Hobbies - Poetry - Anonn
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Forest

    In the desert
    I didn't find an oasis,
    I found a forest.

    True, some branches broken, some weeds,
    some buzzing gnats... paradise,
    how would you call broken branches, weeds, gnats
    mid of the desert
    if not paradise?

    There is water, feeding the roots,
    and shadows, caring for boiling brains,
    and squirrels, lions, I even saw a camel...
    real desert. Real paradise.

    I lay my head on your breast
    listening to heart beats,
    a complaining stomach... "hungry?..."
    a few hiccups,
    "how did you grow mid of the desert?" I asked you.

    You kept feeding me softness and songs
    in a language close to rustling leaves and childhood memories
    claiming the hiccup was actually a bolting deer
    and the complaining stomach the murmur of a fresh spring
    "and the heart beats?" these were heart beats,
    and I believed you.

    After all
    I was dying of thirst
    and you saved me.
    "I was dying of thirst and you saved me,"
    but you shushed me
    and offered me also your strawberries.
    "There are no strawberries in the desert, even if the oasis is a forest,"
    but I had to accept the juicy evidence
    of life. Of lips.

    "You tricked me, I thought these were strawberries,"
    I thanked you
    and wrote you a poem.
    "You tricked me, I thought this was a poem,"
    you thanked me
    reading my poem and feeding me strawberries.

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to know

    you crawled on all four,
    if you had six
    it would have been on all six,
    rummaging through the wet sand... shells, shells, shells,
    like it was pearls you were digging up,
    or nuggets,
    or, better still, kisses.

    here, another one, you raised your fist in victory
    and all I could do was sink in the mud
    and enjoy in your pleasure,
    how long since you finished being a kid?
    did you ever?
    you even forgot all about me
    and how could you ever forget anything about me,
    let alone all of it.

    we walked back,
    I carried your shoes, your shells, you camera,
    you carried my heart, my heart, my heart,
    the blessed inequality of sexes
    there, where it counts, everywhere,
    where I adore you, worship you,
    maybe even love you...
    more than I love you.
    hey, got you there, didnít I?
    how fast can a smile change into a frown change into a smile?
    I just proved it Ė
    as fast as the word reaches the brain,
    as fast as your mouth reaches for mine,
    as fast as fastest.
    yes, my English, and proud of it.

    your hand looking for my skin, later,
    once the shells were safely packed
    and your feet warmly washed
    and your camera momentarily forgotten,
    I did not want any sex,
    you wanted only sex...
    of course love, love, sex without love is like a crocodile without teeth.
    donít like it? ok, like beer without gas.
    hate it even more? ahmmm...
    what about like world without sun,
    like violin without strings, like death before life?
    you smile, you like it better.
    no, I donít like it better, I like all the same.
    like it like I love you.
    like the teeth, the gas, the sun, the strings, the life.

    of course I want only sex. and love. the paradox of the only?
    no paradox, love, just the linguistic limitations
    of the one dimensional universe of poetry.
    thatís why I write only for those with enough imagination
    to complete my job.
    thatís why I love you.
    you have sufficient imagination
    to know.

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It's That Time Of The Year

    It's that time of the year
    or of the day,
    depends on how or when I look at it,
    that I feel once more the need to talk in pinks,
    in emerald greens and sea-deep blues,
    opening a call for duty to flowers,
    to butterflies and rainbows
    and doves carrying lilac branches in their beaks
    and dew drops at the ends of their tiny claws closing and wing ends opening...
    where are you
    to paint it all in my mind's eye
    with fingertips dipped in tears
    and a skin sweating thick blobs of honey
    after making love?
    Is this the reason that I stick to you
    each time
    after?
    Or that I cannot open eyes
    heavy with
    contentment?
    Even if you harness your nipples to the effort
    and your lips slave at rolling away the skin
    from my flesh?

    It's that time of the year
    or of the night
    when you turn around your pillow letting it turn around you
    and you turn around your blanket letting it turn around you
    and you turn around those moths wondering at the insanities of a world
    as you slowly spiral around them
    together with candles alight at the ends of your fingers
    and glittering dust turned for the occasion fireflies
    around your ankles,
    the world you ache for behind the mirror lying on the floor
    reflecting your heels, your thighs, your silk from a lover's view
    and you touch its face looking for the secret door
    to make it all all right
    again.

    It's always that time of the year, day, night.
    The yoke crushing your chest composed of so many miles
    that your fingers bleed from counting
    and so many seconds that the doves tire from flying
    and you open the window
    inviting snowflakes to your lungs
    and sparrows to your eyebrows
    and words to the mottled paper you pirouette on
    then suddenly you smile
    seeing that which no one else except you
    has ever seen, will ever see -
    a rainbow
    in the falling snow.

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Waltz

    I dreamt about you, this morning,
    I dreamt about you this morning
    that we were waltzing, and then waltzing and waltzing and waltzing
    you, dressed in three layers of silk
    the third layer containing almost the whole of you
    except from the neck up and from the arms out and from the ankles down
    the other layers rustling between my right palm and your hip
    never allowing me to keep fingers on the same spot
    to absorb the heat, the undulation,
    the screaming flesh asking in its lost nakedness way underneath
    to melt in my palm.

    I? don't ask, I was dressed in that ridiculous ballet-dancer's attire
    leaving no place to either imagination
    or to scratching opportunities
    doing my best to keep a respectful distance from you, as per etiquette,
    with all except palms
    and eyes
    and heart
    and as we revolved around... don't know if the floor was flowers
    or sand or wood or thorn-less roses...
    the waves of frolicking sound kept hitting us again and again and again
    your bare feet leaving charred traces which my bare feet tried to step in
    without disturbing neither the violins
    nor the orchestra
    nor Aram Khachaturian himself, in flesh and blood, conducting
    the mirage.

    I killed the Masquerade,
    feeling in me the sudden rage of poetical death
    with Pushkin, Lermontov, Mayakovski, Yesenin wedding the absoluteness of beauty
    to the absoluteness of death in my mind
    and I tore your three layers of silk
    and my one layer of ridicule
    and looked for the thorns in the thorn-less roses
    upon which to drag your body
    and make love.

    Passion
    does not come any more passionate.

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Civilization

    Civilization.
    I started uncovering it slowly,
    delicately.
    First... the shoes.
    Followed the shirt, skirt, stockings,
    after a moment's hesitation and a nod of approval
    the whites,
    all of them, two.

    The majesty of civilization invaded my sight...
    Do you like it? asked a voice.
    I hesitated once again, before daring a frightened No,
    moving my head slowly left to right.
    I know, was the answer,
    and before I could move back my head right to left
    a primal tide took over civilization
    and attacked me with the savagery of stampeding wild horses
    or wild buffalos
    or wild... love? asked the voice.
    Never knew of such sweet savagery, before.

    Civilization started crawling back into the flesh,
    some resistance pockets still panting in anarchy,
    gashes closing, blood rivulets drying...
    Wild flowers, where did the wild flowers go? I asked,
    contentment making room for disappointment.
    Wild flowers? echoed the voice
    and the stampede was all over me once more
    horses and buffalos and love and... wild flowers?

    I wanted to live.
    I let my head hang above the precipice,
    allowing civilization to return
    yet making sure there was enough of wild flowers
    to last me a lifetime.

    I covered it all slowly,
    delicately.
    First the whites,
    then the stockings, skirt, shirt
    Lastly
    the shoes.
    Civilization hidden once more beneath the layers of so much reality.
    But the wild flowers
    still keeping me
    insane.

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Do You Think

    do you think
    it could snow in the kitchen,

    do you think I could carry a sledge to the kitchenís door
    and with one shove against the wall
    reach underneath your dish-washing body
    waiting for you to fall atop of me
    to carry you through the sink, wall, water-pipes
    up that mountain where freezing to death is the only law
    except for lovers in lust and in dream and in love?
    do you think I would mind your detergent smelling hands
    underneath my garments?

    do you think
    Elvis could pop out of the loudspeaker in the living room,

    do you think he could grant us one of his Cadillacs
    and enough fuel to carry us half way through the sea southwards,
    the passengerís door closing on your fluffy skirtís hem
    as the book drops from your hand to the carpet
    and the wind ruffles your hair and your eyebrows
    while one of my hands ruffles the rest of you
    from belt up and the other from belt down
    and your feet rise high... well, to hold the steering wheel?
    do you think I would mind one of your hands ruffling me from the belt up
    and the other from the belt down?

    do you think
    you could give up your green pillow,

    do you think I could offer you the part of my body
    beneath my layer of coat beneath my layer of shirt beneath my layer of cotton
    to host your dreams packed in your brain packed in your head
    with your fists locked in mine
    and my lips locked in yours
    and as body... whose?.. locks in body... whose?...
    the green pillow explodes
    dragging with it the ceiling, the roof, the sky into the black of nowhere
    and us, with it?
    do you think I would mind green feathers
    around your blue eyes?

