don’t let it terrify you, your body, flowing at craggy bottoms of valleys catching scratches from fine thorns of cacti and shaggy prairie dogs mistaking it for the white belly of a fox or of a moon, flooding minds hidden under the yellow of leaves or inside the pockets of kangaroos while eyes detach and carry surveys of damage to rationality and dream, flirting with imagined touches of unperformed intentions of penetrations driving cats to the scatter of roofs through dripping water-spouts and broken panes, flourishing between words meaninglessly artistic merging tips of nipples to tips of toes to educate unknowing pilgrims into the illiterate secrecy of carnal beauty, your body, don’t let it terrify you,

• back to list   • back   • next

Inspiration? Inspiration My Foot Can you sit down and write a poem just like that? I ask myself. Of course I can, I answer myself, all you have to do is – ask. I go on to prove it, after all, every one can claim claims. Such calamity, says the voice in my head and I pick the pen to prove it right. Stick your fingers in the honey, scrapping tints of pollen woof, Tap the gold along my eyebrows with your finger’s horny hoof Followed by that beast of muscle sneaking out between your teeth Slurping its ignoble pathway to my mouth’s engulfing sheath. Barter tongue with tongue unsating, battling for the crowded fields In between palates and tonsils sharing richest whimper yields While those honey-cluttered eyelids scrub my lust in pouring sweat Batting eyelashes effusing glinting drops of anisette. Look beyond the gasping moments trailing ebbing, frenzied gasps When my want encroaches further and my nail against you rasps, Once the wyvern spit its fire coiling tails between those wings I will tell you of the secret tuning lark’s euphonic strings. Lay your ear upon my ribcage on that gully sloping west, That’s the sound of suns spiraling down my hoary, brittle chest, Don’t expect a tender flower to accost your passing skin But a claw to rip its beauty through your body’s violin. I read it back to myself. I approve. I take my hand and offer myself to my lover hand, hide and all. Your inspiration? she asks. Inspiration my foot, I answer, just wrote you down on paper, and I wonder why she kneels down to kiss my foot. Then she makes love to me. All I have to do after is write her down on paper again. Poetry is such an easy art.

• back to list   • back   • next

Favoring The Skin when you take off the cymbals from around your ankles favoring the skin, the necklace from around your neck favoring the skin, the armbands from around your wrists favoring the skin, the earrings from under your earlobes and the silk from upon your breasts and the gossamer from beneath your belly favoring the skin, when you undo the buttons and the zippers and the belts and the laces holding together the cotton and the leather and the wool imprisoning my body inside that barren, no-woman’s land favoring the skin, when you brush aside music insistently hammering your hearing when you pull out of way linen desperately craving for your forms when you mock darkness willing to invade your softness with its endlessly groping feelers favoring the skin, when you bark then you yowl then you murmur me quiet favoring the skin of my cheek, then my chest, then my belly looking for the leftovers of passion upon my leftovers of skin, when we bathe in each other’s sweat and odors giving up on soap and perfume favoring the skin.

• back to list   • back   • next

you cannot don't give me your lips, you cannot. just give me your lipstick, whichever form you find it suitable - stains, smears, splotches, tooth-marked running tracks or saliva-painted shiny trails curved or straight or tri-dimensional could be spherical, could be cylindrical... hey, get that all knowing smirk off your face... you can leave it anywhere, I am no bodypart-racist, my knee and higher, my chest or lower, my spine spiking whichever direction if gravitational and if ascensional and if you insist you can leave part of it on my lips too before and after and during... don't give me your skin, you cannot. just give me your clothes and if you are too tired I can make the effort myself taking excessive care not to crease, neither wrinkle, nor tear unless if in my shivering fits my fingers will travel a bit too much, a bit off track, a bit... oops, sorry, it wasn't intentional, yes, I know this is quite a big shiver shoe to... that piece of garment, okay, one shoe off and one shoe off as well, then one stocking off and one stocking off as well... sorry, oh, so sorry, oh, so sorry again... hey, I really am, terrible shivering thrice the same uncontrolled way, no?... fine, I will not touch that piece of garment ever again though you must agree it will have to come off one moment or the other, yes, I know, it contradicts ever, let's move on with the skirt, and the shirt, that button was loose already, no, this was not a shiver and I was not impatient, look, see how carefully I take off your bra? your turn now, start with my shoes? oh, fine with me as long as I don't stumble... my goodness, didn't know one could do that with the teeth, or with the toes, you are mistaken - this is too big to be a goosebump, a clarinet? you're joking, at most a flute, you can play all you want... ouch, told you I might stumble, yes, was worth hearing the music... don't give me your heart, you cannot. I have it.

• back to list   • back   • next

Dance Again Dance again. No, you don't need me. Pair with silver slippers and falling seeds and moths chasing butterflies chasing moths chasing your hem... with tails of kites, with flipping whales, with the crush of dry leaves scattering beneath your knees and above them. Don't come to me. Unless you are naked. With nothing to dress your skin in bare my breath and my eyesight and trailing you of their own wish are the silver slippers and the seeds and moths and butterflies with tails of kites tickling your ankles and flippers of whales circling your waist and the crush of dry leaves rising in a swirling storm as you offer me the future songs of your flesh.

• back to list   • back   • next

Mess when your left forefinger meets my right thumb and your left small toe meets my left middle finger and my right big toe meets your right big toe is when we know we are entering a knot or exiting one and all we have to sort out the mess are one hand, right, yours and one foot, left, mine. you try to help releasing my right toe and lifting yours to meet your left forefinger at my right thumb's tip thus liberating also my right foot but I can neither enjoy the view nor do much with just toes, be they even ten. honey, do you mind?... and you swap moving your right big toe from my right big to meet your left small toe at my left middle finger then move your left small toe to meet your left forefinger with my right thumb, so now at least my view is delicious but we still have only two feet, mine, and one hand, right, yours available. honey, do you mind?... it is you this time and I do my best to oblige succeeding more or less to have my right little toe join your right little finger but I fail miserably when trying at the same time to bring my left little toe at the junction of your left small toe and your left forefinger and my right thumb, failing as well when I try a more democratic approach of my right little toe joining the above mentioned junction with my left little toe chasing your right little finger and though you make an effort to raise your head and enjoy some view I can see the muscles of your neck straining and the veins on your forehead about to burst. honey, maybe get up and turn with your back to me?... we disengage all fingers and thumbs and other inevitable links get up turn your back to me and walk over closing page seventy six of Yoga for the Left Handed and page one thousand seventeen of Kama Sutra for Mixed Sexes and Others put both on top of each other and jump several times on them before kicking them under the bed, honey, maybe get up and turn with your face to me?... it is you this time and we meet half way and we link all the way and twined fingers and twined thumbs and twined lips are only ninety five point four five four of twined members, though I am hardly certain the rest of four point five four six members could quite qualify for a twining definition. whatever they qualify for... paradise is ninety five point four five four of it, the rest of four point five four six is mmmoaning.

• back to list   • back   • next

Synonym Spelling Guide how do you write 'rage'? same like 'sex'. what do you mean, there is only the 'e' which is common? not when you write it on the flesh. she ponders about, around, on it for several hours. looks up dictionaries, internet, I stop her just before she is about to call the pope. how do you write 'sex'?' same like 'lust'. she looks at me askew, bites a fingernail shearing it completely off. again, just an 's' between them, hmm, you're funny. not funny, not even fun. fuming? she smiles. no, this is 'stupid rage', you asked about 'rage'. I asked about 'sex', after. I answered 'lust', after. she gives up on the pope, Oprah, Mick Jagger... (how the hell did she get his cell number?) how do you write 'lust'? same like 'love'. and how do you write 'love'? same like 'rage'. she puts her hand inside my shirt and squeezes hard, till it hurts. I don't scream, I wait. you are almost right, which is the same as completely wrong. care to explain? not when you write it in the flesh. * took me a few moments to recuperate and rewind and resynchronize. she was damn right, my spelling might have been great but my phrasing completely off by as much as one letter and an ocean of gist. I proved her right. you were right. was I? synonyms.

• back to list   • back   • next

Walls all that the walls can do is shiver, pitifully flamboyant in their immobile impotence, the quarry enchased inside their cubic volume constantly changing shape, color, odor from liquid flesh to solid flesh to exploding flesh to flesh crawling along the floor before climbing towards the ceiling only to fall again, to flesh cruelly dragging nails deep inside wailing concrete so quiet in its abysmal mourning and pain. do you think the walls envy us? you ask, when your flesh finally falls back upon your bones. I know they do, I answer, caring not as I revert once more to dismembering you into disjointed pieces of that flaming matter once called flesh.

• back to list   • back   • next

A Godly Mistake woman should have been flesh, man should have been cotton, mornings to soak the drops of that cursed shower from all over her body and its fluctuations and pits and hums, days to guard against those cursed sunrays and their punishing strafing of her skin and its velvet and sensorial receptors and odoriferous emanations, nights to keep at bay those cursed dreams assailing her mind and feed it instead silk and lace and satin. but then, lover, we could never make love. but then, lover, we would never stop making love. tried my best to be her cotton mornings, and days, and nights. she did not have to try anything, she was flesh. thus, guess it was more my success rather than hers, we never stopped making love.

• back to list   • back   • next

Behind you left behind your smell. I wish you left your clothes. and your skin inside your clothes and your flesh inside your skin with the bones and the rest of you inside it. you left behind stains. some will wash out others will fade from irregular, painful blue to pale most will wait until we meet again and we merge our stains. you left behind a hole in the mass of air, the clapping thunder of invading winds deafening. I swept the shards and the crumbs and the dust and feathers. then I laid my cheek upon the pile, the shards cutting and the feathers cushioning. I know you will lick away the scars and sow glimmer inside their lining. you left behind emptiness sufficient for my tears. yes, so big.

• back to list   • back   • next

An Infinite Poem I wanted to write you a poem, an infinite one. I called it "An Infinite Poem". I started writing... poem, poem, poem, poem, poem... I was enthusiastic for the first three pages, started getting impatient towards the sixteenth, after the twenty third I gave up. gave it to you anyway. you opened the first page and started reading it, your face as serious as that of a Rushmore sculpture, stopping at every word and murmuring it aloud with different intonations first with various accents then with mechanical clicks and clacks of tongue accompanied by finger snaps and finally chaining several of them into an aria of some kind and a music of some kind and an unending variety of smiles of some kind. well, I knew it was a masterpiece but not as masterpiece as that. your eyes shone like suns and died like candles once you turned the last page and there was nothing after. you promised me infinity, you cried, not accusing. in pain. damn. and I who finally reached the conclusion it was all a piece of garbage... it is a piece of garbage, I answered, uncertain. you raised red eyes, the accusation there this time. it matters not the eyes of the writer, it matters the eyes of the reader. I blushed. in shame, in remorse, in sorrow for your pain. I pulled the manuscript gently away from you and dropped it into the bin. you bit your lower lip worried, trusting. I could not disappoint this trust. I took two sheets of paper and wrote my new poem, "An Infinite Poem". you took it and read the first page... poem then read the second page... go to page one. oh, the fire in those eyes as you kept leafing back and forth, back and forth and that eternally changing poetry escaping your lips... you didn't even remember to say I love you. though I knew you probably did. and do.

