I harvested shivers and soul. I harvested the salt of your tears in my lemonade when you leaned over to kiss me, the rip in my silk shirt when you pulled me towards you to kiss me, the bruise on my big toe’s nail when you tiptoed up to me to kiss me. I sowed whispers, I harvested rain of woman.

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Signatures They followed you, your tools of trade the scalpels, the pens, the hammers, the brushes, clinging to your skin the way your skin clings to your flesh, leaving behind just signatures, symbols, the inerasable changes in the fabric of time and mine. Warm, the creases in the bed sheets round or straight or smooth as you rolled from side to side trying to smother me underneath your steamroller of love, Stormy, the tunnels of vacuum crisscrossing the room’s air as you rushed from the window to the bathroom to me to the door to the bed to me to the table to me, Lost, the beads of water soaked from your skin into the towel’s intricacies and the dissolved leftovers of salt and lipstick and love making, Gaping, the cracks in my bones you worked so hard to ligate now piercing out through my punctured flesh and sending begging, rugged splinter arms your disappearing way.

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Love, Two passion? like the one in torn flower beds and ravaged theater chairs and chocolate melting in mouths... hunger? beyond the sunflower’s for sun and cub’s for bitch’s tit and rolling stone’s for river’s bottom... serenity? of the knowledge of carnality and satisfaction of handhold and flowing warmth of touching nearness...

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Another Bunch Of Don’t’s and Do’s “Whales or dolphins?” you asked. “Whales or dolphins what?” “Whose songs are more beautiful?” you asked. “Yours,” and I watched you blushing to the tips of your dangling earrings. “Butterflies, though, sing even more beautifully,” I continued pitilessly and you paled, “than whales and dolphins. But less than you.” The blushing spot turned smoldering coal-red, the earrings’ tips started melting... “Butterflies don’t sing,” you protested shamelessly embarrassed and delighted. “They do, we just don’t hear them.” “Then how do we know?” “We don’t. I do,” I responded confidently since I knew. You picked the flower from between my teeth and bit on the stem green ichor flowing down your chin. “Sweet,” you said. “Sweet what?” I asked, shuddering. “Your poetry,” you said. I laughed till I had cramps in my belly. “We can’t taste poetry,” I said between hiccups. You touched the green to my lips, then your lips followed. “We don’t. I do,” you said. I guess you knew.

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Love Declarations to take your body, to lay you on that hard board and turn you paper thin with a rolling pin and so much love. then spread above dry leaves layers crumbled thin and roll you around them repeatedly until all of you is gone. the match hissing... to light one end of the cigarette and puff you deeply in, intoxicating myself with your splendor. “and after I burn?” and after the sun burns and dies? and after the universe collapses into ashes? “after I love you?”

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Beneath The Wet, Frozen Leaves looking for you beneath the wet, frozen leaves, Earth losing thin layers of steam as I undressed its carcass and an ages old habit prevented it from shivering. but the steam meant pain, same as mine, looking for you beneath the wet, frozen leaves. I wasn’t bound by any habit so I allowed shivers to run through hurting muscles and creaking joints of spine, elbow, shoulders, asking forgiveness as I scraped further and deeper looking for you beneath the wet, frozen leaves, with the metal of a broken toothed rake and the keratin of breaking nails as all of Earth begged to reside underneath them yet all I could accept were a few, black crumbs the color of life and love and longing. I lay down, waiting for you beneath the wet, frozen leaves stealing Earth’s memories of past days of glory and in return feeding it with my boiling desire and its ages old forgotten shivers hoping to share with it the sound of leaves rustling and clothes shedding and a woman falling on top of me, and underneath me, and around me.

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Here Lie there, Where the earth is rolling and the lark is calling for the night’s demise, faking frank surprise, Sleep there, Just below the willow, cracking leaves your pillow, squirrels’ tickling bites your awaking rites, Smile there, Listen to the drummer heralding the summer, barking buds and seeds birthing ferns and weeds, Cuddle there, Not against the nettle though you’ve been of mettle but against the bark etching brand and spark, Sing there, Music sweet and mellow, fiddle, harp and cello, locust rains and does as your beauty glows, Make love to me there, leave to others fangle, grandiloquent fandangle, nestle in my art rhyme with you my heart.

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Here, Here Lie there, Where the earth is rolling loudly and the lark is calling proudly for the night’s demise with sorrow faking frank surprise each morrow, Sleep there, Just beneath the willow's camber, cracking leaves your pillow's amber, squirrels’ tickling bites and nibble your awaking rites and quibble, Smile there, Listen to the drummer's bawling heralding the summer's crawling, barking buds and seeds invading birthing ferns and weeds parading, Cuddle there, Not against the nettle’s flaking though you’ve been of mettle making but against the bark and speckle etching brand and spark and freckle, Sing there, Music sweet and mellow playing, fiddle, harp and cello swaying, locust rains and doe rich showers as your beauty glows and flowers, Make love to me there, leave to others fangle’s luster, grandiloquent fandangle’s cluster, nestle in my art’s rendition, rhyme with you my heart’s submission.

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Here, Here, Here Lie there, Where the earth is rolling loudly dragging cogs through sunset mires and the lark is calling proudly guising rapturous desires for the night’s demise with sorrows burning trails throughout its feather faking frank surprise each morrow while its heart sinks fathoms nether, Sleep there, Just beneath the willow's camber, hanging boughs your dressing habits, cracking leaves your pillow's amber teeming with stampeding rabbits, squirrels’ tickling bites and nibble claiming with ornate delusion your awaking rites and quibble as they drink a night’s illusion, Smile there, Listen to the drummer's bawling as he drags a sun through valleys heralding the summer's crawling as the wheat its scions tallies, barking buds and seeds invading kingdoms rich in sprouting beauty, birthing ferns and weeds parading, pansies shy and lilies snooty, Cuddle there, Not against the nettle’s flaking beckoning to hell and yonder though you’ve been of mettle making, which at times I sit and ponder, but against the bark and speckle and the newborn blade and cleaver etching brand and spark and freckle in a flesh beseeching fever, Sing there, Music sweet and mellow playing as the raindrops hit the gully, fiddle, harp and cello swaying, just my sighs the lyric sully, locust rains and doe rich showers blend with unicorns alighting, as your beauty glows and flowers, copper stars through fields igniting, Make love to me there, leave to others fangle’s luster, trinket words of weird intention, grandiloquent fandangle’s cluster, claims of arrogant pretension, nestle in my art’s rendition, trail its warmth through deserts churning, rhyme with you my heart’s submission as you see my poems burning.

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Oh, Oranges my fingers smell of oranges, she emailed, I would like to share oranges with you. I would like to share fingers with you, I replied. there was a knock at my door. I had to pay import duties, a fine from the ministry of agriculture, extra postage due to outdated stamps, value added tax... finally it was there, the box. I opened it, bathing in the fragrance before peeling the first one and biting into it... oh, oranges. there was a knock at her door. there were no duties to pay, nor fines, postage, VAT... one does not pay for clothes with fingers dangling from sleeves and me attached to fingers, filling the rest of the clothes. she bit into the... oh, fingers.