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Peek-a-boo

    lift the hem of your dress...
    no, not for me to peek
    but for your bare toes to step between hundreds of broken shells
    and leave sunken, swiveling imprints in sand's wet memory,

    lift it, a bit higher,
    so that waves will glide upon your ankles unhindered,
    and upon your knees,
    and between your thighs... see, told you,
    now the hem is wet,
    I guess you have to pull it a bit more,

    yes, I know, the wind likes to play around as well,
    bastard.

    oops, I peeked.
    it is the wind to blame, who else,
    I am just an advisory position.
    oh, no, not sorry,
    delighted.

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Bark

    Lean against the bark,
    let the resin of its tears dirty your cheeks
    as its wrinkles dig their age proudly in your flesh
    with groves, and splinters, and chrysalis leftovers,

    It remembers tears
    when your salt wouldn't feed its roots but your water splashed crystals,
    and the smoothness of skin before competing for wrinkles
    when you leaned your cheek against it upon a time,
    it remembers butterfly days, yours,
    and color,

    Hug it, it lives,
    leave it, it allows you
    to dance through its dead leaves
    and collect their dust
    in your upheld hem and in your fluttering hair
    and as you shuffle your barefoot flesh away
    I will shamelessly pull the hem over your head
    and make love to you.

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Gardens

    Gardens
    don't grow around you,
    there are no flowers, either, in the hollows of your heels,
    when the sun shines
    it is not in your eyes but between the hills, above the horizon.

    So why do I see gardens
    growing around you,
    and flowers budding in the hollows of your heels
    and where does it come from, that shine in your eyes
    which blinds me?

    *

    Here, he said, baffled,
    handing me the security video against a promise, on my mother's grave,
    to return it next day.

    I watched it, carefully.
    There was sand there, earlier in the day.
    There were daffodils, later,
    in the hollows.

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That Train Station

    That train station
    just meters away from the first time,
    from the event,
    the chill in fingers
    hesitating between blouse buttons
    timidly advancing to meet pale flesh smoldering underneath
    yet shivering
    with fright, with anticipation,
    with a word you forgot its spelling in all languages... desire.

    The slow penetration,
    between tautness of skin and flexibility of satin
    as fingers mount the soft mound of breast
    sacrificing liberty
    for the fire locked in that prison
    housing the gift of God to his humanity and humans
    to feed their mouth
    and senses.

    The first touch, the first moan, the first arousal
    as a taxi pulls up
    and we disentangle
    knowing that next time we entangle
    our bodies die together.
    The death
    before life.

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watcher

    donít watch me
    when I watch you,
    you could not, even if you wanted. even if you knew.

    I am there, in your eyes
    when you watch yourself back in the mirror,
    your mouth full of toothpaste dripping inside your pajamas,
    sliding dreamily along sleepy breasts to caress sleepy nipples and navel,

    in your hands,
    when you wash your hair, when you comb your hair, when you tie your hair
    and the rubber-band eats into resisting roots
    it is me who relieves you of the pain
    with that touch that makes even the longest hair stand up like a steel wire
    and you look like the most gorgeous of all Medusa paintings,

    in your finger tips,
    those guiding the soap where even I could never penetrate... oh, I did?...
    and guiding the water drops to later chase soapís invasion of privacy
    then the fibers to chase the drops
    then me, unknown to you, to settle there,

    in your shoulderís roundness,
    before and after the strap comes on and comes off,
    before and after it slides into the sleeve and out of it,
    after you lean your cheek on it, and it stays there, in your knees,
    bent underneath your sleeping body
    when you try first the left side then the right side
    and finally you lie on your belly, your hands around the green cushion,
    I, in the warmth of that darkness so close to your beauty.

    I watch you,
    my eyes closed, my eyes seeing,
    donít watch me, I donít want you to know
    that I love you.

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etc.

    beep!
    you rush to the screen, your hands full of flour...
    damn, again this Viagra ad, the bastards spelling it via gra
    to fool the spam detectors.
    There is one detector they donít fool,
    and your flour covered spam finger clicks a virtual button
    and via gra joins its brothers in sin and bin.

    More flour afterwards, some oil, salt, three eggs...
    beep!
    I hope they donít go through the usual cycle again, you simmer,
    there is another email I am waiting for,
    and you rush to the screen once more. Damn, once more.
    They do go through the same cycle,
    now tempting you with sackfuls of m&mís, colorful, tasteful... spam!
    your spam finger talks again,
    smearing a few keys with flour, and oil, and salt, and egg yolk
    and the invader dies. Yippee... you donít feel like celebrating,
    you just scold the screen into the punishment corner
    and return to the kitchen. beep!

    No, they donít fool you this time,
    you know that the next one will be honey tasting vaginal oil,
    and the next one... beep!
    Damn!
    You hesitate between carrying with you a heavy pot to the screen
    or nothing, and you prefer nothing just in case you lose control...
    Damn, damn! This time you mumble to yourself
    as the vaginal honey oil was the second beep. The first was an email from him.
    And you missed it by several excruciatingly painful seconds.
    Dear lover, please come...

    You do not faint, you are not the fainting type.
    You sit next to the screen
    leaving flour and oil and salt and egg and some late coming fried onions
    all over the keyboard,
    and you type in your order.
    Then return to the kitchen, humming.
    beep! You donít care anymore,
    what comes next, usually?... ahh... the million dollars win.
    You canít resist and peek at the screen...
    the stingy, penny-pinching, close-fisted bastards,
    only one hundred thousand this time.

    *

    You rush, towards me,
    I catch you, hug you, oh, that hard body that I missed
    carrying that laughter that I missed
    adorning that woman whom I missed.

    In the room. You still talk. I still listen.
    The unpleasant flight attendant, the handsome passenger, the warm coke,
    the via gra spam...
    ďI know, I get it too,Ē I interrupt the flow, ďvoie gras
    and I try to impress you with my French accent.
    ďNo, thatís foie gras,Ē you try to impress me back,
    ďthatís a different spelling, Iím talking about...Ē
    ďI know itís spelled differently,Ē I interrupt again, impatiently, ďf like f...Ē
    Your finger shoots into my mouth,
    aware of my dirty spelling intentions
    and I choke on smells of lilac and promises of lust.
    ďMine is without s...Ē you specify,
    and I give up on the promises of lust for the right to righteous indignation,
    I pull my mouth away from around your finger to voice my protest...
    ďWithout ass?Ē
    then chase the finger again and let it invade me.
    For whatever reason, you pity me. In a gentle way.
    ďClose your eyes,Ē you say.
    I have no choice but remove my mouth from around your finger once more,
    the voice of my protest breaking hearts (had there been any hearts around).
    ďFirst no ass. Then eyes closed. Whatís that, medieval inquisition?Ē
    ďClose your eyes,Ē you repeat patiently, ďbrought you something.Ē
    Oh, that sounds promising. I obey. ďNow, open your mouth...no! no peeking,Ē
    and I am left choiceless and lightless, relying on your kindness of heart...
    oh, no, I hope not foie gras, I wouldnít mind the other thing without ass
    but not foie gras... I want to tell you but my mouth is open...

    I hear some rustling sounds,
    something squeezes itself between my lips,
    hard, I roll my tongue around it several times, suck it, lick it,
    it starts melting...
    ahmm... and then realization downs on me
    and I drop the a and the h to be left only with the mm...
    making sure it is exactly the same number of mís
    as in the source of my delight, m&mís...
    ďOpen it, again.Ē
    It wasnít so bad first time around, whatís there to lose?
    and I open it again.

    I hear some rustling sounds, different,
    something squeezes itself between my lips,
    hard, I roll my tongue around it several times, suck it, lick it,
    for whatever reason it does not start melting,
    it even refuses to be swallowed and yelps when I try to bite into it...
    ahmm... and then realization downs on me
    and I drop the a and the h to be left only with the mm...
    trying my best to make sure it is exactly the same number of mís
    as the number of pís in the source of my delights,
    yet failing miserably as the mís refuse to end
    turning my once coherent language skills into gasps of mm... mm... mm...
    Will it ever end?
    ďOpen your mouth,Ē I hear you.

    Iíd rather die, but I cannot talk. I open it.
    ďStick your tongue out.Ē
    Okay, you may think you can fool me
    but I know when you get me ready for a portion of ice cream.
    Something engulfs my tongue, hey, it is not cold,
    actually quite warm,
    I roll my tongue around several times, suck it, lick it...
    well, its taste is reminiscent of honey...
    ahmm... then sudden realization downs on me.
    I hardly have time to drop the a and the h and the pants,
    and the rest of the story, unfortunately, will have to stay shrouded,
    in mm... etc.