• back to list   • back   • next

as you as you lie there, sublime, wrapped in that lithe marble of linen breathing in harmony with your chest and hips as they roll and lips as they mutter and moths as they search for the candle which disappeared once you closed your mouth for the night, as you sneak over to my side, supple, the marble shattering into its tatter and shard components on a mattress groaning under the agony of clenched bodies busy with redefining the laws of gravity and flow and appropriateness of linguistics through silence teeming moments, the moths falling prey to the blaze, as you cuddle upon my chest, secretive, your body parts pouring around the marble tatters and me sizzling to thousands of individual deaths while pieces of hair and pieces of skin and pieces of flesh desert your sanctum to explode into the dust lifting moth leftovers into the whirl around that single ray of sun penetrating out from underneath your eyelid.

• back to list   • back   • next

unfinished lines stick a wedge into the day, split it into the before and the after, the before you opened your eyes and. hammer it in with the flat of the ax, disregard the splinters piercing your earlobes for my earrings and your lips for. watch the sun squeeze its bulging bulk through the widening slit terrified that it might lose the. don't allow stars blind you into glimmering alleys with tails telling of pleasures untasted and tentacles urging to. as you bite the flower to taste its bitter stem remember to turn on the light as you step through the cave's dark mouth into.

• back to list   • back   • next

Second Hand Moon I looked in the mirror, angry, not understanding. I cannot offer you a new moon, all I have is this second hand one used and abused and confused by astrologists and graphologists and monologists, howling vampires and snapping dragons and lovers, biting. Man-made junk unable to rust its miserable existence away peppered its pockmarks long before one Neil deflowered its dust deep skin and then long after, every finger pointing its blushing way every human dreaming of copulating with it next... oh, poor monoecious creature... its only survival chance that man-made button allowing all eggs marked A and H and N to hatch their poison and drag big, raped sister Earth back into chaotic virginity. Lover, but remember budding lilac in between my stretching fingers dripping honey gleaned this morning from the orchard’s chirping singers when we milled the corn to flour, our flesh the vise of vice carried past the rustling treetops by the dandling rise of rice, and the moon in blushing yellow spills hosannas our way upon lips of crushing mellow tangling gold inside the day. I looked in the mirror, to see her, understanding. I cannot offer you a new moon, all I have is this second hand one painted up there by lusting crickets or was it hung there by cranes looking for country and warmth accompanied by wolves baying for love and lovers, touching. Its pouring silver nips through those riffles riding high behind dolphin noses, the caressing touch of one Neil reflecting back and forth Earth to Moon until the air turns a three dimensional web of climbing fireflies and gold dotted rain and exploding wisteria seeds along and beyond human tentacles reaching in adulation to its dead insides and outsides wishing it life and the seed of children... oh, poor monoecious creature... poets rhyming along its shimmering rim and painters drilling its shadow inside aquarelles its fragile, virginal death wished eternal by senescent, raped sister Earth. Lover, do I sense the ruth awaking in behind your dreaming lashes as you ransack timeworn ages for this moon’s forsaken ashes? worry not, the fire’s haleness crawls inside the growling graves while my chest’s consuming passion growls ablaze with crawling craves, and the moon bedecks the pillow with a mist of twinkling motes watching linen tatters billow lashing bites of wanton quotes.

• back to list   • back   • next

Rhyming Perfume I want to write poetry, I want to write you poetry, I want to write you an endless flow of poetry and poems and poetical musings, I want to make love to you. So many layers of paper to your skin and none of them paper, so many layers of flame to your flesh and none of them flame, paper enveloping flame and the few mellifluous drops of high-octane ink I pour on the mélange turn a smoldering promise into a deluge of fire. Love, so deep that I can see through to the other side of your chest and I shove my hand in between your breasts to cull the cherries and the roses and the squirrel bites in back of you. Open your fist, lover, so you can pull your hand back, and I refuse squashing the cherries and the roses and the squirrel bites into a perfume rhyming with you.

• back to list   • back   • next

Oh... I found your cherry. My cherry? Yes, the one with your name on it. Among millions others? Yes. And where did you find it? On a hill. And the hill? In the sun. And the sun? In your chest. Oh... * I forgot your name. Senility? I don't remember. Senility. Is it like Penicilinity? Penicillin. Your name? No, silly... Silly? What kind of a name is that? Shut-up. Decide: Silly or Shutup. Oh, shut-up silly. Can we make it something shorter, like Oh? Oh, God, I love you. I am not God but I love you too. Oh... * Oh John please don't kiss me? Eartha Kitt. Correct. Oh John oh John oh John? Paula Cole. Correct again. Oh Yoko? John. Hey, you're good with your Oh's. I'm better with your Oh's. My Oh's? Which Oh's? Thessssse... Ohhhhh...

• back to list   • back   • next

Fisherman's Passion The fisherman in me casting the net of fingers over your cliffs – the white, the red, the wet and the warm the threshing during and the quiet after and the innocent all through... innocent, like innocence where from so much of it and so much of softness and so much of restraint in so much of passion? The net closes in on the fires hidden and sharks lurking and sirens ululating in your throat begging of me to carry them to the slaughter of their accursed fate and loneliness, and I reach with one hand to treetops the other pulling the heavy net with its trove of flesh and scales and embers and passion. I bait your breathing fragments from among the stars and the star-fishes star-of-bethlehems carefully fitting each to its suiting receptacle after you exploded in the open air and left song notes hanging on to my beard and dirty fingernails and rubber boots, then sink with you back, under the waves, naked, where your fires and sharks and sirens once more burn and maul and sing me into your sleepless passion.

• back to list   • back   • next

Dog Blues ...and then I sent my dog your way, and in his teeth a flower with all the fleas which have survived the morning's early shower, I crawled upon his tattered cot - his blanket, bone and pillow and waited for the sun to creep above the sagging willow. hey, son of bitch and friend of man, don't drag your hinds till summer to chase the other son of bitch who owns that bitch - the plumber, just hurry back your yapping ways an lick my face with passion as if the faucet in my room is running out of fashion. come, lie across my heaving chest and bark my ear the story of ankles thin, of fingers soft, of lips in blooming glory, and you can steal my rubber bone while I enjoy the missive... hey, I'm the master, stop that jeer so... jeeringly derisive. my lover sweet, your fleas and dog have brought this ruined slipper, was it a flower once upon? or Flipper's mangled... flipper? yet check those fleas, both yours and his, they carry back a warning - there's a surprise upon your bed which landed there this morning. huh?... I deserted the cot, the dog, the fleas, the rubber bone and jumped upon the bed. ...to find some flesh upon some bones upon some shapely fiddle, some battling feet, some tickling hairs, some arms around my middle, you stink of dog! of lust! of fleas! of love! you ploying liar! and then, despite rebelling howls, we set the world on fire.

• back to list   • back   • next

Parallax, Two inhale me deeply like you would smoke of cigarettes you would have chain-smoked mindlessly, drink me avidly like you would water of rivers you would have drowned into singing, absorb me greedily like you would radioactive waste you would have been rained with at end of worlds, death imminent. like love. to inhale the smell of your skin as it drips after morning’s shower, to drink the pulp of your flesh as it lies mangled between my teeth, to absorb the seed of your life as it crawls into my womb. do you always see light at impending ends? I always see love at eternal beginnings.

• back to list   • back   • next

Just Another If Poem If you were morning's butter in the sun I would have let you drip drop after drop on my tongue and then roll you for many hours before letting you slide your thrilling way down my throat ingesting you as my will, absorbing you as my need, burning you as my life... and the leftovers? smearing you all over my body as my lust. If you were spring's snowbell under the snow I would have crawled underneath your unopened petals to be there the moment come when you open your eye and your fragrance Elysian penetrates its fleeting pencil to draw spirals down my nostrils, down my larynx, down my trachea to those playing grounds in my lungs ingesting you as my will, absorbing you as my need, burning you as my life... and the leftovers? pouring out through my skin as my lust. If you were geyser's scalding burst I would have lied naked across your mouth waiting with trepidation for the explosion to tear the skin from my flesh and my flesh from my bones and my bones from my skeleton with the ingrained shadow of my memory and my once existence ingesting you as my will, absorbing you as my need, burning you as my life... and the leftovers? there would be no leftovers of my lust. You looked through me seeing the if's and if-not's and if-when's your finger trying to find its way through me as well to touch those if grounds yet meeting the bone of my breast and puncturing it to be able to see better, and taste, and smell, and hurt... there are so many more if's, what about the rest? do you really want to hear all of them? I opened my mouth for the next one decennium and inside the next one second you closed it for the next one decennium as you preferred to get the entire story wasting none and leaving no leftovers straight from that one kiss and my lips.

• back to list   • back   • next

Carnivorous Lilac As you were eaten away by carnivorous lilac to whiff back with evening into my nostrils, sitting under the crying bush and learning of fragrances I never knew. You separated me from the world, coquettish molecules dressing my insides with a blanket of aromatic sensations before laying me gently down to a bed of dripping splendor. I found you again after I opened eyes into the world of beyond the world, to be told how to be eaten away by carnivorous lilac into that of sensuality's kingdoms spanning your heart. I refused, knowing it means waking up from the dream and trusting not finding it again.

• back to list   • back   • next

defiance so don't drink the wine, spill it! let it run along the crevice of your tightly closed lips your head coquettishly cocked to one side your eyes muttering defiance, then wipe yourself dry. you may not be aware of it, yet, until you finally open your mouth and I prove to you the futility of defiance as I lick the penetrating film from the inside of your lips and feed it back to you on the tip of my tongue driving you all the way back into that sweet madness.

• back to list   • back   • next

Soothsayer I read my future in your shirt's buttons. Those untouched, yet. Then those undone, those torn, those splintered and strewn all over the floor with splinters of my teeth. Others do it in coffee, cards, bones. Superstitious fools, I stated, taking hold of the nipple. You watched me, not worried, curious. Will it go the way of the buttons? part of your theory? Part of my proof, I stated again, turning the probability of future into the certainty of past. My turn, you said. To read your future? Yours. You got it all wrong. The past rushing past me better than any of the future you predicted.

• back to list   • back   • next

Short Term Memory I watched the islands. Like your breasts after the storm. Waves committing suicide at their shores like my mouth, and hands, like lemmings mindlessly fulfilling their destiny, like my body clear of mind and cleared of desire. I touched them. Your breasts. And life invaded us both like the tsunami following the moon falling into the sea.

• back to list   • back   • next

Never Ending Fantasy She was sad. The sea is blue but not as blue as you, I sang to her. Not very original, she said. Do you have something about doves? The dove flies above and poops on your love. Did it poop on you? No, on my car. We walked hand in hand, she sighing, I sighing. Don’t be sad, it is not the last day. It is the last day, every end of day is the last day of that day. It is also the first day of the last days of our love. Not very original either. Doesn’t make it less true. And painful. I kicked a pebble in the sea. She showed me a shooting star. We listened to the wind. I started running ahead, birds falling dead in my wake. She kneeled close to each, kissing them back into life. They will die anyway, another day. But not on the first day of the last days of our love. I stopped running, waiting for her to pick up the blackbird, the last one. A dog barked at us and jumped into the sea then ran away. There are no dead birds in his wake, I remarked, enviously. There is no fire in his heart, she answered closing my shirt to hide the sun. I watched her kiss a bud into a flower, a bug into a bird, a pine cone into an elephant then she oops’d and kissed it again into a squirrel. Yeah, more appropriate, I agreed hurrying to hide the deep traces and looking around. No one paid attention, they were all looking at raining stars. You are too generous, I kissed into her ear grabbing a few of the stars for myself. We reached the room before midnight. Will the magic end at midnight? Will you leave behind your glass shoe? I have only tennis shoes. This will have to do. It hit me when we were making love. Thankfully there were no frogs around. You are my prince. That took care of my care and we could finish what we started. What follows after fantasy? she asked. I left my shoe behind, on top of the scribbled poem. Just more fantasy, it is this kind of world. I love you, she sms’d me turning the obvious into a work of art and my day into a never ending fairytale.