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Silly. Nonsense. on my desk the pen sits at an odd angle to the paper, there is a screw orphaned from some unknown contraption about to cry, loud music slides between the tablecloth and the table top underneath leaving ripples of dying insanity in the wood and upon my neighbor’s brain crust, the kind driving people to pick a broom handle and knock it senselessly into the ceiling. I wonder, maybe he walks on the ceiling using velcro-soled shoes and levitating balloons, his hair is curled and cannot hang down but the broom can fall and hurt his cat. silly. nonsense. there are stones to the wall across from me, I imagine making love to you lying on the wall, the stones’ gravitation keeping us glued perpendicularly to horizon your back glued to the cold stone my belly glued to yours and your hair tying involuntary knots behind my neck, behind my back, behind my thighs and knees and ankles your fingers and mine connecting in square knots and fingernail love. silly. nonsense. woman beauty woman beauty woman... is this the incarnation of pure arithmetic progression, or geometric, or oxymoronic reality or absolute equality or the innocent’s mirage when dreaming his last dream as quicksand counts to the end of time, so little of it left? there’s no beauty like yours in Da Vinci’s unpainted masterpieces in the blocks of marble Rodin will never break and the cyrillic necklaces buried together with Pushkin, there is beauty like yours woman beauty woman beauty woman in the musical sonance never descended into humans by a Hermes too jealous to add a last string to Apollo’s lyre, now lost forever except for my few moments of pure sanity. silly? nonsense? you know better. you are woman. beauty. woman. beauty. woman.

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Talking Love-Vignettes But I am not beautiful, you say. Don’t look in the mirror, I say, let me look for you. * If I touch your mouth pouring seeds in it, will trees grow in my garden? If you touch my mouth pouring nails in it, flowers will grow between my breasts. * A squirrel. Unicorn. The moon. Door to unicorns’ kingdom. Hand in hand across the red and white checkered tabletop. Finally, unicorns back into my life. * The red dress. If you wish. The blue dress, with the white dots. If you wish. The white dress, the one with fluffy hem and golden buttons. If you wish. No dress. Thank you. * Bought three cucumbers and one kilo tomatoes, stepped into dog’s poop, had to find a puddle to clean it before going to the bank, have to fill up the tank, it’s one cent more expensive. You touched my lips. Keep talking to me, poetry.

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Mythopoeia or The Art Of Love the hoof losing its way into clenched fist, forgetting behind sunk talons before these too follow trait succumbing to reality’s gravitational pull into nails and that mythical progeny of copulating saber-tooth and wingless-unicorn mops its sweat with my chest’s hair leaving sour milk traces in my mouth as it descends the altar turning back woman. I clutch at your softness fearing... hoping?... to find the abyss it took me so long to fall into and so little to climb back from all the while cursing genesis for having robbed me of one rib and not of three for not having chosen dust for me and flesh for you. my plane is at eleven. what is a plane? my cupped palm a sickle, I leave bare swaths across your skin as I mow down gods and goddesses and ghosts and fairies making place for the mashed time mixed with that slaver indecorously populating my tongue that I will use to kill your senses of propriety and naiveté once more, and this time it is I who will choose the myth and the galaxy and you will not know your being from Myrrha or Echo or Androphonos while you’re looking for a god to scream at, finding none as I finally kill Ananke, and her Chronos cohort. I hear a plane overhead, and I find Chronos is alive as I look in the mirror and count his vengeful ruts across my face.

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All Kinds Of Poetry the sky is blu when I love you and the bears coo... that’s stupid, you said pointing to the grey sky and elaborating for almost two hours that bears growl and doves coo and flies buzz... oh, and you have a typo in the first line, completed my literary debacle. you still made love to me, giggling all the time. when I found that the sky is blu and that birds sing along with you I found out that also doves coo... you’re better on bed sheets than on paper sheets, you laughed, pointing to the fact that there was still a typo in the first line and that only doves coo. you agreed though to make love to me, after I filled a page with “doves coo”. the sky hammers feeble delusions of life in the grains of a desert athirst for its blue and offers me nuggets with silvery hearts demanding the rhymes I have written for you yet all I can do is paint withering flowers and try to imagine why doves softly coo... you are cheating, you stole it, you cried turning to go until I pointed to you that I wrote it on the bed sheets, as you had suggested. you made love to me, burning me alive.

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We Drank The Yoghurt From The Same Bottle, Remember? we drank the yoghurt from the same bottle, remember, and for me it tasted cherries and for you mango and for both of us strawberry wine? we drank the yoghurt from the same bottle, remember, refusing to let moments pass by without touching the other’s lips or their leftovers? we drank the yoghurt from the same bottle, remember, afraid the milk would curd after boiling first with you then second with me and third time in that mouthful we shared? we drank the yoghurt from the same bottle, remember, then drank ecstasy from the same body yours, mine, ours? we got drunk, remember wondering what the hell did they put in that yoghurt?

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Mus(e)ical Bigotries I listened this morning to Johnny B. Good while wishing my rhyme half as decent and crude, I broke my pen’s tip (it was giving me lip) and danced myself senseless into fantasies lewd. I listened through noon time to Primitive Love awaiting my muse and its obstinate shove, I howled up my vice (to hell Mr. Nice) all neighborhood hammering curses above. With evening I pumped-up my sweet Little Sister declaring my poetry an imminent twister, I felt kinda zing (a male kinda thing) and ended with holes in my socks and a blister. The rest of the night it was Polk Salad Annie with me self-declared as the word’s Modigliani, they knocked down the door (not even knocking before) and smashed all my records with talent uncanny.

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The Divine Cacophony ...then she said I love you. She moved to my other piece of flesh, small nibs ending as meat in her mouth and she kissed apologetically the new spot saying again I love you. After the eleventh time in three minutes it was vexing, after the twenty seventh it was mystifying, it was after the fifty sixth in half an hour that it became addicting, enslaving and I stopped counting squirming behind the bandanna covering my eyes not knowing where the next nib will be, knowing what the next words will be I love you... I love you... I love you... At three hundred thirty-four (I know I said I stopped counting, the neighbor did not) we (she) made a pee stop, at five hundred seventy-seven we (she) made another one as I did not dare interrupt the sequence myself, at six hundred and ninety-nine I was squirming so bad... she refused to interrupt the cacophony and pulled me by force joining me there making sure there is no interrupt whatsoever to my immense (double) relief. I love you... I love you... I love you... I think there was a sunrise, sometime, I think there was a sunset, sometime, probably more... many?... I woke up from nirvana, alone, my skin a spotful of... well, spots, the bed sheets smooth around me, the floor shining, the kitchen spotless, I dressed and went to work. “Good morning,” I addressed my young neighbor, wondering at the industrial heavy duty ear-mufflers around her ears. She ran away, screaming wildly (poor girl, she couldn’t hear anything with these mufflers) and I couldn’t help but notice that strand of white hair at the nape of her neck... these youngsters, they’d do anything these days to attract attention. “Hey, I love you too,” I screamed after her, playing the smartass just seconds before she left a dent in that poor bus. I hope she heard me.

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Et Tu? et tu, amor meus? I stuff the written pages inside shirt, socks, I break the pen sit down, lean against the tree, shivering. broken words drip from the paper freezing before hitting ground tinkle, tinkle, tinkle... lov, oodby, neve... exploding into tinier fragments, until a dog makes up its mind to lift its leg and they melt, a kid on ice-skates passes swiftly by to splatter the stinking puddle then cut the tips of my shoes and toes. God’s... Death’s?... long teeth hang down from gutters, half chewed moths and flies and beetles decorate the glittering insides with kids sucking thirstily the fearful spikes calling them sugarless lollipops if giggling girls or motherless nipples if vulgar boys or perpetuum immobile if irreverent, dying I and my poetry. flake shaped fireflies pinch my bare skin patches, tips of flame drill down to my cheek bones competing with those drilling up from my toes rushing through the solidifying maps of my various circulatory systems who will be the first to reach the heart and hear that one unique beat, the final? is it the mountain’s, that final howl, or yours, my lover once you find my poetry strewn upon the white hugging the eternal green of needles or inside nests waiting for feather or padding the bottom of paw tracks trailing the pack of wolves trekking along their tragedy of hunger and extermination in interminable circles? rainbow, you are not there, in the snow, to define the horizon of expectations. then die, butterfly.