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violin

    ...until one by one the cords snap,
    lash at my flesh
    cutting long, thin ruts
    alongside teeth
    and fingernails,
    till last.

    your muscles relax,
    your body turns rag,
    the moment gone.

    you spit pieces of skin and crawl from underneath me,
    offering me your tongueís nostrum
    and infliction.
    who needs it more, you or me?
    who revels in the touch more, you or me?

    I hear a soft hum,

    cord-buds sprout anew
    and you mind-tune them to the accuracy of hair-thin crystals and lark-thin pitch
    and then offer me once more, your body,
    until one by one they snap into the euphony
    of ecstasy
    again.

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Watcher, Two

    I catch you,
    watching me when I undress.
    When I dress, when I shower in between
    and towel myself dry in between too
    but after. The shower.

    I imagine catching you watching me,
    when I sleep.
    When and if I snore,
    when and if I roll,
    when and if I am about to fall out of bed,
    knowing I will not
    acting as if I will, hugging me.
    And if I wake up
    hoping I will wake up further,
    to make love to you.

    I do not catch you watching me
    when you drink your milk
    leaving a white moustache for me to wipe away
    but I am not there to do it.
    Neither when you bathe,
    shivering, wet, handing me the towel
    but it falls to the floor,
    my hand is miles away.
    Nor when you slide in between covers,
    naked, and your hand cups your breast
    protecting the warmth I left behind.

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Sex-Maniac

    Soft,

    what is softer than chickís fluffy down,
    the moment of birth,

    what is softer than antherís yellow, powdery head,
    the moment before floral copulation,

    what is softer than you,
    lover?

    A human dandelion,
    your body a nation
    its citizens thousands of gossamery dandelion seeds
    stretching impatient necks at barely existing molecular tethers
    and dreaming of slowly sinking to fiery death
    in the sun.

    I almost forget...

    ...a touch,
    the end of my finger imperceptibly brushing against your skin
    even a mosquito wonít shy away from it,
    and transmutation sets in
    steely wires sending tiny sinews into the hearts of dandelion seeds
    and fluff, powder, gossamer
    turn fang, horn, talon
    while a scaly tail shoots up to grapple the sun
    and buries it
    deep inside my loins.

    Dandelion turned virago,
    death
    the only dream alive.

    Resurrection.
    I pull away from the shapelessness of the flesh rag draped all around me
    and watch fangs subside into fluff,
    horn into powder, talon into gossamer,

    I bite your lip,
    my mouth the only organ alive
    and I groan my dissatisfaction inside your ear...
    sex maniac!...
    who, me? the dandelion bats innocent eyes
    and my teeth melt inside its lips,
    you dreamt, lover.
    oh!...

    I try to fall asleep again,
    I guess I could if not for that rebellious sun
    fighting its way back to freedom
    from my loins.

    *

    Morning stings my eyes.
    I open one, two,
    I remember something... no, címon, ridiculous,
    a tail?...

    I start lifting the blanket,
    carefully...

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PS

    Today at breakfast the soft-boiled eggs were hard.
    And cold.
    It was raining,
    I missed an exit and had to spend an extra hour to find my way,
    the GPS is a piece of garbage, bought a map.
    I waited next to the machine,
    this is also a piece of garbage. Poor customer, I love him. I pity him.

    The part received is defective.
    Another day lost.
    Maybe I should start building machines myself.
    Drank a Coke. Ate a biscuit. No, lying, ate a few biscuits.
    Ate also a Turkish pizza. No, nothing like the Italian,
    it is meat and salad in a soft pitta. Probably spelling mistake.
    Called the office, read some emails,
    answered some emails,
    no salary raise. I didnít expect any.
    Billions in profits have to come from somewhere, no?

    Went out for a smoke.
    Passive smoking, everyone else smokes
    so my lungs are darker than theirs.
    I should think of writing down their names, so I know who to blame
    when I die. Not that I will die of cancer,
    I have other plans. I want to die in bed, with you under me.
    Or above me, or in the shower with me, or undressing in front of me.
    Yes, this is a brand new machine, new generation.
    Should have stayed beta for another year.
    Sure, gives me a job - repairing the unrepairable,
    promoting the dogma,
    bullshitting the customer. I donít bullshit the customer,
    they will fire me for the donít of that statement. So what?
    Another part arrived. Wait. Back. DOA.
    That stands for Dead On Arrival. Our specialty,
    no money for salary raise but a lot for unnecessary double shipments.

    Another machine crashed, have to look into it.
    Sorry to bore you with details.
    Going. Kiss.

    PS are you naked?

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sails

    tie sails between fingers.

    tie sails between hairs, in pairs,
    in triplets and quartets and quintets,
    between eyelashes in sextets
    and around your waist, knees, ankles in singles.

    leave clothing home,
    who needs clothing between clouds
    when you let loose all sail ends
    and wild gusts of wind carry you beyond tree tops,
    beyond larkís song?

    I try throwing flowers your way,
    to weigh you down, back to Earth,
    but my flowers hardly reach the bottoms of tree tops
    as you soar further,
    looking for the slit between sunset colored clouds
    to go higher... how high can you go
    on thousands of sails?

    I fall, exhausted,
    mid a mound of flowers still raining back down,
    donít remember having thrown so many upwards.
    look, I hear a whisper in my ear,
    and I look, to see you laughing above me,
    your arms full of flowers Iíve never seen before.
    I donít ask, I donít ask where the sails are,
    I drag you down to me to cover your nakedness with my flowers
    and to soak the warmth you stole from the sun.

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covers

    the covers glide off you
    silk off satin... or maybe the other way around,
    my limited knowledge in all matters textile nullified to absolute zero
    by an uncovered greed for uncovered flesh,
    be it once silk off satin or satin off silk
    shrouded.

    you shiver, asleep in the chill,
    and I am too selfish to pull the covers back
    my eyes busy with the shadows
    my hands busy with keeping away from the shadows
    busying the eyes,
    my neighbor underneath using his broom-handle...
    yeah, neighbor, youíre welcome to quiet my heart beat
    and my howl.

    I turn on the radio,
    find a frequency in harmony with my mood
    and start dancing with your cover draped around me,
    some of your warmth still inhabiting it,
    captured perfumes dancing with me
    yet deserting me, slowly,
    the lonely, naked man and the dancing covers
    now alone on the stone tiles.

    come, I hear the whisper
    and the covers pull me towards the bed...
    too late I see the hand pulling the covers and too late I wish to turn the radio off
    and too early the shadows disappear under the covers
    and too late for me to run away
    as the shadows wake up to life
    and silk or satin or both
    engulf the whole of me...
    even the broom-handleís regular beating is now
    music.

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The Fingertip Of Illusion

    And yet,
    it wasnít the desert.
    The moon doing its best to impersonate the sun,
    the cars playing moving dunes,
    you were there.
    Mirage. I know, I tried to grab you,
    almost caused an accident.
    Hi, you said.

    It wasnít you, it was the mirage.
    Hi, the mirage said.
    I didnít answer, one doesnít answer a mirage,
    certainly not a car mirage
    unless one is officially certified.
    I was only certified to drive a car
    not to talk to mirages,
    hi, it insisted

    There was no one else in the car,
    I could chance it, no one would know...
    hi, I answered hesitatingly,
    and the glow surrounding the you mirage deepened.
    Was it the smile?
    Fifth gear. fourth gear, fifth, sixth, back to normal speed,
    the ambulance diminishing behind me.
    Are you real? I asked, my finger going again for the empty air
    finding again empty air.
    No.
    Made sense. So what are you doing here?
    A screaming entity overtook me on the right lane,
    the ambulance having its revenge
    leaving behind a trail of howling Doppler and flashing lights.
    I missed you.

    I didnít answer. Made sense.
    You miss someone, you visit someone.
    And if someone is far away you mirage someone. Elementary, my dear Watson.
    Yes, I know, not Sherlock, rather William Gillette. So what? Still elementary.
    Still, I couldnít touch you. I wanted to touch you.
    I want to touch you.
    You started getting up.
    What are you doing?
    Mirages donít answer, not when their top half disappears through the roof,
    carrying with it the ears as well.
    Sure, mirages can do it,
    they can also move around and sit on you.
    You moved around and sat on me. Face to face.
    I could still see the road through you, hold the steering wheel, the gear stick,
    what are you doing? I asked again
    once your ears descended back through the roof. You heard me this time.
    You said you wanted to touch me, no?
    I still couldnít touch you, it was worse than touching a hologram.
    You need to use your hands.
    And who will drive the car?
    I will drive the car.
    Your hand stretched backward, your finger touching the windshield.
    Facing me, with your back to the road, with your hologram hands?
    Mirages can do amazing things, like letting you touch them.
    Willing to risk it?