• back to list   • back   • next

Flower Talk "Hey, flower." She didn't answer. Sure, flowers don't answer. They wiggle, they smell, they... well, flower. They don't answer. Short of plucking her I tried all other ways - I sang, I danced, I almost broke my neck doing a triple-lutz without skates... I even sprinkled her petals with lemonade and arranged a few chocolate bars around her, star like. She just wiggled, smelled, flowered. I gave up. Got up, packed up, was about to leave. "Stay," she said. I stayed. For ever. Though she never spoke again.

• back to list   • back   • next

Female Day You mean... Woman Day. No, I mean Female Day - women, mares, bitches, cows, does... the source of life, the source of creation, comparable to Sun comparable to God. And the job left for males? I looked at her, impressed by so much naiveté. Adulation.

• back to list   • back   • next

Preferences I like watching you undressing or dressing. I love you undressed or dressed. I like you naked. I love you naked. I prefer you dressed so I can imagine undressing you and turn imagination into fact and fact into the apotheosis of senses. You are beautiful. Dressed or undressed. Or naked. I like you. I love you. I prefer you dressed or undressed or naked. I prefer you here.

• back to list   • back   • next

Years It is years since I last wrote you a poem. Yes, I know it is days, still, it is years. Look at the barefoot heel marks missing from my chest, the ribs aching to crack under your weight as you tiptoe and dance and pirouette above me and my eyes never sate of that divine landscape fluttering on and off under your skirt... so many splinters attached to my breastbone rebelliously wishing to break away as you tease me with your toe. Look at the whispers unwhispered into my eyes, or is it into my mouth, my ears?... the tomb of silence enveloping the music wishing to be played by your tongue straight into the inner layers of my mind as you sing languages so strange that they incinerate and yearnings so alien that they cut and vocal games so beautiful that my fingers follow your flute and sink to die in that white sea of your breasts against the cliffs of your nipples. Look at the forgotten moments of love never made thus never remembered to be written into verses by those tools of eternity called at times fingers and at times fingernails and at times fingertips as you skip the stage of paper and ride the knife of beauty straight into my skin tinting the traces with the honey dripping from your lips and with the wine flowing from the grapes crushed between your thighs and with the sighs of bitten cherries. It's only years, and it feels eons.

• back to list   • back   • next

Choices If the time of love be it but one heartbeat – who wants to live longer? If the choice be it burn or bleak – who wants painless? If a bowl of rice or a crumb of kiss – who wants to be sated? If the price for a moment is a lifetime – then lifetime be the price. I clamped the silk of your fingertips in the biting vise of my fist and fed you to the dance floor together with the skirt teasing my feet and the glint of teeth uncovering that coming and going smile as you banderoled by unable to break the chain anchoring you through my fist to the rest of my body, the visible and the invisible and the rock’n’rolling pieces of me gravitating like mighty Earth around a butterfly. You fluctuated in the breeze of trombones and saxophones and loudspeaker vibrating gills, your hair separating from your body your shoes chasing your ankles over the floor at times penetrating between mine together with your skirt and skin and thighs and flesh and bones crushing through my gates only to climb my ramparts and jump back into a floor cremating itself into glowing ash by the pleasures of your hammering heels. We clung to each other honeysuckle and wisteria and scindapsus our vines turned limber limbs with tendrils groping the niches of cloth and of body and of breath twining and twisting and growing into and around each other choking the dance out of the room as the orchestra packed its instruments and we kept gyrating on, mindlessly, out the windows up the trees scratching our cheeks on moon’s lower crescent tip before falling to our perdition in that lake of boiling blood which turned our bed our place of rebirth. If to dance to you or make love with you then I be frozen forever in indecision.

• back to list   • back   • next

downpour the flowers you pour in front of my feet, calling, in back of my feet, bolting, in my pockets, promising. the clothes you pour undressing uncovering revealing that skin thirsty for the flowers you poured away from you my way. the touches you pour starting at the roots of your lips and ending at the tips of your toes as your breasts crush the flowers I brought back, all of them, mountains, and pollen mixing with sweat glints upon the tips of your nipples and of your nose and the ends of your eyelashes before they crush the crude elixir down your cheeks. the love you pour as you guide my travel along the paths of your body teaching me the secret passages into the yet undiscovered flower beds.

• back to list   • back   • next

Paean I could squeeze the milk out of your breast and feed it to my hungering veins right through my skin, I could turn your blood to the bitter of black cherries and to the green of wounded grass and to the glitter of dust falling away from your eye brooks for you to bathe me again, I could torture your tongue into the fire serpent sprinkling thick drops of burning coal there, where our bodies finally touch and merge, I need not to as you feed me the milk and bathe me the bitter and sprinkle me the coal before I need blink my need. How did you? I ask. How did I what? you answer feeding and bathing and sprinkling in never ending paean.

• back to list   • back   • next

like love making turn around not before you open your clothing not before you turn on the light not before I kneel and as you swish around the double bladed scythe of your breasts flees away from your chest and my head ends up buried in your loins as your bony fingers drag my shoulders through your thighs and my claws clam to your waist like a dying shark’s pitiless jaws. drop down beneath me and above me and around and inside me your ankles triple knotting behind my back and your tongue triple knotting inside mine when you liberate my head and imprison my midriff, the carpetless floor the dull drum upon which our lumps of flesh thump and thud and thresh all broken bones to be counted only after, after the debacle, after thirst quenched with the salt of sweat and hunger sated with the taste of raw human meat. tie me in the barbs of the wire you drag down from the hiding sun make your skin the grooming bed of broken glass and shattered rock and let me sink roots in between the shards mixing my blood within your bloodways and my sap within your womanways until the walls cave in imploding together with our need and the revolting music of our delirious spasms. feed me your body parts one by one and all together and when I fill-up to refuse keep feeding me into the obesity of absolute, disgusting satisfaction.

• back to list   • back   • next

Editor I tried to get the morning unfold my way, sleep then sleep some more and then, if possible, mix some slumber into the sleep just to kill the monotony of... sleep. She broke down the door tore away the blankets and raped my peace of mind and body. She even used my toothbrush, after. Quiet. The Ordeal over. A bed for one imprisoning two, sometimes side by side switching places, sometimes not switching places too, the ordeal raising its menacing head with Stymphalian breath and singing the passing minutes with Larkian trill invariably copy’n’pasting itself in a variety of varieties as it moved back into Quiet then into Ordeal then into... and that toothbrush refreshing the luster to your teeth just in time for another crunch, chop, cleave, slash, slit, slice, kiss... I breathed heavily, suffocating on chunks of breast following on the traces of chunks of thigh, lip, nipple you generously fed my beast with cooing all the way into insanity mine yours ours the beauty of awakening to life stored in between skin and flesh mine yours ours, the palette and the colors all yours. I allowed myself a moment’s respite, just enough to whisper in your ear... you, the editor of my mornings.

• back to list   • back   • next

Into Every Life A Little Al Jolson Must Fall You made me love you I didn't wanna do it I didn't wanna do it You made me want you And all the time you knew it I guess you always knew it Maybe you did, maybe you didn't, Maybe I didn't, maybe I did, And who cares? says I And don't ask, you, why When I chase those snapping heels over floor's perfervid timber And inside my grappling fingers twist your sinews lithe and limber With a hip astride a pelvis roving its demented tumbles Till in sonorous arthritis squeals the saxophone and crumbles. You made me happy sometimes You made me glad But there were times You made me feel so bad Maybe you did, maybe you did, Maybe you didn't, maybe you didn't, And if so? asks you And if no, says who Tracing footsteps through the marshes down the alligators' alley In the wake of dropping garments leading to that grand finale When ophidian allusions covet tempers to enrapture And with fire's blazing promise, crave's chimera set to capture. You made me cry for I didn't wanna tell you I didn't wanna tell you I want some love that's true Yes, I do, 'deed I do You know I do Maybe you made, maybe you maden't, Maybe I didn't, maybe I do, And if made? say we And therefore may be That the music wanes to howling wanes to raving wanes to quiet While the skin pulls back its ribbons and in bodies dies the riot, Lilac grows between those fingers crawling back from death's dominion You - my ever lasting beauty, I - your ever ever minion. Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie, gimmie what I cry for You know you've got the brand of kisses That I'd die for You know you made me love you Maybe I cry, maybe you know, Maybe I'd die, maybe you know, And if death moves fore? Don't it dare! you roar Tying swallows to your tresses as they write the sunset's story Then besprinkle it with kisses stolen from your nipple's glory Just before I steal your vision to impound inside my prison Grooming it through thousand dances to one smile... forever risen. You Made Me Love You Maybe love. Maybe? Love!

• back to list   • back   • next

Invisions You sit there, is it a chair or a bench? hugging your knees to your chest and your cheek to your knees and a rose between cheek and knees. The thorn, is it planted in the knee or in the cheek? You listen to street music, is it the street or the music you listen to? your eyes don’t remember when they closed or opened, if they closed or opened, and you see images of exploding kisses and clutching hands and dancing dancing dancing couples so many of them and all of them you and I. That flash on the flesh, is it a tear drop or a sweat drop? and there is no difference to the pain. You get up, is it your sandals or the weight of the years you carry in your left hand? your right hand carrying the stain of the bean flower you collected from the field running away from then running back to me and which ended in that envelope I slid inside my shirt. There is no way home, is it music you are treading on or dreams awakened from the dust? when you try a ballet step you forgot long ago and a tango step you remembered not long ago and your feet smile around your body as you hopscotch your way home. Sleep does not induce serenity, is it a heart you carry under your blouse or love? there is no beat there, just the euphonious battles of burning flesh and yearning yearning yearning.