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Leaf I picked the battered leaf and put it behind your ear. Leaf becomes you, I said. It is the mother of flower, you said. I couldn’t give you a roof, would you settle for a sky? I asked. I would settle for a leaf, you answered. We stopped counting stars, we always lost count after three, or after five, would you rather count the kisses? I asked. If as many as leaves, you answered. I lay my frozen palm upon your breastbone, then upon your breast, you shiver, sorry, I said. I shiver like a leaf with the pleasure of rain, you said. You cuddled inside my shirt, I refused to ask how you fit in there, never ask a poet what a poet can do to a poet, your hand offering me a leaf, you offer me your leaf? I asked. I offer you my fig leaf, you answered.

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Wheelbarrow Cocktail I empty my pockets in the wheelbarrow, suns, some broken in need of mending some chasing tails of cats yet not beyond the rim’s end of universe, wheat spikes sharing momentary lives with clods of freshly furrowed earth and dry thistle heads about to explode into a rain of seeds vanishing inside a drizzle of disintegrating dust and bugs about to be born and clouds mystified by it all, I throw you into the wheelbarrow on top of it all adding a few summers, some rotten apples and ripe oranges, you hardly can keep the snowflakes in your clenched fist from melting and the waves struggling to escape your other fist from soaking into your palm’s sand, I didn’t yet catch any comet, they are rare this time of the year, I do, though, add a few silk threads stolen earlier from your blouse, I guess it is time to park the wheelbarrow underneath the disheveled magnolia tree and sneak in between your clothes and you mixing the treasures I accumulated at various corners of my life with your ever germinating flesh and my never exhaustible desires then wait for the earthquake... did we call it or did it come all by itself?... and shake the whole of the motley leaving thickly-textured liquid hues inside our locked mouths while our frantically waving hands smear eternal motion and life upon the magnolia branches.

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Temperatures What is the temperature in your heart? I asked Minus ten, she said. Then you must be dead. Or a vampire, I smirked. Minus ten, counting down from the surface of the sun. I had a good laugh, then drank some more wine, then danced some. It did not feel like I was going up in flames, at least not right away. I laughed again at the joke. What are you laughing at? she asked, laughing as well with no reason, not complaining, just curious. She had a beautiful laughter, like plus ten, counting up from the surface of the sun. I told her. She joined in my laughter, knowledgeable this time, though sounding uncertain. Celsius or Fahrenheit? she added a joke of her own, and it was probably a mix of wine and low lights which made me double over, unable to control anymore laughter's second onslaught. We made love, passionately. You can touch me anywhere, except my left breast, she murmured shyly. I touched here everywhere, except her left breast. It was a bit cumbersome, though mostly she took care of it as I was permanently lost in the clouds of inebriation and lust. I woke up, she lay next to me, naked, vulnerable I decided to call her a sun mermaid and she did not seem to mind, well, she did not know yet. I kissed her belly button watching her stir then lie motionless again, a soft beat barely visible underneath her breast. A devilish impulse took control over me, I picked the wine glass and emptied it inside me then turned it over, slowly, above her left nipple watching the thick drop moving sluggishly forward, hanging on desperately to the glass's rim then reluctantly giving up the grip and falling down in an elongated silently screaming shape... It exploded. It did not splash, or splatter, or slop, it exploded even before the touch of flesh, the firecracker noise shaking the window panes and the hanging pictures. She opened languid eyes, stretching feline-like, her breasts disappearing then reappearing upon her chest, her nipples always present. What is this dirt on your face, lover? she asked, did a fly poop all over you? and she touched one of the tiny blisters, licking her finger... hey, it tastes like burnt grapes, since when do flies poop grape concentrate? and she tinkled her way into a sleepy laughter. I attacked her mouth like a bull. She accepted my body like a queen. What happened, lover? she asked me after. I finally discovered the temperature, I answered. Which temperature, lover? she persisted. The temperature of love, I answered, my lips suicidally invading her left breast.

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Girl Sometimes you find that little girl inside you. Hi, you say. Hi, I say. May I present her? you say. Feet, bare, clapping on asphalt shuffling through sand hopping among thistles... ouch, Hands, gesticulating, pointing to a bird cupping rain water picking a four-leaf clover... yippee, Mouth, gaping, watching a beetle's colors squealing at the smell of ice-cream munching bitter leaves... mmm. Then she hides, somewhere inside your sweater waiting for the call of sun to poke her nose out again. Hi, she says, now no intermediaries. Hi, I say, now knowing her.

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Cruelty the cruelty of distance, of knowledge of wait and half open mouth and half open buttons and willingness to turn half into full and flesh into quarry and words into rhyming screams... did you hear already rhyming screams? the viciousness of want, of admission of cupidity for fingers unending at ends of arms unending beneath shoulders the smoothness of ivory adorning a neck leading upwards into hell's paradise... did you touch already hell's paradise? the ruthlessness of calling, of offering of ferocity unattainable to teeth biting empty air pairing with fingernails orphaned of hospitability of spine joined by exploding muscles and beggar loins... did you make love already to beggar loins?

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Dialogues In Front Of Eden I pulled out the worm from your apple the splinter from your foot I combed your hair before, during and after. Because you love me? Because you love me. You don’t love me? No. You pouted. Why? Why what? You don’t love me. I do love you. Immensely. You said you don’t love me. I said No to You don’t love me. Which is the same as Yes I love you. Immensely. So you love me. No. You pouted again. What is it with beautiful women and small cranial cavity? I love you. Immensely. Oh. You got it. We were seated on a bench, in front of Eden. Naked. No fig leaf. Do you think he opens today? He might be she. Or it. Or none. Or both. Or all. Maybe he-she-it-none-all is a fish. Maybe. We were all fishes, once. Yet maybe he-she-it-none-all evolved as well. Into what? A bigger fish. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, went your laughter. What else? What else what? The worm, the splinter, the worm... what else you did? For you? For me. I rolled the world round. I rolled the sun too, the problem was to make it burn. See? I succeeded. I also bent the banana. No, this was not you. No, this was not me, true, this was someone else. I did paint it yellow, though. Why? Why what? And you talk about women and their small cranial cavity. Why yellow? Because there was enough red, and green, and blue, there was need for yellow. Watermelon is yellow. Yes, I painted it too. Did you paint my neighbor’s teeth too? No, this was Nicotine. Nicotine is a bad guy. Every good story needs a bad guy. Is this a story? No, this is good. I pushed a cloud to cover the sun. Why did you do that? you asked, shivering. You shiver with cold? I shiver with pleasure. In order to feel the heat of your skin. I pulled the sun and the cloud and a few birds down to the horizon crushing them into the rich motley of squashed fruits and colors. Poor birds. Listen. We listened. There were blackbirds, and bluebirds, and yellowbirds chasing sunbirds. I hear a turkey. What is a turkey doing inside the motley? Flying into the sun?... I volunteered. I pushed you on your back, the narrow slabs cutting deep ruts in your back as I made love to you. You pushed me on my back, the narrow slabs cutting deep ruts in my back as you made love to me. I pushed you on your back, the narrow slabs cutting deep ruts in your back as I made love to you. You pushed me on my back, the narrow slabs cutting deep ruts in my back as you made love to me. You look like a checkerboard. You look like a checkerberry. You look like a checkerbloom. You look like a checkerspot. Do you think we should have waited for the gate to open? I picked some silver from your hair and went over, painting it over the gate. Now it was a mirror. You watched our reflection, naked flesh enveloping naked flesh, king and queen, dragon and tamer, cow and grass. Cow and grass? You prefer thorn and dew? For whatever reason you preferred thorn and dew. Why did you paint it silver? Now we see us. So that now we don’t have to wait for the gate to open into Eden. Now we see Eden. A turkey landed next to us, gobbling excitedly, a piece of sun in its beak. See? I told you. You refused to see anything except for Eden, trembling uncontrollably next to me.