    Willing to risk it? Of course willing to risk it,
    but only after getting back into the right lane,
    the cistern driver behind me making the sign of the cross three times,
    I wondered - did he see you getting out through the roof?
    I let go of the steering wheel,
    I cupped you breasts... didnít feel a thing.
    Avidly, you said. Avidly I did,
    and suddenly there was breast flesh underneath my palms
    and thigh flesh upon my thighs and lip flesh against my lips...
    the car swerved wildly...
    hey attention!... I wanted to scream with a mouth filled with lust,
    my hands glued to your breasts, your wild laughter dying inside my lungs
    as the car settled back in its lane
    and our clothes melted and our bodies merged and I howled.

    Do all mirages do that? I asked,
    watching you seated again in the passenger seat,
    dressed, the safety belt across your chest, your hands in your lap,
    your eyes closed,
    pale,
    only your lips red.
    I have to leave, you said.
    Do all mirages disappear? I asked.
    Mirages do. Lovers donít.
    You disappeared.
    The blinking blue light pulled me to a halt on the emergency lane.
    Sir, we received reports about you driving without hands.
    I heard them, but didnít listen,
    my eyes riveted to a thin fingertip smudge on the windshield.
    The fingertip
    of illusion.

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One Toe Tango

    You danced on a coin,
    all of you on one toe
    twirling, undulating, you even tried a rockíníroll step
    and almost overstepped the coin boundary,
    smiled, embarrassed
    and reverted to tango, a one toe tango, your specialty.

    You could have done it on half a coin...
    how did you do it on one, anyway?

    I threw your way a smaller coin.
    You jumped over to it,
    bent to collect the first one and drop between your breasts
    never a moment stopping your flesh and dresses flutter,
    I would have tested you with a 1/512 mohar if I had one,
    I did have though a paillette in my pocket...
    I threw it over.

    ďJoin me?Ē you beckoned.
    ďTwo on one paillette?Ē
    ďI will carry you...Ē
    I jumped.

    You couldnít carry me, of course,
    we stumbled together
    your hand snatching on the fly the last coin
    and dropping it in your cleavage
    parts of second before my hand dived the same way...
    ďMy money or my life?Ē you asked.
    ďYour dance,Ē I answered
    rolling with you on the wooden floor,
    coins raining as you lost your clothing
    and your virginity.

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Grabbing The Simplicity Of Happiness

    Hey, Mr. DJ, how did you know it?
    Five fingers, open,
    and you got my radio in overload with those AC/DC guys
    telling me of the Highway to Hell,
    and I closed my little finger, not yet exhausted,
    almost happy.
    You followed with Status Quoís statuesque,
    incomparable execution of Johnny B Good
    turning the nape of my neck into a bristling mess of steely bushes
    closing my ring finger
    and losing me some heartbeats,
    then chained it, most cruelly Mr. DJ, with The Stones
    beating me to a pulp with their version of personal Satisfaction
    and my middle finger closed as well, almost breaking the last phalange.
    I almost said give me Elvis and I die a happy man
    and you gave me Elvis
    and luckily I didnít have to die since I didnít commit yet
    even though I almost lost control of the car
    pumping the volume to competing levels with the power brakes
    and singing along T-R-O-U-B-L-E with everything I owned
    except my ass which was stuck to the unforgiving chair,
    my index fingers closing and joining its brethren.

    Sorry, Mr. DJ. I lied, it was a white lie, you donít mind, do you?
    You donít care either, I know.
    See, Iím not yet ready to die, not really,
    I still have my thumb open, waiting for my last song, she,
    and once she joins I close my thumb
    grabbing the simplicity of my happiness with a fist not even you,
    Mr. DJ,
    can open.

    Sure, I have to make love as well,
    thatís what I have the other hand for.
    And my mouth, oh, and my mouth.

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times

    times,
    I sit in front of my screen-paper
    my fingertips frozen on my keyboard-pen
    immobile,
    waiting for some miracle to take the images from my brain
    straight into my fingertips
    to translate them into the calligraphy of my keyboard-pen
    to spread the words on the brittleness of my screen-paper
    and once the resulting masterpiece of truth is ready
    to fold to seal to stamp to send
    with my email-post
    straight between your breasts,
    where you will put it anyway,
    if good if bad if wonderful if garbage.
    you will even smile, without reading it,
    knowing,
    what can I say which you donít already which I didnít already?

    times,
    I listen to my radio-orchestra
    my muscles rigid inside my pajamas-tuxedo
    while my toes take on a life of their own
    joined by heels tapping and ankles flexing below rigid knees
    upon a carpet-dancing floor
    waiting for some miracle to take the rest of my body
    there
    where my thoughts already gasp and sweat and whirl
    with your fingers at the other end of outstretched arms
    pulling you from time to time close enough
    for the tips of your breasts to touch my chest
    and the hard flesh of your thighs to flirt with that of mine
    in an unbreakable unwritten undeniable promise
    of later
    unclothed of the limiting effects of the pajamas-tuxedo,
    the radio-orchestra drowned by the ecstasy of gasps
    as we dance the amorphous dance of love making
    upon the comet ridden carpet-dancing floor
    till into oblivion and beyond.

    times,
    you are there.
    always.

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Naked

    Naked. Nakedness.
    Which of the two is
    Poetry?
    Your poetry,
    the one you are irresponsible for,
    the one you are irresponsibly flaunting around
    parading in front of my eyes, one and both and all
    as I see you with fingertips and nostrils and eardrums and lips
    and my senses overload into the near-death experience
    which is the prelude to
    life.

    Stop dancing.
    Stop painting the air with ribbons you forgot to tie to wrists
    leaving variegated streaks of molecular disturbances
    as you soap your stanzas
    and dry your rhymes
    and comb the unending flow of metaphors
    with long, slow movements
    turning me poetry slave
    and nakedness addict.

    Rotate slowly in front of the mirror, so the twins of me see the twins of you
    and all four of us join in an orgy of the senses
    chasing the colored streaks with butterfly nets
    and the breasts with cupped palms
    and the tingling skin with ointments stolen from our shared
    insides.

    Naked. Nakedness.
    The bliss in you.
    The passion in me.
    The Poetry we share.

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Naked, Two

    Naked.

    After I despoil you of your worldly belongings
    and your breath
    and your soul,
    curl modestly in the welcoming arms of a plushy armchair
    knees gathered to belly
    hair hanging low nothing showing
    but interminable skin
    and start reading. My poetry.

    No need for book. No need for paper
    or screen or voice
    no need for anything but the knowledge
    of me watching the skin
    and filling it up with pullulating whispers
    shooting out of seeds I harvested, earlier on,
    from same skin
    and its craves.

    Naked,
    I see nothing my hands donít see
    as they wander shamelessly upon trembling topologies
    and shuddering morphologies
    investigating the spots desire visited so often
    and the spots desire visited never
    and the spots desire never left after encountering
    desire.

    Wait, donít move!... too late,
    too late for me to not see beyond the touch of hands
    too late for me to retreat into make-belief indifference of creation
    as you advance towards me
    ordering me, naked,
    ordering me, supplicating,
    ordering me upon the soft bed of cold tiles
    morphing their melting ceramics to my back
    as my chest morphs its melting ribs to your breasts
    and topologies and morphologies and biologies lose hold on reality
    turning their owners a viscous, slushing puddle
    of prurience.

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Morning Shower

    You emerge from morningís shower trailed by whiffs of orange flower,
    Leaving tiny, stylish puddles where your toe imparts its cuddles
    On the face of blushing marble, turning verse into a garble
    As that... goodness!... skimpy towel, shorter than a single vowel
    plants a promise in my bowel.

    I submit to dreams of passion, both kingís ransom and his ration,
    Rummaging through old confessions for those quiescent obsessions
    Big in prospect and in number, shaking off the lethal slumber
    When a brimming cup of fire rushes through my vessels mire
    lusting for your bodyís lyre.

    You parade your dangling booty like Godís given right and duty
    When you innocently shiver, innocently bend and quiver,
    Innocently pull your stocking way beyond its mid-thigh docking,
    Evidently innocently... innocently?... evidently?...
    when I watch you rolling, gently?


    From temptation to salvation I will stop at sheer damnation,
    Counting sand-grains for one hour then a lifetimeís silo tower
    Pulling at that towelís fringes, testing all your bodyís hinges,
    Like magician, like musician in crescendo demolition
    as we crash, we join, we fission.

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Filling The Hours With Dust

    Filling the hours with dust,
    flowers
    cannot grow in dust.

    Passion,
    passion can.
    Like sand-flies, like sand-worms
    it copulates and thrives and grows
    feeding on leftovers of skin
    and leftovers of memories
    riding the taste hidden between teeth,
    carrying pieces of your tongue
    and food leftovers
    and muted screams.