• back to list   • back   • next

The Eye Of The Fever I have this sudden urge to write such as poetry of lust as Solomon would have loved to read and Ovid would have loved to write and Petrarch would have loved to listen to before making love, had he but possessed the knowledge of my language... To invoke none of the sun and none of the moon, none of stars and none of gods but only the passageways and the colors and the odors of Earth and of your earthly body in its entire pale divinity... Before and after, before and after denuding it, igniting it, extinguishing it, covering it, before and after telling of it and never forgetting of it... Doors to the soles of your feet, to knead them open after they kneaded my chest with lithe toes and temperamental heels and views of endless thighs ending nevertheless there, where my fingers reached for and never got to... doors, to the soles of your feet where I will pour the skim off milk I drank from the portals of your breasts when you were young, yesterday, before you boiled into creased flesh inside my arms inside your laced lattice inside your skin boiling... Ruts to your shoulders, to cut deeper, hitting through bone to marrow the way of the steel of silk snapping and cutting a rut across my cheek uncovering the quaver of a breast the color of Rodin’s marble and Rodin’s marble stiffness of texture demanding the muscle of mouth to take over from the muscle of biceps... ruts, to your shoulders where I will seed the salt and the lilac and the bee’s comb you wrote me in so many words terminated and so many phrases some unterminated when my fingers would choke the breath off your neck’s nape and my liberated biceps the breath off your chest’s hidden lungs and fractured ribs your arms limp into the yesterday when you pulled that strap up to your shoulder I ripped to lashing pieces today and you tied with my penetrating hip to your punctured belly and my wrist to the leftovers of your breast... Rain to your skin clutching to your flesh, to guide the hot needles of a stainless-steel torrential shower to those steel-less caves of torrential passion hotly hosting hot me earlier on in wait for the end to the unbearable wait when crude summons will end the wait... rain, to your skin clutching to your flesh where I will add my skin clutching to my flesh and turn out the music loud blues penetrating me with the vanquished one’s vengeance as it cannot mask your euphony and my tenorial tenacity when your melted flesh flows around me and the bedding knots itself around melting us your fingers immobilized in that final spasm long after I died of mine and longer after our nipples met and melted into one single blob of inhuman tenderness... I roll your body times eleven inside the soggy bed sheet then pour on cocooned you times eleven of crushed berry and mango juice and ice-cream deliquescence and wait eleven days before I unwrap you and delight in the wine between your toes and the liqueur between your thighs and the exploding bubbles of champagne fizzling into my mouth as I scavenge yours...

• back to list   • back   • next

North-West don't tell me of the poetry you have. tell me of the poetry you don't. when you wish me the bird which just flew by and you wish me the flower you just picked and you wish me the humming you never knew you hummed. tell me of the poetry of crying that mix of salt and sugar asphyxiating your nights and reviving your morning till night hits again and then morning. I lean out of the window and look at the building north-west of me knowing, somewhere out there behind this building far away is you. I hear your poetry and I taste the mix of salt and sugar on my lips.

• back to list   • back   • next

shared two glasses upturned. one held your tooth brush. one held your tooth brush. yes. the same. glass. tooth brush. when we shared all our possessions. tooth brush and body and love.

• back to list   • back   • next

Bending You move around, don't know if move or slide or float is the word, beautiful, filling the room with your half nakedness and I hunger for your half dressed intimacy. What?... the cat asks the mouse watching the cat asking the mouse and if I don't hear the meow I do see it as you further bend over the sink and you bend over the bed and you bend over the table, the suitcase, the shoes, the phone, the sink once more... There is only so much a man can take of half nakedness bending over the sink, the bed... the mouse pulls out its claws as the cat pulls up its stockings and the roar in the room becomes unbearable as primitive instincts blend with delicate fabrics in an orgy of rip and tear and shred... Why didn't you say so?... the cat tells the mouse caressing the cat telling the mouse, sadly contemplating the 747 size nylon runway, pulling it off the leg by the dangling half of it and tying it around my neck. Revenge? I ask. Yes, you say, tightening further, for taking so long.

• back to list   • back   • next

Inventory I peeked underneath your skirt. What are you doing? Taking inventory, I answered, taking inventory. Anything missing? I wanted to say something rude, I said it. Yes, me. You made sure nothing was missing, all it took was a few moments leaving pans and pots and kitchen-robots do the job on their own. We lay panting on the floor, no, not fully naked, who had the patience to undress fully? I took your hand and watched intently. Still taking inventory? you inquired, worried. Yes. Something missing? you asked. Something missing again, I answered mysteriously emphasizing the again, me. You made sure it wasn't missing anymore, made sure until I had no choice but beg your forgiveness and go for a pee. Are you sure you will manage on your own? I wasn't so sure. But I insisted to try, anyway, after all, I valued my independence. I guess it was the quiet which worried you. Something missing? I hated to, I had to, I admitted. Yes, you. Well, I didn't follow the path as originally I planned to and who needed a path anyway and what is a path anyway and who wants to write poetry at a moment like this, anyway?

• back to list   • back   • next

Age? Age? What age, who has age? Who defined age and the limit imposed by dates and numbers to running a sword through the bowel of the universe and emptying it of the gargantuan measures of rain-fire safely ensconced unadmittedly and unfoundly so, to bathe in the searing flay of its flogging and gulp mouthfuls, desertfuls, worldfuls of it. I think of you, and never can think of you dressed if not undressing or undressed if not dressing or any in-between stage if not rolling inside the ring of my arms wet underwear peeling off your body and falling in knots of flowers and in ribbons of budding branches and in hooks dangling from the insides of my lips. I hate to think of you. I hate to think of those lumps of dead earth filling the between us void with passion’s many severed heads and thrashing morsels of dangling skin, I hate to think of you behind those lumps of dead earth filling the between us void and you, there, beyond, dressing without me to undress you and undressing without me to dress you and no one to pour the fire stolen from the bowel of the universe inside your underwear and peel it off your body into knots and ribbons and hooks. Is it your breasts or is it your nipples which you rubbed inside the poem you sent me and which I lined my pillow with and my clothes and the insides of my mouth? I chew the bitter stem of a rose, thorns cutting into my tongue and all I can feel is the fire about to gush once more once we squash the lumps of dead earth into the flimsy thinness of melting underwear and skin.

• back to list   • back   • next

The Birds And The Bees I can’t talk about the birds and the bees. I mean I can but I won’t. I mean I can but I’d rather talk about the flesh and the skin and the grunts, the grasshopper that swallowed half of the sun and burst aflame and the frog who fought an alligator and the crow that saved a fox cub from the clodhopper’s steel... You looked at me, uncomprehending yet understanding. You’d rather talk about love, right? I wasn’t so sure, maybe. I’d rather talk about the pearl in your mouth hiding the fang inside and the lacquer at the ends of your fingers concealing the talons underneath and the bones connected to muscles connected to tendons groping my wrists like the twisting insides of a tree, I’d rather talk about the bedcovers we cared not about and the moon we fished from each other’s eyes and the plough we sank between the other’s ribs and loins. You looked at me, comprehending yet not understanding. You’d rather talk about love, right? I wasn’t so sure, maybe. I’d rather not talk at all, I said, discovering the untold truths about the birds and the bees and the rest of it.

• back to list   • back   • next

Opium Dream when you shake your mane and dust flies all around you, dust, not stardust but dust, sand, sward, all of which clung to your hair while rolling on the ground with me alternately above and underneath and above and breathlessly forgetting... the clothes somewhere unknown the shoes somewhere unknown even further away filling up with crickets and barking fox cubs and thieving mountain goats, and grunts leave your broken lips, grunts, not sighs but grunts, growls, grumbles, alternating with the cracking sound of breaking boulders and the cackling sound of exploding wheat grains as the spikes which punctured your bare shoulders pull out covered by blood and drop into the burrows of hungrily awaiting prairie dogs and blind moles and mice with tails bitten-off in bitter clan fights. and sweat hangs on to the tips of your sore nipples, sweat, not perfume but reeky sweat, perspiration, exudation, offending lilac into decaying witheredness and bees into deserting their queens and flint stones into meteors flying the skyward way when by mischance my mouth misses a drop and it hits ground mixing with the grunts and the dust and flying like pellets into the eyes of doves when you shake your mane. you find a way to nestle inside me just when I find a way to nestle inside you and as we nestle inside each other thankful crickets and cubs and goats blanket us with stardust humble prairie dogs and moles join mice in a symphony of sighs and bees and doves munch lilac and flint stones into perfume mulch laying it on our skin the way of sparkling rose water. is this some kind of an opium dream? you ask, shivering in the beauty of it all. I’ve never yet heard of shared opium dreams, I answer, shivering in the beauty of you.

• back to list   • back   • next

When Do I Miss You? When I wish to scratch my back and have to rub against trees or walls or parked busses, when I wish to soap my back and the soap falls ten times from my fingers before I give up, when I wish to inspect that blue - or is it black? - spot on my back and no mirrors arrangement seems to reach that culprit piece of me, When I ache for a richly layered cone of ice cream and I need someone wishing to steal licks whom I have to fight off before I give up in exhaustion, melted leftovers dripping down my chin and the fight becomes a prayer for help which you obligingly fulfill, licking my chin clean, my shirt, my hairy chest, When I undress, then dress, then undress, then dress into that infinity cut short by my mortal’s finity, still too long to carry along with no one to contest to my tie’s colors and my shirt’s choice and to slap away those fingers constantly busy undoing my doings if buttons, if belt, if zipper, When I wake up before wake up time and the need of skin drives insane my skin with the only outlet being chasing that damn buzzing mosquito while whistling war-marches followed by writing lust speckled with more lust, if I do catch the damn mosquito, When I smell the lilac and wonder at the butterfly and run in the rain trying to outpace the thunder or the swallow, failing miserably, of course. You should ask it differently. When don’t I miss you? Though then... there would be a silence to shame sleeping seashells.

• back to list   • back   • next

you MAY call it love... if you want to bark I will praise your song, if you fall on your ass I will tell the world about your grace, if you forget your toothbrush I will clean your teeth with my fingernails and then brush them into shine with my tightly closed lips. do you feel like dozing off? no, I will not wake you up even if your skirt pulls to your waist, no... I didn’t mention if this would be the result of my involuntary actions or pure statistical coincidence to do with the zodiac and the constellations or, as the bad mouths would say, to do with any voluntary actions on my part... no, I will not wake you up to make love to you though, I might envisage making love to you while you sleep. do you want to undress? I will not hold you back, do you want to undress me? I will not tie your hands behind your back, do you feel like eating pizza while I crave for hamburger and onion rings and the money we have left would suffice just for your choice? I will watch you finish the dish like a devoted dog refusing even the leftovers, unless they fall between your naked thighs... were you to allow me to rummage. when you pain I will hurt, when you joy I will laugh, when you go I will die until you return.

• back to list   • back   • next

Rage Rage died. No, it didn't die, rage doesn't die, it coiled back growl-less, muscle-less, like a snake slithering back down its hole by sheer gravitational drag, fangs sheathed, poison wasted, a trail of peeling skin and drops of blood decorating the walls of its passage. We didn't dare open eyes, afraid to discover that rage might not have been there at all or that rage might still be alive or that rage will not wake up again, we preferred to rest in that final embrace soaking back inside us the abundance of enveloping sweat, caring not whose was which or which was whose as salt was after all just salt and pungent smells mixed into an unidentifiable melee reeking of slobbering bacteria and autumn leaves thawing their way out of frost and exploding snowbell buds. My chest was working its way out of heaving pain and I wondered who was on top of whom, my flesh sensations numb my mind mush and as far as I was concerned gravitation could pull any which way, any which way your body lay any which way your breasts were demanding my undivided attention though my attention was divided three ways at least. I tried to move. Don't! I didn't. A tickling sensation started converging from sides to ribs as ants... ants on the bed?... fingertips, you silly... started picking salt grains to crush between terrifying fangs and feed to my nipple, my mouth, my burning eyes, tried to move once more, meeting no comment yet unable to as I lay paralyzed in an embrace of lithe thighs and one clawed hand, the other continuing the ants' parade down to my belly, and downwards still, apocalyptic images of a resurgent rage mixing with that brine burning my eyes yet unable to ask for forgiveness or pity or absolution. I heard the rustle of coils uncoiling, scales bristling, the unmistakable clucking sound of fangs unsheathing once more with the richly flavored poison sparkling like morning dew on an opening rose's mouth, the rage pulled back its head tensed its muscle struck bit... oh, the exquisite beauty of dying again... Love... Yes, love. Sometimes it is only exploding snowbells. I stopped for a moment the depraved activities I was performing and let smell take over from touch as main sense my nose inhaling waking morning's desperate calls for attention and your skin's relaxing tension, there was something strangely mystical in your semi-question in the momentary reality... I believe you are right, love, exploding snowbells... I admitted and buried my face in the source of all perfumes again.