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Garden Of Flesh You did not do it on purpose, or maybe you did, or maybe you did not know that you did and now you were asleep fighting off some demons with slight twitches of fingers and toes. The top button of your nightgown closed, the other three, reaching almost to your waist, open and a wonderfully shaped piece of pale flesh rolled out through the opening its one red eye asleep middle of areolian gardens dreaming inside your dream of last night’s visiting messenger fingers and beggar lips. How did the hem of your gown slide so high and so far? a long thigh ending almost as far up as your shoulder hugging indelicately the ecstatic linen caught in the trap between one bare knee and another, hidden one, my eye hungrily following linen’s shadow upwards till the blurred line of soft, blonde plumage delineating the border between matter and flesh. There was no much finesse in my cupping fists when they took hold of the nightgown, both sides of the seam and with one impetuous move tore it off the flesh revealing the rest of the other knee, the other thigh the rest of the plumage and areolian gardens... are you the archaeopteryx of my dreams? you smiled through eyelashed cobwebs, shedding the last of the threads. I am the man in love of your nightmares, I answered, taking possession of the skin pouring my way. No wonder I have so many of them, you gurgled back, helping me die endlessly between the roots of that ruthlessly dexterous garden of flesh.

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Hero hero, battling the dripping nose scrapping the ice refraining from getting hold of the boss’s jugular and simply squeezing... one of those heroic days. tying laces with fingers frozen solid listening to rap at seven am getting buried under a pile of snow falling from the church’s roof and still dreaming of ice cream... one of those heroic days. thinking of you writing a poem smiling... and what is so heroic about this? not heroic, just impossible. shivering outside for reasons different to shivering inside.

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kinds of when when you float upon the tiles undulating sometimes whirling, rushing out in between the pane and the sill then finding your way back in through a keyhole, if present, or through that crack in my mind you often laugh at and I agree, when was it that you chased a dry leaf throughout the garden and then the cat started chasing you oblivious to your non corporeality driven only by those flowing colors painting nebulae in the air and then the dog started chasing the cat and I chased the dog until you caught that dry leaf but I never caught you, when you find your lair in my pockets between dry crumbs of bread and torn bits of paper drifting between thread knots and visiting sometimes pieces of me I am unaware of my only reminiscence from your visits this allergy population of red dots so strangely and minutely heart shaped, when was it that you painted suns inside the bottle I just finished drinking or carved smileys there where my teeth bit into the thick sandwich then ripped from my hand the mayonnaise dirty hankie and folded it into a sequence of letters telling me where to find the corporeal you, when you pull the hat down over my head to hide that crack, now not secret anymore and you drag colored paper balls flying around me, when was it that you had enough of this game and allowed corporeal you to pull a bed underneath the three of us breaking the secrecy of making love into whiffs of perfume?...

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Hallelujah I heard it said, sung, I heard it misunderstood, misinterpreted. I heard it in prayer, chanted. I saw it written in its originally split form of that ancient language. I understand it beyond the mystic. * You wake up in the morning. You walk the cat, or whatever one does with a cat. You brush your teeth smiling at an unseen reflection of me behind your shoulder, you eat, just a little, you drink, just a little, you eat a tangerine, a big one thinking of that legendary slice that once slipped from your mouth straight into mine and started our legend, even if only we know of this legend. Your shoes sound rhythmically on the pavement the chilly wind trying to lift your skirt... of course you don’t allow, only I am allowed to lift your skirt, a figure hastening in the shop windows waves back at you knowing it is you yet not you yet telling you of you and your green sweater and red scarf and black stockings, it does not know of what you wear underneath even I don’t know, I will never know until I meet you again and I will know of the colors underneath your clothing and of the colors underneath the colors underneath your clothing, and more. You stop to catch your breath, closing your eyes before allowing the world catch up with you and saying to no one in particular yet to the whole world to know, I love you. Hallelujah.

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Killer Lift your finger, I want to take a picture of it... click! Now another one... no, not this one, this might be perceived as rude, try another... click!... another... click! click! the other hand, click! click! click! click!... I guess we cannot delay any longer, sorry, do lift the middle one, I have no choice, click! click! click! I know you don’t have three, the third click was for your mouth. Now lift your big toe. You cannot? Another toe then? You cannot? Then try wiggling them... hey, stop wiggling, I cannot take pictures while laughing, no, neither while being tickled, especially there, I will try to zoom in... Do you know you have a scar on the second toe from left, your right foot? How do you know? Oh, your other lover told you, did you also tell you that you are a liar? The scar is on the fourth toe from right, your left foot... ouch!... that hurt. Do you always carry a collapsible baseball bat in your bag? I see, only when you are dating me. What do you carry when you date your other lover? Oh, a collapsible baobab tree. Click! Click! Done. Okay, click! click! Now I have your nipples too. Happy? All of it goes to my lawyer, to be opened in case something awful happens to me. Give it to me now, that terrifying, abysmal, ferocious passion. They will know now who was my killer.

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Flowers flowers? ha, flowers... why do lovers always invoke flowers? why do I always invoke flowers when it is the hunger of the wolf pack I should, with the savagery of the lion pride and the invincibility of the hyena clan guiding me brainlessly into that land where brainless is beautiful, where fingers do not touch to caress but to slash and hummingbirds die abandoning their whistling breath inside panpipe hollows to accompany the sounds of our exploding muscles and coveting rapaciousness. flowers? ha, flowers... to trample beneath picaresque bodies who lost a footing meaninglessly meaningful in another world we long stopped caring about, to chew into bitter cantharides with lumps of earth and rotten last year’s beetles the shared teeth of our shared mouths humanity’s last tools of creation of that unique beauty lost with unicorn’s nib of horn and dragon’s whiff of smoke and our yesterday’s lung collapsing deep inside the other’s chest. flowers? ha, flowers... the skeleton to garlands perfumed with that blend of sweat telling of the mixture of skins glowing and flesh intimacies swelling, the background to bountiful bouquets and festive festoons cowering underneath pine’s dried needles with pomegranate’s red hearts beating themselves into mush and grape’s seeds shooting holes the size of fists for wine’s ensuing deluge once the spark between our clashing teeth sets fire to garlands and bouquets and festoons and stones turn gravel between our clasped palms while a giant eagle convocation drowns our lupine shamelessness in a snowfall of feathers.

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No, Not Don’t try to hide behind the cactus, love, I will squash it between our bodies and as many bleeding punctures there might be there will be... one more; no, not as thin, I think? Cobra’s lair is a poor refuge if you try to run away, love, big as its fangs are and poison rich their round hollows see these bites round your nipples they seem to be... flat toothed; no, not a goat, seen any horns? Even if you descend the volcano’s mouth, love, a fate worse than the burning coal eating your soles and burning away your whites awaits you as deep as you might be... your lips going up in flames; no, not lava, maybe licking lava? So why don’t you just slide back under the sheets, love, it’s your destiny to suffer the terrible torture I have in store for you until you be... dead; no, not dead dead, what about delightedly dead?