    I spit in the dust, I cry, bleed,
    chew interminable mouthfuls looking for the lost seeds of crocodiles
    and flowers.

    I regard over my shoulder,
    behind me,
    the dust overflows from hours into days, weeks... what comes after weeks?...
    looming high above me
    threatening to topple over, to smother...
    ď...hi...Ē I hear a thin voice.

    Is it yours?
    I donít know,
    but suddenly
    dust turns into flowers.

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Conjurer

    You sit on the bench,
    eyes
    closed.
    You remember the bird
    on your shoulder,
    the puppy
    jumping around your feet.
    You smile, invisible to passers by
    same as the bird,
    the puppy,
    the memories.

    You raise your body,
    you never stop rising
    even when you are already fully standing
    when your toes stretch, their tips touching the ground,
    losing contact with the ground,
    you float.
    The puppy asleep in your pocket,
    the bird singing proudly past chickens
    past storks
    past larks... you donít reach the sun, not even the clouds
    as you let the flimsy clothing drop off your shoulders
    remembering to hold the puppy, the bird, the memories,
    paying no attention to hawks circling with you,
    or maybe the earth is circling underneath
    and you and hawks and stretched toes
    hang there,
    above,
    motionless.

    You descend. Slowly,
    falling back into your clothes,
    sticking a hawk feather under the puppyís collar
    and one under the birdís wing... which kind of bird is this?... never mind,
    now it thinks itself a hawk
    and attacks a huge worm
    as the puppy starts jumping and yapping again
    and you start walking
    following the one smile
    followed by the many smiles
    and by a yapping dog and a piping bird trying not to be swallowed by a worm.

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Rewind

    The moment after,
    when death finds heavenly nest inside our exhausted flesh
    and we slide away from each other,
    sweat bonds stretching almost to infinity
    before breaking down
    to lash against the steaming skin
    then splash upon it
    giving way
    to silence.

    The moment during,
    when death dies
    and our threesome threshes like a pit of snakes
    beginnings and ends of flesh spluttering upon the walls
    leaving lilac shaped stains to drool down the brick joints
    and lilac shaped holes
    to gap through bedding and mattress
    and mind.

    The moment before,
    when death, humbly, knocks at the portal of our joined lips
    offering its purgatorial kingdom
    in return for consent to dress my fingertips its gossamer skin
    and rest there as I touch your button,
    your lace,
    your nipple.

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Where Four Leaves Grow

    There,
    where four leaves grow
    and clover follows
    looking upwards for the sun for your skirtís insides for your hidden flesh,

    where the life hardened soles of your feet wade through green perfumes
    and the lust hardened tips of your breasts crash through white cotton
    and the three leaves cushion you
    and the four leaves penetrate your crevices
    and my five fingers tear and split and crush and... caress,
    after.

    There,
    where green stains paint abstract memories upon your discarded underwear
    and bees buzz and grasshoppers hop and ladybugs unladylike
    taste my liberated nakedness
    competing fiercely your eyes, your hands, your lips,

    where we stopped counting passing cranes
    and admiring visiting swallowtails
    and imitating soaring diving soaring larks
    when we dragged flesh inside flesh once again alongside three leaves
    and four leaves
    and fingers.

    There,
    where four leaves burned. And will grow, next time anew.

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Locations

    Where is your hand?
    Supporting your chin?
    Cutting cucumbers, pouring milk, dusting furniture?
    Hesitating between
    supporting your chin or cutting or the rest
    and holding a pen to write me a poem
    or a pencil, maybe, that needs sharpening
    or hitting the keyboard,
    single fingered?
    Fisted?

    Your eyes?
    Yes, your eyes, question mark.
    Do they chase the withering, falling apple tree flower
    or the titmouse nesting between the treeís branches
    or the apples, growing, patiently?
    Your shirt, do you wear it?
    Your skirt, do you wear it?
    Naked, are you naked?
    Are you willing to undress
    for my thoughts?

    You walk in the room,
    pick up a crumb, reach up to a book,
    pirouette, almost falling against the table corner
    your breast quivering, your buttocks bouncing,
    your calvesí muscles tightening, stressing almost in the steel of making lust,
    making love, making legendary promises before you tiptoe out of my thoughts
    and into your clothes, again.
    You hum. Which song?
    Is it a poem?

    I click the pen shut,
    the rest is on the keyboard.
    The rest is in my mind.

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Vision

    Was you, or visions grim on mountainís crest
    Alight with starlight haze, astride a mare,
    The hand dragging the sun to sea deep nest
    Same maiden hand that fed me summer share?

    I watched the swarm of butterflies and bees
    Turn rainbow carpet under crushing hooves
    Then cloth the sun, his anger to appease...
    Is it my mind, that of your wine reproves?

    A hand, I know the feel I know the voice,
    Yet I know not the neigh which follows suite,
    I turn around in perfumes to rejoice
    And clouds of butterflies my morning greet.

    I wondered, if from me with sun you part.
    ďThen wonder not, yours be my nest, my heart.Ē

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I, Pelican

following the BP oil ecological disaster
    I, Pelican
    do not accuse you, Human, for hunger.
    Do not accuse you for the conquest of my world for the perpetuation of your species,
    for satisfying your hunger, your pleasure, allaying your frights and creating hideouts
    to protect you from the rigor of storms and tools of death
    to protect you from the rigor of enemies knocking at your door
    and threatening your tribe and your whelps
    and your water,
    for creating tools of barter to take and give and create
    and live.
    I, Pelican
    do not accuse you human for existence.

    I, Pelican
    accuse you, Human, for greed.
    For heartlessly robbing the world and killing its sons and raping its daughters
    more than your need and less than your worth.
    For indifference. For selfishness. For arrogance. For poison.
    I, Pelican
    accuse you, Human, for genocide.

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acrobatics. mental of course. no, not only

    make a hands stand.
    ok, a head stand would do as well... no,
    no need for trousers,
    that would be counter productive,
    skirt is perfect,
    no, length wouldnít matter, gravitation takes all
    short, long, plated... no, not a narrow, tight one
    gravitation hates narrow tight.
    it hates shoes as well, donít know why,
    maybe because they keep hitting it?

    still,
    stop wobbling like an upside-down Foucault pendulum,
    no, you may not lean your heels to the wall,
    I have to keep moving around you... hey, thanks.
    for what? for the white,
    I couldnít write black on black, or blue on black,
    ok, maybe green on red, or blue on yellow,
    I prefer though black on white,
    one day they might be an exhibit in the museum of the famously dead
    together with newspapers, books, parchments... be still, please,
    I am about to start writing, just underneath... hmm...
    in this position it is probably just above the elastic rim
    and I wouldnít want to stain your skin.
    I know, I know, you wouldnít mind
    but I would, it would annihilate my unique masterpiece
    and the first digit is crucial, that small i...
    yes, small, not capital, it says the same but I can get more of them this way...
    aha, you smile, happy - arenít you? stop it! stop it,
    donít tickle, surely not there,
    didnít know one can make a head stand with just one hand and one head,
    yes, yes, I know you have only one head,
    you know what I want to say... good, this is much better,
    now let me start going around and write on,
    you can close your eyes, you lust maniac,
    you cannot peek underneath my trousers
    I tied them with bicycle clamps, he he,
    I know you better than that... ok, just finished with the u,
    time to start over again.

    yes, you can sleep,
    you will know when I get there,
    you will know because I will know, God help me...

    *

    my turn? what do you mean my turn?
    no, I refuse categorically to wear a skirt.
    ok, without skirt... do I have to? ok, fine, no trousers,
    just careful, gravitation may not help certain aspects...
    like that? happy? stop tickling, I didnít.
    no! I didnít, it was the pen tip.
    of course I heard of mouth painting... donít you dare!
    we are serious artists, poets, we write!
    we donít smear, splash, spill, splick... sure, I know,
    just keeping alliteration alive and net spiders unaware of any erotic intent,
    are you already at the second letter?
    not even the first?
    so what are you doing? what do you mean looking,
    looking what? ok, looking at what?
    sorry, oh, so sorry, oh so sorry,
    damn gravitation and its inefficiency,
    may I propose to continue... later?
    yes, yes, what I meant to say was...
    after?

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I, Once Human

following the BP oil ecological disaster
    I, the last one.
    The last of the damn species.
    I wade to my knees in the brown-black-sticky muck
    cluttered with floating belly-up tunas and dolphins and sharks and whales
    the stench of rot not even reaching my nostrils
    its chemistry cowering under an inch thick film of oily glut
    and clouds of migrating cockroaches.

    Why am I still alive?
    if not for death, scared to use its scythe one last time
    and then be left behind, alone, to die of eternal hunger.
    Death, do you like cockroaches?
    And after roaches die?