• back to list   • back   • next

Empty Ears I sit in the garden, trying to catch up on my missing naps. I would if I could, or rather if I was allowed to, or rather if that bird of unknown breed and origin had shut up. I surmise it was a bird, could not have been an elephant, could it even though I never saw it? I guess. Might have been an elephant, though. If a bird, then certainly a male, only a male would have had that richness of voice, that smoothness of tone changing in so many ways and intonations that even Shakespeare would have been put to shame had we but understood it, maybe the Shakespeare of the birds’ world and a bit more? No, no, ladies of certain malicious mind and similar inclination I bear no discrimination against females and certainly female birds, mind you, I actually wish this world was females only me excepted, of course. But you couldn’t mistake the tonality of a Le Caruso with that of a La Callas, could you? Unless you were deaf by birth or birthright. Or possibly right out of your mind. This was certainly a male, so deeply in need for his (yes, not its but his) mate that he reminded me, painfully of... me. Deeply in need for my (yes, not his but my) mate. I miss you. I wish I could say it as beautifully. I heard some thinner chirps, starting to interfere with his majestic baritone, he either lost his mind, or lost his tools of reproduction or maybe she finally had pity on the poor fellow and answered. Oh, the beauty of that (so I hoped) duet. Quiet. Even the cat stopped looking up, mourning the dissipation of the bliss of that voice or of a night snack, another thing I would never know. I opened a can of food for it, hoping to improve its chances of appreciating the artistic side of the event just passed, over the culinary side, call it my own wee contribution to the arts’ world and to the birds’ kingdom and to thoughts of you, naked. Yes, why not, naked as the day I first saw you naked, as the day I last saw you naked, as the day I will again see you naked until the end of nakedness and time. Until never ending beauty. Of you. I wait a few more minutes, the cat gives up long before me, yes, easy with a full belly, isn’t it? Empty arms don’t count. Neither empty lap, empty bed, empty eyes. Empty ears. Le Caruso is gone for the evening, or for good with or without his tools of reproduction with or without La Callas, with the cat’s appetite. With that chunk of heart he drilled and tore away from between ribs once mine, so cruelly, leaving a shapeless hole and fading echoes. I wait for them to die, echo way, they don’t. Knew them to be carnivorous, birds, didn’t know them to be uomnivorous... yes, uomnivorous not omnivorous, damn spell-checker. Sure, no contradiction. Just damn pain. I miss you. PS He’s back this morning. It’s a duet.

• back to list   • back   • next

arousal does it mean I reading your poetry telling me of arousal? does it mean seeing you on the bed, mornings, sleep your bedside companion I the peeping companion unable to tear away my regard from curling glimmer revealed by that treacherous nightgown which pulled just a bit higher than modesty allows? does it mean waiting as you pull down the shoulder straps and the gown clings on to your rigid nipples revealing rather than hiding yet refusing to give in to my friend, gravitation? does it mean watching you dress slowly, one hundred of my time-frames to one of yours played back in that maddening reality pace allowing me to see the never ending trip of lace from ankles to hips? does it mean your hand searching its way from my knees upwards, past the moment of hesitation and further until, repentant, it slides back down dragging in its wake that noisy zipper? does it mean rigidity, abominable in its ephemerality? does it mean you reading my poetry telling you of arousal?

• back to list   • back   • next

Define I brought you to the car, didn't tell you anything just opened the door and waited for you to sit. I closed the door. Then I dug out the terminal tiles ripped open the asphalt to the plane tore apart the plane's carpet... until I found it. I didn't even pay attention to sirens, and dogs, and screaming people. Nobody can touch your perfection, I said handing you the fallen button. You are crazy, you said. You are wrong, I said. I am in love.

• back to list   • back   • next

Rottweiler hear me, biting deep in the wood of the bed crunching to shards the last glass of wine you touched the withered stem of the withered flower of my withered hand the living thorns and the dying perfumes and the phone book of your abode, see the splinters in my hanging tongue dripping the drops of my life to die in the dust of my carpet? I cared once, for the masses and for the oppressed and for prisoners of war and those of dead relationships and of terrible wounds and sickness and victims of the holiness of man in all its ugliness and its vainglorious self righteousness, I was ready to kill for life. all I want now is bite, to bite in your lip and to bite in your breast and to bite in your thigh lock my jaws and let the oozing elixir of you mix with the drooling slaver of me petrify my maxillae in that eternal, mute ode to your carniferous forest of bones and beauty. yes, you’ll have to drag that dead lump of my flesh behind you until it rots away or you cut it out of your flesh. I wish to care, again, for the masses and for the oppressed and prisoners and victims and those dragging their throes through my heart and those who don’t, after I bite into you my brand and nurse it with the salts in my sweat and the sugars in the petals I will pour between your nakedness and my bed.

• back to list   • back   • next

Units I touched you with one finger, and you split in two like butter giving way to a hot knife. I was afraid to touch you with five, lest I won’t have enough ribbons to bind your beauty back into life. I made love to you not touching you and we flowed inside the mattress down to the floor soaked into the stone, petrified in that one instant of eternal nothingness. How can one instant be eternal, you ask? Nothingness, bears no measurement units as does not love.

• back to list   • back   • next

Mosaic You sent me pieces of your skin, you will hurt, I screamed, and you just smiled and kept sending them in consonants, in words, in phrases. Followed pieces of your flesh, some cut smoothly, like with a scalpel, some still threshing in the throes of agony as they filled up envelops in songs and promises and dreams. Next... stop it!... the leftovers of that treasure called your body, fingernails, and single hairs, and teeth, and bones - some broken, oh, I almost forgot the tears... I heard you saying even though your mouth was by now with me and the tide drowned me in salt crystals and shards of bone. Now, your turn, you said. Build me. I looked at the thousands of pieces scattered on my bed, on the floor, in the garden, all over the world, I knew I had not enough time I knew what time I did have should be made to be sufficient. I took the first piece, an alveole, and fitted it in my left lung and in my left lung of poetry. Then I took a piece of the aorta... no, I did not intend to go alphabetical, that's the miracle of randomness... next a ventricle (see?), next... it wasn't easy, body cells, and poetry words and your breeze caressing me inside my clothes, and deeper I will not finish on time, I cried for real knowing I will not finish on time. On time for what? was your answer, as parts of you started materializing inside me, inside my phrases, even your dreams - I started having your dreams. We fell asleep. We? you giggled, your parts of skin already grafted cuddling and curling inside mine. We still had a long way to go before We, but it felt already like that. I had already two heartbeats. And my poetry was a mess of worlds just starting to tune itself to one single, it will take time. We have all the time we need, you assured me, floating somewhere there, inside the scattered pieces, as long as your hands touch me. I knew you were saying it for my sake. I knew you were right. I knew for certain when I wanted to make love to you and I didn't have to reach farther away then an eyelash length.

• back to list   • back   • next

Wanting To, Definitely, Murder Wanting to, definitely, murder. Wanting to, definitely, murder him. Or it. Or her. Wanting to meet that buzzing, conniving, blood thirsty beast which left red itches on my legs and shoulders and waist and other intimacies though not that intimacy - thank God, and murder him. Or it. Or her. Where the hell did it hide wallowing in my Rhesus+ sweet, warm blood? Wanting to, definitely, murder that other beast. The silent, crawling one. Which moves the needles on the glossy face of watches and tears the pages from paper calendars after sunset or before sunrise or inside one eye blink – where is tomorrow when yesterday was just inside grasp and suddenly they all become today and there is nothing left after today? Wanting to, definitely, murder the scream. Not the scream but the scream’s father, mother, parents past and present and if there is future after the scream then also those future. The one dragging at the tail of a subsonic airplane swallowing so many dreams and lovers and one dream and one lover, the one trailing you through pass control and security control and stewardess control and you cannot keep it in check anymore than you can give up on my heart, the one which believes my head is its mother-country and fights like a demon for its right to independence and to... scream. Wanting to definitely murder. Poetry. If it refuses to define you rhyme.

• back to list   • back   • next

Dead Alligators' Clash like mythological titans about to clash, you opened your mouth above the one forgotten on my face which lay there, devastated by sleep and sinister, decaying nightmares, your tongue forcing itself between numb lips your dead alligator looking for mine and I opened the cave with a mix of yawn and yowl as smells of rotting food leftovers mixed in a clash of teeth and tonsils watching yawn and yowl turn roar and rage wrestling tongues joined by wrestling hands and feet and awakening body halves followed by assailing body functionals, dead alligators burning to lilac essence, and the only sign of life other, tail whipping alligators ripping our bodies from inside out.

• back to list   • back   • next

Celestial Games Demons, playing, riddles laying under sun’s exploding skin Dreams of tangerine allusions to the hell which lies within, Angels fan away the ashes from the feathers’ glowing tips Quashing into absolution yet another proud eclipse. Games of gods, the stardust mingles with the titans’ tears to mud And pollutes into dispassion rivers once aflame with blood, Yawns a demon, while an angel hiccups boredom in the rain, Tail to wing to snore the sunset into evening’s shameful bane. hey... What in hell and heaven’s blisters is that awful, screeching sound Coming from... oh, godly father... human-seed infested ground, Tailless, wingless puny giants playing games of earthly make Way beyond all godly measure and that grievous, first mistake? On a bed of scattered linen lies my head between your hips As a nightingale’s capriccio fills the void from smiling lips Solving hell’s entangled riddles into life’s invading light Letting heaven’s absolution die in squeals of pure delight.

• back to list   • back   • next

CloseX or Don't Stand Close To Me Don't stand close to me, stand closer, better yet - lie down, closest possible, until the bed sheet is baobab thick in comparison and absolute vacuum asphyxiates the poor cells there at touch point. Closer than that and we merge. Like ink stains under a steamroller on a star the size of three suns. Listen, do you hear the blackbird? Do you hear the myriad lilac flowers opening, in ones and twos and seventysevens popping like 24 pounder howitzers and tearing holes the size of Antarctica in our ear drums? Do you hear the whales singing of blue love and yearning? Like ours? What's closer than closest, more beautiful than most beautiful, what is more love than love? Maybe ours? I leave your body burning, boiling in its consumed sweat and I escalade the window sill feeling like a modern day Icarus aware of my no wings and my yes fingertips and the pens and the myth and I open my arms letting millions of white butterflies grab each particle of skin and carry me towards the sun, so much safer than wax and feathers. And why do you fly towards the sun, lover? Not towards, through, and if I make it then glowing cinder and if I don't then glowing ash will rain its passion unto your flesh. But it is your flesh I want, lover. Then sing the color into the white and a sun into the eyes and my fingers into the breasts. And you sang the color, and you sang a sun, and you sang my fingers and you found closer than closest and I found more beautiful than most beautiful and we found love more than love. This is sweet, you said. You were wrong, of course. It was much sweeter than sweetest.