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organic no artificial colors, only the pink of your skin beneath the white of your whites, no artificial flavours, except for the tangerine leftovers between your teeth and the sticky melon splotches at the ends of your fingers which I diligently lick away... both, no preservatives or stabilizers or emulsifiers for as long as you do not gnaw your way underneath my skin and into my flesh and deeper. feed me coy cauliflower your fingers crushing steamed heads into white mud to rub through those of my still clenched teeth with a stiff tongue and lips begging only for grapes in return, sate me with the flippant cabbage broiling adventurously at the bottom of a deep pot to end its life underneath the beauty of your palate before entrusting the last of its worldly flavours to my endless edacity, stuff me absolutory broccoli the way you would stuff grape leaves with perished rice and crunched nuts and squashed tomatoes then lose your way on the perilous journey eating your full of my offered ripe flesh and ripening muscle. the water we stole from each other’s mouth won’t suffice to put out the fire in each other’s bark, the scorpions ending your fingers won’t match the crocodiles lining my wrists, choke me with the seed of your cherries and I will seed you with dreams seeding devouring suns.

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away dance out of your shoes as I lift them and you above them and the sun above you way above me, leave the dirt of your soles behind to embellish my palms with mud not yet dried and steps already taken there, where I will never be to gather the dust raised, float out of your dress, replace debauchery of ankles with debauchery of ankles and knees and thighs and everything above them as your elbows bend around descending swallows and ascending sighs, abdicate the grief of memories we will never have and tie your curls to memories we always will letting them bare your neck to the decapitating swish of outreaching caresses, fly away, steal the red off angry rainbows and the dew off dejected mornings and when an impatient god points an accusing finger your way guide his fingertip to that spot of ground where I still wait with hands way above my head holding the shoes you forgot behind.

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Yet Go to the place where words are written with letters yet to be born, Come beneath the shadow of trees yet to be seeded, Lie, there, on the bed of my body, the one yet to be consummated in the flames yet to subside of our coalescing skin. * Make love with me in ways yet to be conspired, Sing into me those melodies to be composed after our yet to come death, Drink through me pregnant grapes not yet boiling under tomorrow's sun. * The water dress adheres to your body splattering as my fingertips penetrate its gossamer thickness reaching for those spots where skin ends and passion begins, Your sand shoes crumble around your toes leaving taste of seashells and ribbons of sweat rolling like wind-driven leaves behind my lips, A garland, a flurry of wings disentangles itself from around your hips and crushes our alloyed, shuddering bodies under tons of crawling colors and trilling insanity. * You pour between my fingers and yet you never detach your lips.

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Breaking News Hey, look, you said tumbling three times forward then running an amuck run around me before falling, exhausted, disturbing the sand and a few beetles and sleepy me. Look what? I asked not really paying attention, not even reacting to that flurry of hands trying to pull my shoes off and tickle me. I wasn’t ticklish. not even pulling my pants down sired (ladied?) any reaction. They bought my book, you yelled, sitting on my head. Did they read your book? I managed a muffled question minding not, actually enjoying the sensation, after all you were sitting on my face. Of course, else why did they buy it? you rubbed my nose into it, your feathers ruffled - told you, I didn’t mind, not even the feathers. Probably because it was about me, I bit back, and I mean – bit, and you bit back and I mean – bit. This is the beginning of a new one, you said after you bit back and I bit back and you bit back... hey, holdholdhold... hooooold on, I will never sell even one book with this kind of cacophonic illiteracy. I hope it is a long one, I bit back... oops, sorry folks. It has no end, you promised, and if to judge by the introduction it promised to be quite an eventful one. Sit on my head again, I pleaded and you mighty did much beyond that. I guess I will have to buy that coming book if I am to know what happened after that – see?... I remember nothing but I kept spitting burning lignite for all of three following days. Not too ecologically friendly but, by God, something must have turned my insides’ furnace on.

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In My Mind in my mind wells and water and waves and you jump down and into and over and they peek under your skirt and wet your thighs readying you for making love to me. you prefer searching for the moon’s hideout dragging behind you a bouquet of flowers and burrs and roots looking for a new home wherever your body seeds its warmth lying for a night’s rest before following the quest. in my mind I plough the field ahead of your bare feet and build mud castles in back of them collecting the fallen flowers and burrs and roots to line that lair where you’ll find the moon readying it for making love to me. you prefer asking the way to passing birds and fleeting leaves carrying in the tails of passing foxes your bouquet growing ever bigger and your pace ever slower your lost tatters tied on to my left wrist and my right cutting away the forest in front of you. in my mind you give up knowing that the moon will ever stay hidden and I will ever follow you to that lair I set in stone and wood and feather where you give me your bouquet and your beauty and your love in return for your tatters and my unclenching fingers and making love to you.

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Flesh Flower shed your petals be they stocking or skirt or brassiere, emerge flesh flower shivering delicately in dawn’s dew, spill your skin into a world void of flesh perfumes, fold mornings to unfold nights beneath my covers. soak into the window’s pellucid pane your color’s fire, let eagles bath you in the rising sun’s and ocean’s wave, sink back into my flesh your flower decrying lost time, when you turn back to seed remember devouring love.

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I I danced with you beneath an autumn’s leaf... where did you lose your shoes this morning? I lost them with a kisses thief there upon his pillow’s reef, stole my shoes with little warning, stole my heart then killed my mourning and my grief. I bathed you in seven drops of dew... where is your shirt which bade long summer? I swear I haven’t got a clue, maybe when I drank that brew with the guy playing the plumber, haven’t seen a fellow dumber... maybe you? I dug for you a bed inside the sea... where are your silks and left foot stocking? I bet beneath that damn marquee where rascal he and vestal me bartered bodies softly rocking through the glimmer of hot, docking flesh debris. I sang with you a sailor’s crave for rum... where does it hide your skin’s sweet fallow? I guess where larks taste sunset’s crumb, where your lips exhort my thumb our venery to hallow when beneath the weeping sallow we succumb.

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the paradox of perception wait, don't pull it completely down, your zipper. wait that one moment half way between the moment eternity wasn't invented and the many following moments it didn't yet arrive irrelevant how fast your action and intent. prove the paradox of reality versus perception seeing me indifferent, before motion with no eternity in sight dying, while eternity equals wait dead, once eternity is just behind and your nakedness in front. the state of human, derived from the state of eternity controlled by the state of you and the flick of your fingers. zip!... I am richer now with the knowledge that there is life after death and all of it fire.

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Till The Cows Come Home Till the cows come home. Only cows? Can be sheep, pigs, storks, whatever. Chickens? Even chickens. Good, I have chickens. I don't have cows. Bad. Why? I thought you said 'whatever'. Whatever you don't have. I don't get it. So cows, fine. I still don't get it. I'll love you till the cows come home. But I don't have cows... oh... It took one full second, well, she was after one full glass of wine, the cheeks turning lurid blush the skin turning crushed glass the frown metamorphosing smile all the way from a lemon slice into a sliced watermelon while her hands were looking desperately for a way from beneath the hem of my shirt all the way along my bare back and up to my shoulders. Thank goodness, sometimes she gets it. It was easier for my hands to find a way from beneath the hem of her skirt all the way along her bare thighs and bare back (with a small strategic pause along the way) and up to her shoulders. There was a mirror in back of her, the lure was irresistible... I started moving from the shoulders down the front before she moved hastily away. Wait! Wait for what? For the cows to come home. But... but... but... It wasn't my habit to stutter yet I stuttered like it was. My cheeks turned lurid red for other reasons, the crushed glass lining my skin melted into collapsing mush, my lemon took over from my watermelon... She sat at the desk and tore a piece of paper in two. On one she wrote cows, on the other she wrote house, then put the cows under the house. Then she got up and faced me, bringing my hands back exactly there where they interrupted their journey towards the mother of gravitation. Okay, the cows came home. I guess I was still dumbfound, or whatever the word. Thank goodness, you will never get it. She took hold of my belt. Sex was not even invented until that one moment after.