    A piece of ice floats by, not bigger than a dead whale.
    A white bear cub, wailing,
    pulling desperately at the blackened, dried tit of its dead mother.
    I wish I had a rifle to put it out of its long misery.
    I wish I had a rifle to put myself out of my long misery.
    I wish you a swift death, cub, thatís the only blessing left in me.

    I, once human,
    watch my destruction,
    and start walking back through bloated carcasses of horses,
    dogs,
    pelicans,
    and once humans.

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nightie

    we were so definitively happy, we decided to celebrate.

    my prize?
    my body.
    your prize?
    your body.
    where?
    inside my nightie.
    where???
    inside my nightie.

    I watched you unfold it, then unfold it, then unfold it...
    what size is it, quintuple X?
    you unfolded it, then unfolded it...
    if I was the smoking kind I would have had time for a whole cigarsí box,
    big only on the outside, just right on the inside.
    will I find you, once inside?
    I found you, easily, it was nice, and smug and... tight.
    do you really sleep in this thing?
    you preferred not to answer, just to pat lovingly.
    luckily your boobs are small.
    yes, luckily, yours are big.
    she did not hurt my pride, she complimented my belly.
    muscles, I remarked.
    yeah, sure... she answered, noncommittally, patting again.
    stop patting, or there will soon be no place inside here.
    there is always place for this... inside here...
    and you (dear readers) should imagine an italics inside italics for this and here
    which I cannot, unfortunately, render.

    I started struggling out of my clothes,
    just imagine - undressing inside a nightie,
    big enough on the outside to drape the Empire State Building
    small enough on the inside to accommodate a waspy Cleo(patra),
    ridiculous, no?
    you just undid some clasps, zip, it all flew to your feet like oil...
    hey help me!...
    you helped me,
    snickering and patting, patting and snickering, snickering and snickering...
    the last combination is unthinkable of.
    here, better?
    there wasnít enough place, we had to do something about it... we did.

    we loved, we lusted, we launched, we lecherously lamented, we...
    alliteration is such a wonderful tool, especially when you
    ohíd, then oohíd, then ooohíd, then omgíd,
    then a variation on that last one which is not suitable for the innocent eyes
    of you innocent readers...
    once more!... you continued your alliterative onslaught,
    oops! I had to curb your enthusiasm with an alliteration of my own,
    after all
    there is a limit to everything.

    we didnít crawl our way out of the nightie,
    after all it was cozy, sweaty, stinking the right way,
    my limbs numb so they didnít bother me anymore, I left them where they were,
    other things numb too, but as long as they didnít bother you
    I preferred to leave them where they were as well.
    were there birds painted on the nightie? I asked.
    it sounded completely different, my lips were numb too,
    but thereís no way to write the differently way.
    you understood, though, ears donít get numb, somehow.
    no, these are real ones.
    aii! that was me, they were real and they were really pecking.
    they are envious, they donít like being left alone.
    you mean you sleep with all of them, every night?
    no, only when you are here. same with the butterflies.
    they donít like being left alone?
    no, they peck.
    so what do you propose to do?
    let them in.
    nooo!!! I didnít have the time to cry
    before you lifted the nightieís hem and several swarming nations of birds
    and butterflies and bees (bees?...) and grasshoppers (grasshoppers?...)
    thank God no skunks... me and my big mouth... and several skunks
    joyfully joined us
    crawling clawing chirping climbing... thank God, I heard my self saying.
    thank God for what? you rustled in my ear.
    that pooping does not alliterate with the c things.
    yeah, me and my big mouth...

    we fell asleep, finally.
    what is it, some magic nightie? I think I heard myself mumbling.
    no, a magic story, I think you mumbled back.
    I did not learn my lesson,
    I should have stopped invoking God every time I wished not for something.
    thank God lust is over, I snored away into blissful sleep.
    yes, as said already. me and my big mouth...

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Sweat

    I watched it,
    the lazy blob of sweat
    as it made its way from the bottom of your neck
    along the upper swell of your breast
    reaching the nipple
    and... hanging on there.
    as if there was no gravitation in its world
    or as if gravitation all but stopped at the tip of a nipple
    and a sweat blob could rest there indefinitely
    laughing at me, my impatience, my thirst.
    I pounced... bastard!...
    it dropped just the moment my mouth was about to engulf it
    and I found myself unexpectedly
    with a mouthful of nipple, and breast and flesh,
    bastard! I wanted to change my mindset to mouthset and scream
    yet giving in to mind over mouth command
    I started suckling.

    I made myself seem ignorant,
    watching a twin to the first make its way upon the swell of the other breast,
    reaching the end of the nipple,
    smiling at me pompously the brother bastard,
    knowing I stood no chance... well, brother blob,
    you have a surprise coming...
    and I pulled away like lightning away from my nipple
    the thunder clap in my wake cracking the glass pane
    pounced, bit... aiiiiiiii!... you moaned... got it! I hummed wordlessly,
    my tongue roasting the sneaky invader,
    decimating it, smearing it, licking it...
    death to sweat! written all over my radiant countenance,
    before closing my eyes deliriously
    and suckling my way into another after life.

    I heard it, rather than saw it, was it the swish, the trailing current of air
    or my sixth sense?...
    and I opened one lazy eye to watch the third of the family
    making its way slothfully, covertly, imagining itself unseen, unheard,
    unawares of ever vigilant me following its advance between dense eyelashes
    as it descended between your breasts,
    down to your navel, making a half-detour around it,
    down, further down,
    bastard! bastard! bastard!
    I wish I was a frog to swipe it out of this world
    with one long, thick, sticky, black, sudden-death tongue...
    I pounced, hit, missed... oh, shit!
    ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh!... I heard,
    oh, what?
    ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh... whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?... I heard again, in my mind this time,
    and inside parts of a second I understood that there is, out there,
    a fate much worse than death, oh, poor sweat drop,
    and I watched it dissolve into a cloud of disappointed fury
    smiling to myself
    and giving in to the incomparable pleasures
    of sweat spotting...
    oh, sure, and spot suckling, what else?

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Memories Of Nakedness

    I rummage through memories of nakedness,
    then leaf through, slowly,
    then rummage again, almost desperately
    looking for a specific corner of your body
    I forgot its accurate shape, and color, and smell... ha, corner,
    there is nothing resembling a corner in your body,
    not even your teeth
    not even after they finish feasting
    on me.

    I rummage further, is this your toe or your breast?
    and I feel the smack on the back of my neck
    as the memory of you laughs
    and shoves one full breast into my mouth
    doing its best to choke me, trying to shove the second one in as well,
    hey... easy, your breasts may need me another day
    or days
    or more.

    At times, in an attack of over righteousness
    I try to dress your memoryís nakedness with layers of cotton, or silk,
    or plastic or Diolen or Tergal or Dacron
    or whatever other polyethylene terephthalateís manís insane mind has conceived
    and your memory smacks me once again
    ďnakedness is righteousnessĒ it screams
    then whispers then caresses then snuggles against my skin
    bringing along the memory of memories
    and twining the memory of my nakedness
    with its own
    and they both ignite
    and burn
    like dry leaves.

    I stop rummaging.
    Soon
    I will have reality.

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Madonna

    You held my body in your lap,
    across your thighs.
    Like Madonna
    holding the bleeding body of Jesus.

    But I am Jewish, I complained.
    So was he, you alleviated my worries,
    pulling out the nails from my flesh
    and dropping them to the freshly plowed ground.

    Do you think they will sprout flowers? I asked, groaning in pain.
    No. Poetry, you smiled my pain,
    plugging my holes with fistfuls of clay
    and fistfuls of kisses.

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Disagreements

    You dragged your fingers through sand,
    five traces
    one less deep than the rest,
    there, where you broke your fingernail
    last night.
    Half of it still in my back,
    I refused to let you pull it out.
    It will get infected if you leave it in, you said.
    It will get lost if you pull it out, I said.

    I poured sea water in the traces,
    then shells,
    then seeds
    then sand over the seeds and sea water over the sand.
    They will never sprout in there, you said.
    They will if I tell them you plowed the ruts, I said.

    The beach was deserted,
    just a few gulls, some egrets, a crab crawling backwards then sidewards,
    a few lumps of dry seaweed
    a pearl,
    then some more pearls.
    Plastic, you said, pointing to the through-hole.
    Nacre, I said, pointing to the empty shells around.

    Youíre a child, you said.
    I am a child, I agreed for the first time that day,
    and to prove it I made love to you,
    rolling to a new spot then to a new spot then to a new spot...
    carefully avoiding to break the glass that kept forming underneath you.
    Hot, you barely breathed,
    spitting clumps of sand and malformed glass beads from your mouth.
    Couldnít go on agreeing with you for the rest of my life.
    Searing, I disagreed,
    collecting the glass beads in my mouth
    and letting them slaver like thick, steaming goo
    between our locked lips.