• back to list   • back   • next

Goose Lake Tchaikovsky would have re-written his ballet. I did. No, not re-write my ballet, never wrote one. Did re-write the poem I intended to write about swans. Did, though, pass a few phases – first it was ducks, then chickens, a short passage through frogs but then landed into geese. Or goose, to keep the lake spirit. And you, the human among them, not as beautiful though – you had no feathers you weren’t as plump you didn’t offer to attack me with twenty or so cohorts you didn’t eat grass, bugs, crumbs... hey, maybe you were as beautiful, now that I come to think of it. Maybe even more beautiful. Smooth skin, slim muscles, you did attack me but with nothing more than hugs, and kisses, and some censored stuff, don’t quite remember what you ate – were there any bugs involved? No, I don’t mean those big eyed ones who ogled you all evening at dinner time, above their wives’ shoulders, I mean bugs that make buzzz in your ear. Hand in hand. Not with any goose, you dork, with you. The geese were the decoration you were the main act, your hand in my back pocket testing my muscles as we walked my hand around your shoulder hanging as low as possible before getting a cramp but after touching your breast... just the right height, hip rubbing against hip and thigh against thigh and sandal against sandal... I love you, you said and I did not know if you meant the big goose we just passed or me, until your hand deserted my back pocket’s muscle and moved to my shirt’s one, underneath, pulling hairs savagely, pulling lips savagely, kissing with an abandon worthy of a goose if there was a ballet about geese and she the main ballerina. Can’t write about the room. Or what we did there. No, not shy, what’s there to be shy about love boiling, crushing, maddening in its primitive intensity and linen ripping frenzy. And bodies in love – is there anything more beautiful than bodies in love? Can’t write about the room because there were no geese there. Tried, to persuade, bribe, kidnap, no way, they all preferred the dirty, worm infested water rather than the clean, worm uninfested room. Stupid. Geese. What can you expect from geese, especially those thinking themselves swans? There were swans too, but they thought themselves geese, no winner anyway. So I cannot write about the room, the stars, the sun balcony because this poem is titled goose. Tough luck. I cannot write about the food either, yeap, no goose dinner. Thankfully so. I hate eating decoration. Even the one who tried to bite the laces off my shoes. Charlie, the Chaplin guy, did it too. And no one ate him. Checkout. Baggage. Car. Tears. I will miss you, geese, I lied. Not that I wouldn’t miss them. But that I would miss sitting with you on that bench, your head on my shoulder and dreaming of how life could, should be. Terribly. Miss. It. You. Tears. Tears. Tears.

• back to list   • back   • next

Inflatable I like to snuggle close to her when I need some warmth, she’s there since yesterday my beautiful inflatable doll... Sorry. Joke. Bad joke, I know. When life is worse you need a bad joke, something higher than life forcing you to look up and see some sun. No, not inflatable. Warm. Like an inflatable doll. Oops, sorry again, I have to repent, would an inflatable sheep be ok? No, neither, I see. A balloon then, a simple, birthday party balloon?... thank you, my love. Did I tell you I love you? You know, if you lived here I would have cut all your shirts and all your dresses just there, where the tities are so I could watch them dangling all the time. Sure, touch them too, sure, your bra’s too. Tities, my love, not breasts, breasts are for serious poetry this is light poetry. Tities poetry. No, not boobs, boobs are slang poetry, I don’t know to write slang poetry, I could try, though, if you wish. Boobs... rhymes with cubes... no, not easy. Winter? We’ll cover them with plastic sheets, sure transparent, what else could plastic be? Inflatable?... oh, you got me there. Others? who cares about others, they can see all the apples they want in the supermarket but they cannot bite. Unless they buy. Are you selling, my love? Hey, I see that big frying pan in your hand, even if this is just a letter, don’t you have a smaller one?... yeah, that’s better though I wouldn’t want to feel it either. And panties, panties would be banned and skirts the rule, right? Short skirts, not gowns, you woman. What do you mean – what would it help me? All the floors would be covered with mirrors, of course, except for the spiraling stairs, we could save some money there - I will have one single easy chair placed just underneath, ok? You accept?! Oh!... Oh, one condition. That I wear skirts too? Hmm, fine then, but only inside, outside I want to be known as respectable inside – I do not mind being known as lustectable. Bathroom? No doors, no curtains you say?... Never thought of having them. Love me? Okay, lots of mirrors. And shelves. Many shelves. Floor to ceiling shelves for perfumes, and lipsticks, and crayons, and powders, and creams... creams?... any special cream you had in mind, blushing woman? Of course I see your blush, letters are not that protective when I know you that well. PS The balloon I mentioned earlier, you know... it is kind of long... and kind of thin... ouch, you woman, even a small frying pan hurts. Next time I come I will bring you another one. Inflatable, of course.

• back to list   • back   • next

Jeux Interdits I danced around my flower. "What are you doing?" she asked. "I dance around my flower," I answered. "I don't see any flower." "Look deeper." She did. "Oh, you are a child," she said. "Uhuh," I said, which was the onomatopoeia for yes. "May I join?" she asked. "Ugh," I answered, which was the onomatopoeia for no. "Why?" "Because I want to join your world. May I?" "Why?" "Because there are more flowers there." "How do you know?" "Because I see you there, naked." She blushed. "Your soul," I added. "Still, naked..." she blushed further. "Yes," she added. I joined her flowers, Dragging with me my flower, my marbles, my teddy bear, dogs, butterflies collection... "I hate dead butterflies..." "This is a living-butterflies collection..." my turtle, my gold fish, my dragons... "Are they fierce?" "Only to grownups." "Am I a grownup?" "If they bite you." They licked her. The elephant refused to follow until she allowed her (it was a girl elephant) to borrow her pink ribbon and tie it to her tail. "Do you always carry your entire zoo with you?" "Only when I move my world." We danced around her flowers. "Your tits are small, I said. "You said you don't see my tits," she pouted. "I said I see your soul," I answered. "You lied," she insisted. "I lied," I accepted. "Children lie." "Always?" "Only about unimportant things." "And what is important?" "Love." "What about love?" "I love you." She blushed even deeper. "You blush. Are you ashamed?" "I am happy." She did not refuse to dance, hugging closely, almost cuddling. "When do they go to sleep?" I thought she had finished by now all the hues of red, seemed she did not, descending even deeper. "Why?" "To make love." "Children are not supposed to make love." "These children are." "I can whistle them to sleep." "Also the teddy bear?" "Also the teddy bear." I whistled them all to sleep, the marbles on the petals, the flower in the teddy bear's paw, the turtle choosing to sleep on its back, the dogs under the elephant's ear, the elephant under a dragon's wing, the rest of the dragons hanging upside down from huge flowers and the butterflies covering everything with a miraculously colored carpet. Fishes don't close eyes. Mine did. She fell asleep as well, cuddling the fish bowl. I didn't wake her up, there were many tomorrows in this world. I just sat and watched her sleeping smile.

• back to list   • back   • next

Contest your nipple, hidden, first by a piece of cloth then by your open palm then fist, then thumb, our thumbs warred over the possession my thumb winning the thumbsmanship contest by the sheer power of my muscle and my lust. "your lust?" you growled, and your intimate squeeze wasn't gentle. I offered a compromise, in the form of another contest, I suggested the other nipple. "I have a better offer," you smirked making sure I won. and it wasn't my lust.

• back to list   • back   • next

When Lust Invited Herself Into My Life She said “hi” and never left since. Day, when I sit in front of the unfinished potatoes platter and she squeezes between my shirt and the tabletop cloth facing me and my diligently munching maxillae-based machine, skirt pulling away from knees to uncover pale skin and flexing steel while a mouth hungry for the potatoes in my mouth and the tools turning it mush forces an unasked for help upon me and them smearing vegetable oil and fried onions and lipstick all over my face, hands sneaking past buttons borders and cloth borders and hairy chest borders moving left and right and up and down and mainly down and further down and deeper down, turning me miracles believer when other pieces of human misery called bra-cups and knickers and shorts and shoes and trousers and stockings and shame dissolve into nothingness or tatters together with the potatoes platter which explodes on the floor and her loins my dessert and my howls her revenge... Night, when I absorb an eyeful of TV alter-culture mixing Zombie shrills with Disney quacks and .44 Magnum pops and she slides somewhere, mid-way between the glass of my spectacles and the glass of the screen fully filling my angle of vision... or is my angle of vision suddenly cropping everything else out?... with a view of Renaissance marble blobs dangling loose from a Renaissance marble hairless chest, almost falling off the bottom end a loose T-shirt ending way above her navel, probably a shrunken leftover from her ninth birthday when tits where not yet on her mind, and there is no such red marble neither Renaissance nor Carrara nor Knidos as the sharp tips at the ends of the blobs transpiring through the cotton and as I try to view pendulum like left of her waist then right of her waist then left of her waist the hero blowing up a mountain she undulates those other Renaissance marvels just beneath her waist pendulum like in sync with mine continuously conquering every crumb of spatial angle from my vision as she approaches and my eyes cross and my spectacles steam before disintegrating when the triangular cotton remains in between my teeth unveiling triangles of different color and of different composition and her loins my spectacle and my howls her lullaby... Morning, when the damn alarm clock bangs its damn hammer against my head long before the damn birds bring over the damn sun, and she slides between the drops lining my chest and those still raining from the unforgivable shower and offers to count them loudly and follow them individually from the very top of me to the very bottom of me with a long pause at the very middle of me which I refuse to appreciate so early, the only way to make her shut up and stay upright being to drink all I can, at risk of drowning in my own shower, every drop which lands on her lips and inside her mouth and upon that long, sneaky, muscular fifth limb called mistakenly tongue that keeps offering me boiling drops and teeth-cleaning services, it doesn’t take long before the soap is being put to uses other than purely hygienic and bubbles crawl beneath the door and I wish I was bubbles as well to crawl beneath the door beneath the soles of her feet between those curves and creases and geysers forbidden to all but soap bubbles when she murmurs bubbles in my ear and I turn a darker shade than darkest beet as I kneel and her loins my ocean and my howls her nightingale... She said “hi” and if she ever leaves I die.

• back to list   • back   • next

Pawn You put in my hand a piece of cake, I bit into it, I liked it, told you. I made it, you said, proudly, not for the making but for sitting next to me and watching me chew, smile. You put in my hand the key, allowed me to open the door close the door undress you dress you, I was thrilled, told you. I am happy, you said, proudly, not for your body but for having let me make love to you while watching me shiver, smile. You put in my hand your heart, I touched it through cloth and flesh and mind, I loved it, told you. I love you, you said, proudly, not for being loved or loving but for giving me all you could then watching me cry, smile.