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typos you’re the only one capable of three typos in a four lettered word and get away with it. you mean love? I mean lust. are you sure? maybe lure? so you admit. shit. maybe last of summers passed, maybe long?... that would be wrong, typos two and rhyming song. life, leaf, lost and leer and lone? screak or scream or screw... or spawn? imperfect rhyme. imperfect typo. touché. touché. what are we doing here? doing nothing. making love. with words? imperfect words. perfect love. after, when words lost any of their intended meaning, any meaning at all and classical grammar bartered itself with a series of disarticulated grunts and the sun descended beneath your belly disregarding neighbors abusive of broom handles and ceilings. it does not change a thing, you’re still capable of three typos in a four lettered word and get away with it. you mean lust? I mean love. Oops. so a thing... did change. typo? life.

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How Many Glasses In A Bucket? I drink love with a glass, glassfuls. I pour love with the bucket, bucketfuls. How many glasses in a bucket? Is the rest wasted? Or to some other maiden fair, waiting there in lover’s lair, golden hair and flimsy wear? No, none of this and none of that. What your glass doesn’t catch goes to words I sculpt on your brain’s craving ridges, to orchids I drop from your eyes’ curving bridges, to swallows I feed with your nectar of mouth as they swarm to that south blessed with coveys of midges. And this takes care of all you poured? No. So how much is left? I opened the atlas and pointed to the Pacific. I see, enough for maidens fair with golden hair... Yes, I concurred. Oh, that pouting lip, so chewable. You see... while I write my stupid song you see right and you see wrong, true, a maiden sweet and fair waiting here and waiting there in this lover’s luring lair with cascading, golden hair, does she don some flimsy wear?... I pulled the hem of her skirt up, enough to reveal... she blushed, batting the skirt back down, her pout even more heartbreaking as I tore that Pacific page from the atlas, folded it, and shoved it deep into her shirt’s pocket. What is it that you carry beneath your pocket? I asked. What is it that I carry beneath my pocket? she echoed almost perfectly. The thing that goes bang... bang... bang... I asked. It is called heart, and it went BANG!!!... she mangled the echo completely. Yes, she did don some flimsy wear. Not much of it, though. And not for long.

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Intimate You undress in front of me. I watch you through a peephole the size of the room we’re in as you innocently discard irrelevant pieces of clothing just to don other, one step forward, two back, three forward, one back, two forward... the sum total nevertheless advancing inexorably toward that absolute, ultimate, implicit nakedness when you peel the last piece away from your body, static electricity sending disconsolate, greedy hands from nylon to skin yet with a tiny spark giving in to death imminent. The garb floats to the floor taking its time, a paper butterfly just discovering that its wings are real and the glimmer of reflections eternal. “What?” you ask sliding through those layers of air separating us, allowing the curtains of invisible silk undulate upon your skin readying your flesh for that ultimate, ceaseless sacrifice. “Scheherazade?” I ask baffled in my mind between whiffs of promising perfumes and the shadow you cast upon a moon too curious, too insistent. “Do you want to make love?” you ask as my hands take over from the silk yet hang on to their first touching spot like fishing hooks. “First tell me our story,” I ask and you start from the end guiding my senses all the way to the first time we created a sun. I wake up in the morning, finding you keeping watch over my derelict body, smiling. “Do you still love me?” I ask pointing to the abstract painting in blue around your nipples. “More than ever,” you answer, offering me the canvas once more.

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When Reality Barges In I grab a cupful of buttock, one only, though I wish I could grab both, I squeeze hard disregarding the whimpering knowing it is for the tear in your stocking and the crease in your freshly ironed dress you whimper. If to judge by your palm cupping a sizable portion of my buttocks inside belt and trousers and underwear. You were always one step ahead of me. And most of the time underneath me. Not now, as we discuss the ecology of noise and the curse of global warming and the American election results and our fingers play their disrespect to the haughty ideas of our mouths yet not of our minds, half way in the gutter already. You force your ideas upon me, the political and the religious siding with the curls of hair there where I would have expected to find them yet not alongside the political and the religious and certainly not with metaphors hiding the crude reality and its barbarous, heavenly stinking, beauty. You pull me into you before I stumble in the piling trousers decorating my ankles and I fall underneath you, damn, the back of my head thudding dryly on the tiles so unlike anything Bogie ever did to Ingrid or Fred to Ginger or Mickey to Minnie, at least what they showed us when in reality they were so far from dancing and so deep in hammering the floor the way we did. I don’t mind your groping fistfuls of fat forgotten around my belly as long as you don’t mind my groping fistfuls of breast grown on your chest and competing with my hair not in quantity but in quality. No doubt, you are better built, though you would claim the other way around if to judge from the way your eyes insist on seeing me, every bit of me and none in the least disgusting and all of it tasty to your smacking lips and that vacuum building inside that dark grotto defined by your palate and tongue and tonsils sucking in everything of me not attached with firm ligaments to my bones. It sounds incongruous, almost indecently so when we finally disentangle and your mouth tastes of love as you whisper... I love you. It has nothing to do with the airplane just cutting the full moon in two with a horrible noise, sounding no more than a whisper when I remember that shared howling just seconds ago.

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Explorer I started mapping your body, didn't intend to write the results anywhere, maybe just on the dura mater of my brain in case someone researches, upon a time, my corpse and tries to understand the reason to my terrible passion. Started measuring circumferences, my tool thumb and forefinger adapting their curvature from fully “o” closed to beyond ninety degrees open, moving around ankles, wrists, nipples (measured both, there is always good reason for asymmetries), at times I had to use both hands facing each other as your waist may have been waspy but not that waspy. I preferred to use my whole cupping palm for your thighs mixing caress with movement... hey, there is a problem with your breasts even as they are hanging straight down their circumference seems to depend on my squeeze and your need, a mighty inaccurate measurement... ouch... sorry, correct, depths are not supposed to be measured at this stage. Depths now, okay? I used my fingers, all of them, after all I had to ascertain that the results are confirmed, repeatable and trustable... yes, also toes, but this strictly for fun. I wondered why you kept oohing and aahing all the time interrupting my scientific research with rude comments and girlish giggles, though I was thankful that from time to time you wiggled like a snake in heat (hey, that's a good one) allowing me to find the bottom of the deepest of them... some I never quite succeeded, especially with my little finger. I didn't know you inherited one of Cerberus' heads, that was really painful, look, it is bleeding... so what if it wasn't a finger, it was almost one... mmmmm... thank you. Humidity next? Did I finish humidity? It took me hours? Impossible, I remember nothing of it, did I visit everywhere, I mean not just the sweat infested skin and tears infested eyes and salivating lips and... oh, yes?... even there? and even there?... Must have been hit by lightning, or amnesia, or plain prurience induced hysteria resulting in an aggregate occultation of the senses and thalamic nyctalopia. No, this is not Esperanto. Neither Swedish. Forget it! Temperature? Did it together with humidity? I hope it is not deadly. What do you mean what? My prurience induced... okay, okay, forget it! Did I do already hardness tests? Thank God, some things I do remember not doing. I poked everywhere, using mainly my forefinger and measuring the depth of penetration and meticulously registering the results, bet the first time anyone ever did it so scientifically accurate well, missed once or twice my target, swear it wasn't intentional and was made aware by you, thank you, telling me hey, you finished with your depth measurements, causing me to apologize, confused and worried at my previously mentioned thalamic nyctalopia and things. I had no way to poke your eyes, so I contented myself with swimming in them. And I had to, seriously, I apologize a million, had to go to the pinching rather than poking method when measuring the hardness of your nipples, poking got me nowhere, and pinching got you somewhere, so it was worth trying. It also proved my theory - they are not symmetrical. Here, try pinching mine, see? Told you. Sound, now? Then we'll make a sex break, not before. Promise. And sound mapping is so important, look at dolphins, and bats, and whales... no, I don't imply anything, complimented already your waist, didn't I? There was a lot of nothing when it came to sound. I put my ear to your foot, ankle, shin, nothing. A bit of clicks around your knee, probably you'll need it operated if you live two-hundred seventeen years, so no immediate worry. Nothing around your thighs, so boring, nothing around your loins, though not boring at all... finally, first signs of real life when I reached your belly - sounded like a mix of siren songs, and coyote howls, a bit of cascading water, Swedish (again?)... it's yesterday's pizza, you laughed, annihilating my fantasy with one strike and reducing my measurements to irrelevancy. I mapped accurately your heart, left then right then left then... is it my heart or my nipples you are mapping? you laughed once more pulling the left nipple out of my ear and pulling my head higher up. I had the impression you started getting fed up with all this mapping, hungry as you were for some more pizza and the afore mentioned sex since you started humming and lullabying and whistling driving all my measurement systems into saturation and my ears into near deafness. Okay, I get it, I got it, playing the wise guy, you want pizza, yet knowing reality. Fool! (that was me screaming to me). I had to wait thirty six minutes for the delivery, pay a hefty tip, watch you munch at leisure and tell me stories about the Spanish inquisition, then go wash your mouth, brush your teeth... it was when you opened the wardrobe and started looking through your dresses that I roared like a wounded zebra grabbed you by the hair dropped you on the bed pulled your legs apart... hey, if it is pizza you want it is not there you'll find, you whispered, as suave as a viper in heat (and here I go with the serpentine heat thing again) and it was not pizza I wanted. Shucks, it was time to run some other kind of mapping for the benefit of future generations and I did not give up perfecting it on the fly to the point that you had no choice but admit... hey, there, lover, and all the time I kept thinking that you're not interested in the geological aspects of mapping. Oh, yes, I was, if there was something I found out I really liked was mining under erupting volcanoes, oh, yes...