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Miss You

    Miss you.

    Miss the chocolate in your mouth,
    melted, with liqueur and bits of cherry and bits of tongue
    which you feed me
    when I expect
    least.

    Miss the tips of your nipples,
    after you dip them in the glass of wild-berry wine
    after you stoop over me
    before the first drops hit the back of my throat
    before the rest of your breast
    follows.

    Miss the trail of honey,
    that you smear from the tip of you toe
    upwards,
    beyond ankle, beyond knee, beyond... no, below navel
    which my bloodhounding mouth follows
    dying in the anticipation
    of not knowing
    which way we will make love.

    Miss the quiet,
    of the sticky bed clothing
    of your fingers searching the leftovers of chocolate and wine and honey
    through the variety of my body
    and mine
    caressing your hair,
    just caressing your hair.

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white thighs

    your thighs,
    white,
    warm, soft, deadly
    like a polar bearís embrace like a cloud of pure cocaine
    like the snows of the Kilimanjaro
    punctured by that sleeping crater
    about to rumble about to quake about to wake up
    and swallow me whole
    in its fire.

    and if they were black?

    you mean black like the insides of closing crocodile jaws,
    like the depths of a diamondís mine like unpolished ebony
    like the heart of coal starting to glow at the edges
    sizzling sparking sputtering
    until it becomes glowing white
    warm soft deadly
    like...

    you always know to twist it around, no?

    i always miss them.

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oh, lover mine

    like wine
    divine,


    if andromeda owned your grace
    deity would not have fallen prey to humanityís massacring mind
    and philosophies,
    if venus owned your touch
    seven planets would have been named after her
    and the sun her son,
    if cleopatra owned your word
    egypt
    would have sat on rome ís throne,

    i dwell
    in your smell,


    when odors of flesh take over from perfumes of flower
    and love turns lust before turning love once again
    with dry hay and uprooted grass and crushed mushrooms hanging in the air
    to block our nostrils
    and our throats
    and fight desperately for supremacy with returning waves of jasmine and lilac,

    and all i remember
    is the joy of surrender,


    with white cottons peeling off white skin
    and white skin peeling off stretching muscles
    and stretching muscles vibrating in the pain of imitating the song of whales
    and the swish of comets
    and the beauty of memories to come.

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Halogen Paradise

    No vision. No, no chance.

    No light passing through you,
    no frozen mist floating around you
    no weird sounds.
    Too many details. Real.

    The long dress reaching to your ankles,
    stains of sweat
    a few creases
    one part of the hem hanging lower, loose,
    I knew you naked underneath,
    your hair unkempt... or was it?

    You raised your hands to your sides,
    muscles relaxed
    palms relaxed
    fingers relaxed, just sufficient effort to fight gravity
    and start undulating like ribbons in a light breeze
    the rest of your body following
    your hips
    your chest
    the tiny breasts oscillating like a pendulum left right left right
    from time to time loosing synchronization and bumping into each other
    then left, right, left...
    you closed your eyes,
    the Lo-Fi emanating from the computerís loudspeakers
    speaking of dreams, past magic, past wonder, past sounds
    in frequencies not below 10 kilohertz and not above 12...
    who cared about kilohertzes
    when the willow in you took over
    and all of you immersed in present magic, present wonder, present sounds?...

    I feared an anti-climax
    as I dragged my underwearíed self to my feet
    let my arms hug your waist
    and my screeching vertebrae joined yours joined the limited hertzes
    and we grinned as we grimaced
    and eased ourselves into our private, small,
    halogen paradise.

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Nothing To Do With Brecht

    Stop! I said,
    as you moved barefoot between the shells.
    You stopped.

    I took a stick and traced a circle on the sand around you.
    What are you doing? you asked, misapprehending.
    I am preparing a new dictionary, I answered.
    So? still misapprehending.
    I just defined paradise.




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Pollen Freedom

    I lay under the willow.

    Butterflies tied to knots on its branches fluttering incessantly,
    the branch-tips tickling my face
    as they dandled up and down and sideways,
    as the butterflies tried to tear away from dance slavery
    and sunless shadow.

    I saw you approaching
    tiny scissors in your hand
    and carefully start cutting the tiny strings and chains and ribbons
    liberating tens, hundreds, thousands of butterflies,
    all the butterflies
    to pollen freedom.

    And now, who will tickle my face? I asked, upset.

    You started pulling the branches,
    up and down and sideways
    jumping above me from time to time with a girlish giggle
    and making me forget the tips of branches
    with the tips of your toes
    and the hem of your dress
    and visions of shadowed nakedness fluttering high above my eyes.

    Who are you? I asked, not upset anymore, curious.

    You lay down next to me
    taking me inside your skirts, inside your hair, inside your skin
    calling for the butterflies to feed your lips
    then feeding me the nectar drops building on the tips of your teeth.

    I, am the one to feed you, too, pollen freedom.

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Naked Moment

    Put on your long, red dress,
    doesnít matter you donít have one,
    put it on.

    Put on your three-inch high-heeled shoes too,
    ...yes, I know, doesnít matter...
    your elbow-length gloves and your heart-shaped sunglasses
    and gold-threaded stockings,
    of course, the Picasso reproductions on your fingernails
    and the Van Gogh reproductions on your toenails
    and the zeppelin sized diamond on the third finger both hands
    assorted with the apple sized emeralds hanging from your ears... donít worry,
    they will not rip your earlobes to shreds
    as you put them on even if you donít have them
    the same like the diamonds and the sunglasses
    and the high-heeled...
    and the...

    Put it all on, all, leave nothing to thought or imagination
    then look yourself up in the mirror
    and let me see you,
    with my eyes,
    with my senses,
    with my desires... what do you see?
    What do you see that I see?

    Naked!

    Oh, how did you guess it, how did you see it,
    how did you acquire my eye sight beyond the red and the zeppelin
    and the hanging apples,
    how did you?...

    I? Told you?

    Unfair. It isnít fair that even my mind is not invisible anymore,
    that even my senses, my needs, my wishes,
    my wish.
    My desires.
    My desire.

    To undress you. Completely. Naked!
    Take it off, all of it.
    All you donít have and all I donít see
    and the long red dress, and the high heeled shoes
    and the gloves and the reproductions, the apples, the zeppelins, the sunglasses,
    your smiles,
    your sighs,
    your sunshine,
    just leave me your body. Your nakedness. Your lust.

    I want to make love to you.

    Now!

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Critic

    You sit, one leg bent underneath you.
    Then you switch to the other leg.
    Then both
    until thousands of needles visit your thighs
    and you lower both feet to the floor
    and start jumping
    until the blood circulates again
    and you sit down again, almost same posture,
    eyes glued to the screen
    chewing... something,
    maybe an apple?

    You steal a glance my way
    and I make as if I donít see
    busy counting the letters on that bookís page
    I donít really read.
    Your eyes back to the screen
    mine back to you,
    counting.
    Counting the short laughs
    the long laughs
    the in-between laughs,
    the frowns and the questioning stares,
    the occasional tear, sometimes more than occasional,
    another glance my way,
    your hand to your breast at times,
    between your thighs at other times, rarely, meaningfully.
    You finish.

    It is the moment to light a cigarette
    if you were smoking.
    Liked it?
    Loved it.
    The moment for my cigarette
    if I was smoking.
    Biased. To the core, I complain,
    enjoying it nevertheless.
    Not biased, you lie, knowing I expect you to lie.
    I like the way you write, you tell me what I want to hear,
    just perfect, no need to change anything...
    and you leave the softness of the chair
    for the smell of my skin,
    closing your eyes
    your hand leaving the haven of your thighs to look for mine.
    I am ready.
    My hand finds your bellyís skin
    and starts tracing the route of higher interest,
    so often traveled.
    ...though... oops,

    ...though I would remove the second girl
    in the first chapter,
    not that it would be absolutely necessary,
    the action might have been better located in London,
    you think you could cut the number of words to half
    and add three Germans
    yet remove one horse
    and maybe the murder should not take place
    but be replaced, possibly, by a torrid love scene...
    what about an alien?...
    and the womanís mother must be called Marietta
    and if her father instead of being a lawyer
    in Vietnam
    could have opened a hot-dog stand
    in New York
    then you could add a Mafia character, blond, with...


    I bite you.
    My hand squashes the gravitational center of your body
    and smells of grapes and woman invade my nostrils
    as you bite back
    your hand responding in kind,
    no grape nor woman smell
    in my bodyís gravitational center response
    as it drags us
    until we find ourselves somewhere,
    unknown,
    in this galaxy.

    You chuckle.
    After the explosion, after the quiet.
    Donít change a damn thing, you say,
    and I donít know anymore if you laughed at me earlier on, before,
    or now, after.

    I decide I donít care.
    Before, after, biased, true...
    all I want now are the grapes.
    And the woman.