• back to list   • back   • next

Remembering Annabel In the tower down and under whilst the morning tears asunder Through a coffin’s lid and laden wilting wreaths for my sweet maiden Smiles her pale eternal beauty in the worlds beyond of wonder She, who visits now with Abel and with Cain ‘neath sands of Aden... Annabel, the reaper’s plunder. Under glass of lead affection lie bereaved of imperfection Breasts of snow from hidden valleys whereat my anger rallies Ankles in unyielding fetters locked in dreams of resurrection Eyelids over frozen oceans carrying your morrows’ galleys... Annabel, my heart’s inflection. Black the ink upon my paper as my phrases blindly caper Thoughts of vengeance rising madly failing in my laments sadly Craving senses search your flavor as in worlds beyond they taper For the touch of dying fingers I would cut my fingers gladly... Annabel, my spirit’s sapor. In a pouch of cracking leather I have found the raven’s feather Tied with ribbons from your dresses and with fringes from your tresses And I ran between the marshes cutting circles through the heather Biting in my chest the poison with the foxglove and the cresses... Annabel, in worlds of nether. I awoke from slumbers haven shamed at blessing stupor’s craven Facing torment’s grim seduction into hell’s invading fluxion Come, ye devil’s crawling omen sent upon my window’s raven And I’ll follow in Gehena if you’ll name my poor destruction Annabel, on eyelids graven.

• back to list   • back   • next

We Created The Sun, Didn’t We? it’s like when we rolled on the sidewalk wrapped in flames passers-by having to jump over us or side-step us or be enveloped in the heart of the inferno feeding in and on our bodies and consuming all around us – human, stone, tree... how many went missing that day and no one knows why to this lament? what was that gaping mouth spitting its slices of shivering life inside mine before starting its seven years pilgrimage around the exploded parts of me not to repair but to ravage, pillage, defile and chew damn slow my toes to the bone and suck my marrow before splitting the bones into splinters to use as toothpicks and as necklaces around ankles and breasts? don’t wake up, you commanded, blanketing us in the rolling asphalt, broken cobblestones stuck to its outer layer like a prehistoric hedgehog and breaking hip bones allowing loins to commiserate the moment to come when they will have to part ways and expose their nakedness back on the sidewalk with indifference walking around them as if nothing happened... and yet – we created the sun, didn’t we?

• back to list   • back   • next

Thankfully I look with dead eyes those eyes which wish they were dead rather than deprived of fire, smile, dignity, the eyes of my father. Not the way, not the way I wished to remember him that broken piece of flesh and humanity rotting alive in its own dreams... no, the dreams are still alive just the vessel is rotting slowly, oh, so slowly, why the hell not in one single blast so I can remember just his strong fingers and his powerful arms, legs, and the oven warmth of his palms, his palms now so cold, trembling... Thankfully I can still cry, even if his eyes dried long ago looking upwards towards an inexistent God. Thankfully I feel your hand squeezing mine to crushing bone in compassion, and love and I feel the breeze of your breath as it blows through my nape's short hairs trying to keep me upright the way rushing winds keep upright a flying kite hoping the string never breaks.

• back to list   • back   • next

Under The Willow I see you under the willow. Are you reading or writing? Are you thinking? I see you bending, gathering dirt in between palms and letting it sift back, slowly. Are you looking for seeds forgotten by time and rain, ready to plant them again after kissing them, dirt traces around your lips and a smile of sad satisfaction at the corners of same lips? I see you reclining, the willow's sturdy trunk softening at the touch of your dress and building a cushion of moss and dry leaves and wings of butterflies dead many years ago, the beauty still there even in death, beauty never dies even in death. I see you undressing, touching the edge of the pond with your toes, shivering in pleasure then lying down and waiting for tiny ebbs to wash you with the smell of rotten leaves with the spikes of broken bamboo culms with the regards of curious frogs, leaping over you like it was a game, the white stain of your skin adorning the shrubbery like snow middle of a tulips' bed. You don't melt, you wait for thoughts of me to dress your dreams and touches of me to undress you further, can further than naked be? I see you, falling asleep. The ebbs fall asleep as well, the frogs too. It is the moment I choose to visit you and write poetry in the mud surrounding you. Next time I will write the same poetry in the bed sheets surrounding you. And inside you.

• back to list   • back   • next

Ponders I wish I knew the language of your mouth, to write poetry to you in the words you were born with. Though, I know the language of your heart and I write poetry to you in the words you don't need to understand to understand. Yes, you understand even if I write poetry to you in the language of silence. Even if I write poetry to you in the language of sadness. And lust. And death. And love. No, no one understands the language of love, it does not exist except between two. Talking, lusting, dying, loving. Each other. Closed system. A law of physics not yet quantified in formulas, it will come. When all poets of all times die the law will be written. Because there will be no variations anymore. Do you love me? There is no answer either, to a question as unnecessary as the language in which it is said. A random collection of letters and grunts, does it bear any meaning? You gave me your most sacred, your mind, and you bent words and turtles and willows to fit my shape and shape my moods and light fireflies there where the world is at the end of its life and darkness eternal in me, or so I thought. You gave me your most sacred, your body, and you took me there where you took no one before and I was not taken and you carried my flesh through fires old unlighted with sparks new carrying the frenzy of creation and there was no after-glow since the glow never ended. You gave me your most sacred, your serenity, and you dived into my pain looking for my hand to hold, to gather to your breast, to tell me that we sink or live with this handhold chaining our lives and our destinies the way gravitation chains our matter and death our future. We walk. Holding hands. Nothing exists, nothing existed before, nothing exists, nothing will exist after, nothing exists outside of us and of holding hands. Holding hands when we merge minds, when we merge bodies, when we merge pain.

• back to list   • back   • next

love, my mind is a sea of confusion and boundaries crumble between what was once pain, love, happiness, desire, sensations switching positions like thistles rolling in the wake of a wayward wind and I am not sure anymore when to laugh, when to lust, when to join the crumbling process and lie down waiting for rain to purify me or accelerate the rotting process of flesh and mind. even in confusion knives are sharp, knives cut. and yet, there is a rock and I hold on to it with the might of a dying fist as it floods me with the broken pebbles of its crust and the burning needles of its heart blessing me the sense of magnetic poles, and up and down, and wrong and right waiting for my body to stop threshing aimlessly before it turns its rigid essence into feather softness and offers me its soul to save mine. you wait for me to open lucid eyes before telling me the same you told me in my moments of madness making sure I understand that which I knew... love, knows no boundaries.

• back to list   • back   • next

Flesh Bring me the flesh. The flesh that was once yours and now is mine, the breast to choke me, the loins to drown me, the fingers to flay mine as they meet in that valley of no time where all flesh is one when no flesh exists and souls are lost in Earth's belching fire before sweat exterminates the fires once again and flesh rests inside flesh hoping for eternity to find it still there whenever eternity decides to show up, long after much loved insanity and its sister passion shared the rule in shared flesh. Feed me the flesh. The flesh that was once yours and will never be again, the skin to sharpen the blades of my incisors and pad the valleys of my molars and adorn the peaks of my canines like wreaths of flowers bleeding their lives, the muscles to knot in threshing pain as they arch around the walls of the prison to breaks their way in and triple plait with mine and with rose shrubs and wine vines and crawling butterflies, the bones to crack as they crack mine and pull out of sockets in that terrible need worse than any pain. Let the flesh love me. The flesh that was once yours and grows on my bones and flowers under my skin let it love me as if it was still yours forcing my lips around nipples hungry to be eaten rolling my thighs around thighs desperate to be crushed offering nests for nails in between spine vertebrae from cranium to pelvis when we light the hay we roll in and dry the lakes we sink into and pay no attention to the wake of wild autumn flowers and thistles and weeds covering our trail like the sun's corona around a match head. Never knew a match head could compete with a sun until I uncovered your flesh.

• back to list   • back   • next

inner flesh hover above me, offer proudly your breasts to the sun as you shake your mane and shake your hips and your body's rain washes me, the exploding sweat and the glittering tears and the boiling rivers carrying our passion to that savage creek where wave after wave explodes against the sanctum of inner flesh... don't fly away, after the rain breathe inside my ears flowers.

• back to list   • back   • next

The Name Of Things this is called cellulite... oh, what nonsense. this is the extra flesh I need to sate my hunger and the parts of you none else sees, touches, craves with desire for but me, the valleys I iron and the peaks I squash and the obstacles I grab with insane fingers on my way to finding the way and the sun there... and this is called wrinkles... oh, such crap in the minds of idiots. this is the skin acting as the pages to your life's story written with an invisible pen but to the one loving you, telling of experienced pains, and experienced loves, and experienced lust, telling that which few, if any, would know to assuage my need and alleviate the threshing visiting my belly and my loins and my mouth the way you would know and you would do allowing me this... and this is called gray strands... oh, the horrors of color blindness. do they see the blue still sparkling deep in the orbs and the red still flowing once I bite your lip, the pink of your feminine lust and whipping tongue and cheeks of after the deed, after the exploding stars, after the pain is allowed to return, do they see the blonde still growing from the roots and the transparent breaking into rainbows once it starts rolling down your cheek when the moment arrives for that?... abomination, human ignorance at its utmost, oh, humanity, when will thou know to read love?

• back to list   • back   • next

The Divine say The Divine and they all know one talks about the incomparable, superhuman, inscrutable, flaming, untouchable Garbo. ignominious infamous ignorami. sure, she may have been all that. sure, they were never in love those ignominious infamous ignorami. if they would have been they would have known who is it one talks about. look. I say The Divine and I burn. because I dared touch incomparable, superhuman, inscrutable, flaming, untouchable you.

• back to list   • back   • next

Dream when you let water wash the day away, thistles brush the palate pleasures and cream soothe the dust and the sun out of your skin, when thin cotton pours over your drying flesh reaching down to your ankles passing over nipples and loins and lustful curls and begging knees, when your body sinks first into the white of linen then into the soft of mattress and lastly into those recurring dreams braiding our lusting bodies, when we wake up into the land of eternal music laced with gasps and whispers and demands and we cannot sever the flesh from the flesh and the crave from the crave, is when we wish to never wake up.

• back to list   • back   • next

Anatomical Love please, allow me to volunteer to restore blood circulation to your body, your safety my main concern, of course. my lust only second. I lie, of course. to remove the wide elastic band restricting free flow around your waist there, where the sacrum's first segment articulates with the lumbar spine's last and its alae with the ilia and your hips oscillate like a willow's disjointed branches once summer's breeze decides to hide in between flirtatious leaves and vapors rising from the lake, the narrow elastic bands, two, at the tops of your thighs, both, somewhere between the greater trochanter and the lesser trochanter beneath that spot where the femur joins the acetabulum with that swiveling arrangement allowing the mess called your knees to part east and west while the mess called my whole body orients itself north to south looking for the hidden foliage and the sparkling springs there, close to the pubic symphysis and its inebriating flora, the straps of the shoes and the straps of the socks strangling your ankles around the place where talus connects to tibia and fibula, thus preventing blessed oxygen from blessed distal phalanges, mainly that wonderful hallux always on the search for either my crotch or my inner thigh or for that flexible hole in my face (located between a pair of widely gaping maxillae and afore a dark cavity leading into the caverns called lungs) called mouth, in its blessed eternal search for giving, taking, creating unforgettable moments of blessed abandon and unforgivable moments of cursed rest, the metallic clasps, the lace cups, the silk shoulder straps crushing with unimaginable, bestial ferocity the lobes, and lobules, and ducts, and areolae, and nipples to sternum and manubrium and that prison composed of a variety of human ribs, until the heart refuses to pump and the lungs to expand and two bodies fizzling with desire unfulfilled are left fuming in their impatience to commit into the realm of reality that, which the realm of imagination designs yet clasps and cups and shoulder straps are committed to prevent, even at the price of killing the desire. please, allow me to volunteer my fingers to the martyrdom of burning with desire's enemies, please, let me rip'em apart and die inside your body's Elysium.