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Hair Sculpting kneel in front of me. let me sculpt in each of your hairs crystal castles high of tower savage grasslands rich of flower jumping goats upon the mountains drinking larks beneath the fountains feathers from a falling dove, poems, from a falling love... let me braid your hair into garlands dipped in fragrant summers meadows swamped by squirrel drummers budding leaves among the fallows sleeping does beneath the sallows, gurgles, from a crying dove, murmurs, from a crying love... now you can stand up. * no? why? no, no, no, this was not my intent. oh, are you sure? well, if you insist... a zipping sound tears through the night ripping the sky asunder, a wailing howl follows... sorry, that last one must have been me.

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Combs you didn't dry your hair as you stepped out of the shower, your skin rough, wallowing in goose bump decorations, your hair limp, hanging in shapeless lumps dripping all over the carpet... sit down, I offered, spreading a towel on the chair and watching your breasts in the mirror, your nipples competing with the goose bumps and winning. I stuck the comb deeply, until it met with the refusal of the scalp and pulled it through the first lump, turning it into an almost presentable strand as drops stained the carpet like a local bout of rain, did it again, then again, then took another lump in my left palm and sank the comb deeply once more, then again... you closed your eyes, probably visiting another world, worlds? as I repeated the ritual like a automaton, mistakenly delivered with a heart and with passion in its heart and with fuel sufficient to feed the passion and move the sun into another orbit around the earth... or is it the other way around? when was it that my fingers took over the comb long broken the hair long dry the goose bumps eternal around flint nipples and down breasts with nails scrapping fever into hair roots and thumbs massaging passages to chariots of gods and their furious horses? you did not open your eyes even when my palms found their way underneath your breasts, not even when they separated your legs combing gently the reluctant curls before one arm embraced the back of your knees and the other your shoulders and I carried you to the linen. you did not open your eyes when we made love. are you asleep, lover? I asked, knowing better, that pounding heart was almost jumping out of your chest. yes, you lied, why did you allow the dragon pour all this liquid fire inside me? I had no answer, I couldn't apologize, I couldn't lie and tell you the truth, I had no choice but take the comb once more and send you to these others worlds again hoping for your forgiveness.

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Plaster the plaster I poured there, where your cheekbone has resided for a whole night, I lifted the pitcher and brought it above the nipple-burned blackened holes mid of the deep, wrinkled crescents in the linen left by the mounds supporting them, mixed some wine, red, and let the mixture cover that stain forgotten by your thighs sighing in contentment all the while your belly hosted my love. the masterpiece ready, water and wine dripping on the floor under the pervious mattress with pieces of you in solid white and pink plaster reminding me of the flesh once hosted by the same perturbations. I pick up the hardened plaster pieces, lift them at eye level and let them drop one after the other breaking into hundreds of pieces. none, if not my flesh, has the right to carry the memory of your flesh.

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Messengers dove. dove? like the one rhyming with love? like the flight beneath the feather hauling wine inside its nib stolen from the bleeding nipple dripping life along my rib knowing not that once the nostrum lands upon your lip to dry it will nest upon your shoulder and will die? horse. horse? with a savage call, or worse? with a field of groping thistles seeding roots beneath its hide as it gallops in the sunset shooting pebbles in its stride in its mane a ribbon braided with the offers of my eye to bestow upon my lover and to die? flame. flame? laying sunrise claim to shame? laying colors through the meadows as it drags its crine along wide astride a roaming mistral hoarding whispers into song carrying my gasping shivers to the pleasures of your sigh until summer turns to ashes then to die? all of messengers, my lover, you have sent my erring ways wait, my autumn to uncover and your blaze.

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Cleavage savage. cleavage? certainly savage, certainly not rhyming. what would you prefer? you mean rhyme-wise. I mean savage-wise. cleavage, of course. so you have nothing to complain, right? and she opened another button and she leaned a bit further and she reached back... a snapping sound and the sudden weight against her shirt suddenly unbearable... by me, not by the shirt. damn textile, so resilient these days and there was no choice but hear the ripping sound as the thread whirling through the buttons proved the stronger with the nice front trim turning frails... who gives a damn when that kind of flesh hangs bared twin pendulums proving more than any Foucault experiment that the Earth rotates and what it rotates about. I woke up hours later some of me forgotten inside her, my cheek smashing flat that which was, once, a savage cleavage and my mouth drowning in the salty fluids now glutting that same, once, valley. would you prefer that I dress? why dress? so there is a cleavage to ogle. your shirt is shredded. I can sew it. damn women and their thrust-and-parry logic. I had to think, finally making up my mind. after all, that some of me forgotten inside her had a mind of its own. and it had nothing to do with my puerile fantasies. but everything with hers.

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The Supreme Sacrifice my panties too? such dreadful, devastating, disarming innocence. I owned all of you... life, soul, virginity, skin, dreams, minutes and words and you were finally ready for that last, ultimate, supreme sacrifice. mid of the wildflowers field mid of the scorching day and all your clothes by now sheared to thin ribbons and connected to my kite... the tail, the rich cotton and silk and lace rainbow ready to take off into the treetop zephyrs and you took them off, blushing in your pride of sacrifice and handed them over to me with your left, you right trying to hide your modesty. I couldn’t regard your tears, the absolute beauty in that absolute pain of giving all. you removed your right, allowing me to take you all in. I cut the softness into thin, long winged butterflies and tied them alongside the rest of the rainbow... fly fairy! I shouted and started running away from you, the kite taking steeply off, the rainbow scintillating with broken sun rays and your naked figure stepping into the wilderness of flower and thistle as it chased the kites tail screaming your maidenly delight right into that prison holding my heart. I fell in love with you, once more. how many times can I fall in love with you, woman?