• back to list   • back   • next

don’t let it terrify you, She. Two pairs of shoes, check. One pair of trousers, check. Scissors, mascara, sunglasses, check check check. Stockings... one, two... hmm, there's a run here... two, three, check. Panties, how many panties do you think I need? Unwillingly, I lifted my nose from Asimov. If you ask me, none. C'mon, you want me to run around bare-assed under my clothes? Run? Okay, walk. Clothes? Clothes, you know, the woven thread that results in fabric, the cut fabric that sews into garments... clothes, that soft thing one drapes the body in before going shopping or sightseeing. You think we'll have time left for shopping? Well, me might get hungry somewhere... sometime... during... She blushed. She had a point there. Okay, seven panties. Seven? Why seven? Because it is more than six and less than eight. Some to wear some to tear. You know wear'n'tear, no? Different wear. Same idea. Seven panties, check, four white. Four? Why four? Because it is more than three and less than five. The others? Who cares, tear you said, no? Sounded okay to me. Do I need tooth paste? No, I'll bring. Toothpaste, no need. Bathing suit, check, one pair sandals, check, books... Books? ...three, check. I looked at her askance. Is it reading sessions you are planning? She looked back, skewering me with her regard. Books three, uncheck, book, one, check. Her tongue reached lengths I didn't know it possessed before hiding back behind the clicking incisors, was it a threat or a promise, I wondered. Legs, one, check. Which would you prefer? I had it coming, no? I would prefer two, I mean - both. Sure? Why? Left one left side of the bed, right one right side of the bed... And if it is a wide bed? The wider the better, I tried, and stayed alive. I see, then legs two, one left and one right, and her eye was a flurry of winks. Or left one right side of the bed, right one left side of the bed. Huh? I think I lost her. Oh, I see... but she didn't see, the winking frozen into pondering. Shaving cream? We'll share. Razors? We'll share. Skin lotion? External or internal? She nudged me hard enough to have me bend in two, it would have been in three but there were no suitable joints to my body. Skirts? Shirts? What's that, you're a poet all of a sudden? Skirts? Shirts? As if you need my opinion on anything. Skirts? Shirts? She wasn't listening, the rhyming decision dilemma having driven her probably into some catatonic phase or... was it stasis?... I looked in horror at the Asimov robots book in my hand, and threw it violently to the floor... my God, are you a Robot? Skirts? Shirts? Three! Three! I screamed, Skirts three, check, shirts three, check. I wiped my sweat, oh, my, this was a close call of some kind. Or were you?... no, you weren't... were you?... Camera, click. Check! Click. Check!!! Click. Looked like something was still wrong, I was about to start sweating again. Camera. Camera. Check. Click. Camera. Click. What camera?... Click. Cam... oh, youuu, biiitch, I mumbled, hissed, wheezed seeing the red eye blinking from the top of the table. I kicked the paper from her hand and threw her on the bed, my hand resting (not for long) on her knee. Camera, click, I mimicked, letting the red light build its own impressions from the ensuing events. No, not suitable for the Educational channel. Neither for YouTube. Maybe for the Simpsons. I left her snuggling the one eyed Barbie. It wasn't really complimentary that this was what she hugged in my absence. But I preferred it to Ken, of course. I picked up my own check list. * He. One you, check.

• back to list   • back   • next

Pazzo If you weren't under-age I would have taken you to bed and... now I cannot even talk to you about it, imagine someone overhears. She was used to my being crazy, differently crazy every time, still - crazy. But not dangerously so, I think. This is what crazy people think always, anyway. Under which age, exactly? she asked, filling-in the wrinkles with whatever extracts from whatever flowers from whatever jungles the big companies were promoting at the time of my declaration. It wasn't Borneo anymore, seemed they had found something better, more expensive, of course. At least she didn't force me to go through the degrading act of checking my temperature (you know how it can be done, well, she did it that way). Under the age of consent, of course, I answered. I was logical. I was a sentient human, trying to keep his ass out of trouble and, except for the temperature thing, I mostly succeeded. She finished with the creaming, lipsticking, shaving... all those things sensible sensitive sentients of the female gender usually do. She knew I wasn't joking, I never joked about serious matters. Death excluded. I considered death a cosmic joke. Consent to what? It was time I checked her temperature, but I didn't dare, even the thought of it was embarrassing. Sex, what else? I tiptoed to the door, tore it open to uncover whatever secret elements were spying on us, found no one, so I returned to the couch. And if there was someone there, what would you have done? Shot him? Or her? She wasn't logical. Of course. Who was crazy here? I snickered to myself. And if I told you my age is three times that, would it be ok? Who was she joking? Who are you joking? I asked, boldly. I watched her, her firm flesh appetizingly al dente her sublime loins making any al forno concept obsolete those hard mele with their harder fragole... What are you licking your lips for? she asked, do you think Mediterranean again? Ma perche?... oops... I was about to hang, for no offense committed. Yet. She seemed to have other ideas, hanging high low on her priorities list that conceited depraved young under-age chick with her snow-white skin and china-blue eyes and poppy-red lips, all her creaming, lipsticking, shaving done by now. She went to the door and pulled it wide open... Nooo... I screamed covering my eyes and ears and nose (though I had a problem, missing a few much needed additional limbs), I didn't want to see/hear/smell the twenty or more bodies spying on us through the one keyhole now to be ripped/shredded/quashed by the blast of her naked looks... I felt fingers, not too gentle, pulling away all limbs I tried to use from eyes and ears and nose... I peeked, ready for insanity, seeing just the rear end of a grey cat walking lazily down the corridor, Where are they, I asked, shivering like pudding in a 6.3 Richter. Here, pazzo, she knocked her knuckle on my forehead, kicking the door shut, the cat out of sight, and surprising me with her deep understanding of Albanian. Relax, I am at least three years over under, she added enigmatically, sprawling me over the bed as enigmatically. I didn't really believe her, with that al dente, etc, but sometimes, there are things in life worth dying for. Even jailing for. Even having the temperature taken for. Are you sure you want?... I asked, thinking He-Little Red Hood. Like yesterday, answered She-Wolf. Why was yesterday sure I didn't know, I didn't care either, going cucina all the way. Her babbà was delicious.

• back to list   • back   • next

Flower in December I saw a flower in December. No, not global warming. Yes, this side of the equator. No, not a miracle, as I understood, later. * The doors opened, the human swarm rushed out from the first anteroom of hell to the second one. Each on his way to his own personal hell. Or hers. Or its. She spotted me, I heard her mental squeal of delight as she ran ahead of the crowd to her hell as well, with that tiny stopover in heaven worth all of the hells. Funny the human misconception of the two, heaven the fire and hell the frozen ...well, hell. She jumped in my arms, hands around my neck lips around my mouth the rest of her all around my body. Took me long to disentangle myself from her twenty arms and God knows how many legs. You bloom, I told her. She looked up at me, in a strange way, A flower always blooms in the sun, she said. No, not a miracle, as I understood, later. Love.

• back to list   • back   • next

Resurrection Don’t touch me when I ask you to, touch me when your desire flares, when it’s not anymore a matter of life or death but of death savage, ruthless, merciless, and your fingers are bleeding sick with the want to run along my skin and cauterize the plague consuming their tips with crystallizing sweat, Don’t undress before you undress me, peel humanity off me and leave me bask in the advancing glory of uncovering femininity, I wish you to witness my disobedient flesh as it rives away from my insides and rises to meet its oncoming torturer in that atrium of creation you promised me to die in, Don’t pull away, don’t open your knees if I scream, don’t close your knees if I scream, don’t allow your mouth take leave off my body before it has visited shadow’s leftovers to bite your claim with penetrating canines there, where world began and will end. Lie by my side. Let me die, so I get born again inside you.

• back to list   • back   • next

Enough! I’ve had enough of flowers. Enough of flowers and sun and butterflies and butterflies and flowers and sun and any other combination with colors and rainbows and chirping doves thrown in. Or cooing doves. Or barking doves or whatever else doves do. I want to penetrate your body. I want to pour life into your loins while I suck it back from your mouth and as my cupping palms knead your breasts into lumps of agony your fists batter my spine into the surrendering pulp of minced meat. There is time enough for flowers after we die.

• back to list   • back   • next

Almost Lust... Ha!... and then, when the lust is over... when? never... then there is no then. she had a point there, though it wasn't clear which point and meanwhile she had broken my poetry spell with her smart-assiness. I kissed the bare cleavage at the bottom of her spine, trying to nab my waning erotic momentum. and lust deserts the entangled bodies... you mean deserts or desserts, you know, one s or two s's? which sounded to me like two asses. she had no point there, except being a pest. and my poetry spell became a dessert... oops... a desert of poetry and spell and magic. I slapped the spot I earlier on kissed and as she moaned rather than groaned I slapped it again. she kept moaning so I changed strategy. I stuffed her mouth with... something, to keep her busy while I returned to poetry but I could not find it anymore, my poetry. not that I did not try but I had additional things on my mind now and in her mouth and she wasn't any help at all, I mean, she was a great help but right now she was rather helping herself to things on her own dirty mind, not that I minded, I mean... I was losing my mind and all I wanted partially... huh?... well, all I wanted at all before I only partially wanted and will want fully after partially... help!... whatever... was to write a poem. about lust. what else is there to write about with that Stheno gorgon hanging on to... ahmm... me? I had my poetic pride, had to make it or burn forever in the worst of unforgiving hells, mine. ablaze in the fields of lascivious glory I follow the dragon's imperious gait and bury my mouth in the sweltering quarry that fills with resplendence your body's estate. my billowing gasps your viscera will scour and scourge through your flesh like a raging typhoon allowing your fingers my heart to devour as snapping incisors my bleeding lips prune. you snatched me away from the pit-fire's calling and offered your summer's encroaching perfume, ... wait! oh, no, what now? she left me hanging in the cold shivering with anticipation, foreboding, and other long words... ok, you wanted my attention, you have it. ...as she stopped her earlier occupation for a new one - sitting cross-legged, breasts dangling, eyes dreamy, looking into my mouth rather than anywhere else... oh, God, what have I done, created a monster and suddenly it was doing what I created it for - listening. what about the rest? what about the rest? I asked the monster. after, the monster replied. after what? after you finish. I cannot finish, I just lost my concentration. then you lost the after. I whined, my mind chasing a squirrel in the cage overtaking it twice for each of its one rotation. maybe after just this stanza? I tried a compromise. and the rest? she didn't look persuaded, but at least she hooked her legs behind my waist facing me gravely, as gravely as almost nipple to nipple. what could be more grave than almost. the rest tomorrow, and the day after, and after. and after? also. and after? if you insist. only if I insist? also if not. ok. so easy... I rushed before she changed her mind. ... your fever, whose philter through marrow is sprawling, your breast and its godly elysian bloom. I didn’t have to rush, she had no intention of changing mind, or purpose, or resolve, she just made a slight adaptation of position and guided me in again. I meant to say in heaven.

• back to list   • back