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Druckzentrum To my right a truck, Verbeegen written on it, I zoom past it to find one marked Jack Mullen, Marty Balin on the radio never knew about him but I recognize the song, Hearts, I feel like salty and a few cashews find their way into my mouth nice texture like your lips except for the taste, yours don't taste salty, no, neither sweet unless it is moments after you pop a chocolate into your mouth and lick your lips insisting on sharing after chewing, yes, a taste like your lips after we bit ravenously into each other and lips turn meat for lovers. Speed camera! careful! good! I applaud myself into deafness, now I can speed for a long stretch unless if the bastards deployed one of their mobile units for law abiding citizens like me. Wrong place to think I love you? No, no place is wrong place, I love you. Traveling Wilburys on the radio and the DJ claims that wilburys is to Brits what gremlins is to Yankees, I sing along... and the wallls come down alll the way to helll... and I add a third l everywhere for the effect it has on my mind, glad to have immediately after Lleonard Cohen, yes, still one l too many, inertia of the mind, and he begs to be danced to the end of love, great music, almost as good as my poetry maybe a bit better probably a lot, maybe, didn't yet decide while passing underneath a bridge with another camera... ouf, almost forgot. For a short while I am stuck in a jam caravan crawling alongside an elegant Camel... oops, Mercedes driven by a distinguished looking elderly guy, bet he's a plastic surgeon judging by the measurements he takes of his nose - external and internal... the traffic eases and the Mercedes zooms away with a thunder (with such electronics it's not even capable of decent tire burning) the back of it saying Dak Herstellingen, i.e. Roof Repairs, and as a honest bet loser I move one Euro from my left pocket to the right one. I'm thirsty. Also for love. Didn't know cashews were aphrodisiacs, did know they were thirst inducing and I still have quite a number of miles to the next station most of them alongside a truck lighted like a Christmas tree and a driver looking like Freddy the nightmare smiling my way, no I'm not gay so I don't give him the finger but speed away looking for the Aachen sign which heralds the imminent arrival of the gas station and the next calories-rich sandwich, and soda, and chips to keep me going and singing. I love you. Had to say it and write it before turning off the key in the ignition. Damn, the toilet is defective, I will have to stop somewhere else along the way as the pressure is significant and after I irresponsibly finish the soda it is even greater, I try to take my mind off the immediate need by counting sheep... wrong!... this is for sleeping, dumkopf, German cursing feeling appropriate as I cross into Deutschland and I squeeze it down to 100mph, rain irrelevant and temperatures graciously above freezing though my tires are illegal for the period of year and for this country... damn... bad poetry, no double use of key words in one poem, yet no choice as speed hungry me misses the parking... thank God, another parking for Zoll - customs - hungry officers chasing the bad guys and I am one of the good guys halting with screeching brakes and running with neck breaking speed to the next tree... damn... a third one, since I slide on the luxuriously spread clay down the steep mound, hey, nothing will hold me back! I don’t scream as I relieve the need and reason returns to the world. and to my mud laden shoes and pants. Doesn’t matter, the customer likes me with or without pants, ahm, I mean – dirty pants. Jimmy Cotton blesses my ears with Cotton Crop Blues followed by J B Lenoir’s Let It Roll, then J B Hutto, then Otis Spann... what better for an unending stretch of road (other bastards reduced the speed to 80mph and sprinkled the roadside with camera’s) than a blues program I taped from the radio and singing of all kinds of love, except my kind. I’m almost there, finished another soda, the cashews, some sweets, the stupid GPS finds everything except the place I need to be at and after passing a third time under the same bridge and over it I decide to take control of my life and drive against the lady’s advice pissing her off into several “recalculating” fits until finally she gets me there in one piece, and more important – the parts I carry with me for the machine. Druckzentrum are delighted to see me, especially since now they have another, bigger problem, for which I have no spares with me. Shit. Did I tell you already that I love you? OK, now that I don’t have to keep the wheel with one hand and the pen with the other let me tell it to you with both hands holding the pen: I love you.

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Upside Down I wish we could dance on our hands our toes holding, our knees touching your skirt fallen down till all I can see is the top of your nose, and eyes, and hair sweeping the floor as I try to work my way beyond the hem of your skirt and find your mouth with mine. Your underwear? No idea, I cannot see though it doesn't matter much alone, as we are, in our universe. I wish we could make love on our hands though I wonder how can we overcome gravitation impediments and drop upwards trousers, shorts, panties with hands busy keeping our bodies inversely upright and mouths busy keeping tongues from falling out while we open buttons and zippers and belts with toes and wriggles and one hand stands. Your breasts? Looking wonderful as they stretch downwards competing with your mouth for my mouth. I wish we could sleep on our hands connected to each other in various ways, decent and indecent, slumber keeping us from falling with the swarms of its invisible flying sheep and those woolen ribbons tying our ankles to ceiling and lamp and clouds even as we – for broken moments – disconnect our decent hold but never the indecent one. Your other hand? Safely hanging on to my unmentionables while mine safely hangs on to yours.

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Abstract? OK Music covers the tips of your fingers, you squash freshly plucked petals between fingertip and piano key listening to chords snapping, the roots growing up from ivory into skin sucking all sounds of all ever played accords to mount beneath arms along ribs into loins infusing your insides with imagined images of me. Bedding lies confused between your thighs dragging memories of past loves and future loves some yours some none's, linen creases wringing into skin wrinkles promises fulfilled and fragrances slept with wearing off a body rubbing against yours, the night dies between your bedposts and your relaxing muscles. Gunshots still reverberate between walls and valleys and clouds and palate to tongue to teeth and I pull away to view the wounds you punched through flesh, ours, bird flocks flee away to come back to craw to claw to claim to emerge the other side of Earth's shapeless pregnancy with rumors of dying kings and childless queens and singing pebbles picked from your left shoulder. Quiet timidly wrapping the shower after the thunder of drops and the wind of towel and the scratch of nylons carried by squirrels between bushes and breasts tying my hands to your wishes and to clothes flying anew from between us providing an invitation of entry to places I just deserted for never.

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perfumes why did you take your perfumes? those between closed lips those between open thighs the ones fresh mint, the others sated lust, those underneath your hanging breasts jasmine under the left and wild rose under the right pouring into my nostrils as you hover over me, your hanging flesh offering me flesh-flowers turning steel inside my mouth as I suckle avidly the pollen of milk and your blood pumps them full of passion, those between your wringing hands those behind tightly squeezed eyelids squirting out tears the color of snow from a heart frozen by the hurt of parting. you get off the bed draping the bedding around your shoulders and the bed and the street with its macadam and lamp-posts and dogs, a bridal sumptuous train dragging in also the airport as you squeeze through the plane’s door... how did it all fit through that tiny hole?... and the metal takes to the sky leaving behind volatilizing traces of high-octane perfume and nothingness. I look at the desolation of blackened stones and fossils around me and I lie down on the sharp silica hugging a huge bone to my chest, the one which eons ago thundered through this place with the arrogance of tyrannical eternity and giant maxillae, shadows and sounds around me meaninglessly assailing my eardrums with words the perfume of madness while my mind shrewdly invents a new word around bone and perfume and shadows that none knows or will ever know its meaning as I slap letters into slots the size of sentences and I spell it secretively backwards, to myself, only. e.v.o.l there’s no perfume left until you bring life back.

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Transitions, Other the wind shrieks its despair hiding in your pocket as the sun ignites the summer. ice, clings to your shoes immaturely trying to find absolution from a death of water and mud in the warmth of your feet. dry leaves forgo beauty to crumble into fodder ingurgitated by ravenous roots and emerging buds. death moves away for life. I hang on to your breast my abstinence over.

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