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Not Only For The Insane

    Donít sit with me, sit on me.
    Then let me sit on you.
    Then you on me. Then vice-versa.
    What about clothes?
    Clothes? What about clothes?
    Do we still wear clothes?
    Eliminate clothes, exterminate clothes, extirpate clothes,
    at my count of three...

    Donít sleep next to me,
    no, donít,
    donít sleep.
    Plow my flesh and rake my flesh and invade my...
    ...flesh?
    no, mind,
    with my howls and my yelps and my brays
    as you find the tools of music
    lost ages ago in the darkest caverns of my body
    and you prime them and you tune them
    and you conduct the orchestra with all your countless fingers and teeth
    and rest of tools of mass destruction and of mass music
    until I howl and yelp and bray
    like Panís flute...

    Donít make love to me.
    Make love to and with and against and between and inside and outside and all over me.
    Donít make love to me.
    Make love to me and you and us and together and apart
    before sunrise and after sunset and after the before and before the after
    and donít let butterflies
    hide the sun.
    Sorry...
    Youíre not to blame,
    you donít control the flowers in your wake...

    Curl
    between my thighs.
    Paint
    my toenail.
    Bite
    half my lip, then the other half. To make it last longer.
    Donít. Talk.
    But...
    Donít. Talk.
    I will break your fingers between mine and your teeth between mine
    and your ribs between mine
    and when you ask for more
    I will break your fingers between mine and your teeth between mine
    and your ribs between mine and your nipples and elbows and knees and loins
    and when you ask for more
    I will tell you of the rainbows I unpainted from the sky for you
    and the roses I drained the red from for you
    and the snow I melted into yellow daisies with blue hearts...
    And what will you do with so much color?
    Oh, tell you that I love you,
    oh, tell you that I love you.

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...after love?

    I miss your hair
    tickling me,
    making me scratch sneeze suffer
    making me comb its drops of water
    in long
    long strokes
    after love sweat shampoo shower love sweat shampoo love sweat love
    and who cares for sweat shampoo shower
    after love?

    I miss your fingernails
    scratching me,
    missing my jugular on the way to my spine
    correcting their mistake the long way around
    down
    then up
    with a long pause in between stations and in between thighs
    finding my jugular again
    and fighting for possession with your teeth
    and who cares for life
    after love?

    I miss your songs
    lullabying me,
    feeding me the virtuality of seedless, chewed cherries
    and pineapple juice with tangs of apple and pepper and woman
    caressing me with the sounds of knowledgelessness of word
    and certainty of knowledge of intent,
    drowning me in your milk
    Iíll never know and have always known
    and drank from those pores you allowed me to, all,
    and those nipples you allowed me to, all,
    telling me of your past
    and who cares for future
    after love?

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Phone

    I can almost hear the clapping sounds
    bare soles on stone tiles... clap, clap, clap...
    as you rush to the phone
    hand stretching to pick up the receiver,
    my ring. You know it is my ring, what matters how?
    My ring and you know it is my ring
    and you fly,
    almost an arrow,
    almost there, reaching... Freeze!
    I freeze you. In mid motion. In mid stretch. In mid air,
    are your feet touching the tiles at all?
    Do you feel?
    Do you know?
    No, you donít, you never will
    once I release my mental hold on your body
    and you flow on
    and you reach
    and you pick
    but now...
    Freeze! You are frozen. Rigid. Stone. Stone?

    I let my mind flow into the room, lazily,
    I have time,
    why rush pleasure when pleasure is the slow drop of honey
    and the sticky goo of drying sweat
    and the long stretch of elastics
    before they give in, give up, break... zinggg!!!
    I let go of the bra clasp
    and it zings against your bare skin
    pinching it slightly. Youíll wonder,
    was it a mosquito bite?
    I make an effort,
    rein my puerile, undisciplined instincts
    take a step back
    and watch. Oh, just watch.
    Oh, just watch,
    and the difficulty of this Oh, just watchíing
    is almost as insupportable as the difficulty of Oh, just waitíing,
    the other half of the non-identical twinship
    with the meaner, more miserable Oh, just wait looming in its interminability.

    I near you, the Oh, just touch slightly weaker than the Oh, just wait
    yet slightly stronger than the Oh, just watch
    and I suddenly decide to give in to it, puerile or not,
    it is natural, no?
    It is the other way around that is not natural, no?
    Thatís it, done,
    having won with this Oxfordianly profound argumentation
    my Spiderwebly feeble case
    in the definitely biased courts of law of my mind
    I approach, I reach, I... I... I... no, not yet, sorry, I watch, I just watch.
    Forgive me?
    I just watch. Oh, the pleasure.

    Your buttocks.
    The see-through white cotton
    ready to burst at the seams
    ready to uncover the magic underneath
    and for a moment I toy with the idea of running a fingernail along the dark line
    and see it rip apart in front of my eyes, liberating,
    proudly... my palms cupping...
    Hard, tense,
    the flesh the smoothness of a teenagerís
    the muscles the power of a twentyfiverís
    you, at least twice that age
    yet your buttocks flowing into smooth, powerful thighs
    flowing into narrow ankles
    fit from my thumb fingertip to middle fingertip grip...
    you sure you did not lie about your age woman? youngster? child?...
    no, you did not, I guess
    when I reach your toes, knobby with the weight of life and childbearing
    and caring and carrying this body through the hardships of being,
    my first touch, I kiss
    your big toe. I dared,
    thatís it, taboo broken,
    shall I move now on to your belly?

    Where from this tautness?
    This elasticity, that flesh hiding underneath your limply hanging t-shirt
    the muscled trampoline
    in its perfect harmony with my pounding weight
    when I test its resilience and my immortality
    on those occasions when I investigate the reality of wonder
    and find that paradise is just a rung on the ladder
    to final immolation,
    oh, memories invading
    when I insert my index finger inside the elastic band
    and the irresistible wish to pull down invades me,
    the last step between fascination and madness
    and my finger slides out
    fighting madness for the memory to come, soon,
    too late yet soon,
    hey, what about sooner?

    I get on my toes,
    peepingtomíing
    I let my line of sight penetrate the shadows of the t-shirtís upper hem
    following your cleavage
    all the way to where the impertinent cups conquer your hanging flesh
    still wobbling slightly from the sudden freeze,
    half a nipple showing
    my mind a mush
    my need a volcano
    and I give in to puerility and all
    and my palms slide in between textile and flesh
    cupping those girlish, ridiculously small breasts
    and letting them mold inside my hand
    shaping themselves to my palm lines
    and to my fingerprints
    and to my clutching phalanges...
    I pull back, in horror, I almost lost control of the freeze
    and your head moved a fraction my way,
    oh, no, shameful, shameful, shame on me
    my hands slide out
    my face the red of dying poppy,
    I float around you once again, then once again, then once again, then...
    I find it hard
    and I finally pull away, the whole of me,
    even my lingering hands which trace a last path along your ribs...

    ďHello!...Ē I hear your panting voice in the receiver,
    ďyou wouldnít believe it, I am fully covered with goose bumps...Ē
    I hear you laughing,
    ď...probably the draft... damn!...Ē
    some undefined noises, what happened? I ask,
    ďdamn mosquitoes, guess where it bit me...
    and it is not even mosquito season...Ē
    and I sit back and just listen,
    delighting myself,
    hating myself,
    oh, miserable me.
    Why the hell didnít I give in fully, completely, totally
    to my childish, infantine,
    puerile instincts?
    I may have had some more material
    for my bouts of lust poetry.
    And you, you may have had also some additional,
    tougher, unanswered questions
    than just about that one, single, isolated
    mosquito bite.

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Mirage

    I see you,
    the first time that I see you... dressed.
    You smile,
    why do you?
    My mind, that devilishly lustful machine
    that relentlessly keeps undressing, denuding, disrobing you
    suddenly going in reverse,
    like a movie reel turning backwards
    and panties slide up your ankles
    bra piles its textile upon your breasts,
    pantyhose, skirt, shirt, shoes, eyeglasses... eyeglasses?

    You wait. In my mind, for my words, for my appreciation.
    Dressed. Bedecked. Blooming. Beautiful. You smile.
    I melt.
    My words flow, I donít even know
    telling you about the bloom the beauty the smile
    and you bloom more and your beauty grows and your smile widens
    and then I tell you more
    and you start laughing and you blush...
    everyone applauses
    and no one knows...

    Over. Everyone left,
    you sit down, exhausted, close your eyes.
    I snap,
    the mirage not yet over, never, the last echoes not yet over, never
    yet
    I suddenly start shivering
    as the primitive urge takes over once again
    and I undress, denude, disrobe you
    and make love to you,
    violently
    like a hurricane rushing through a forest
    like a petal falling down to earth
    like a memory
    about to get born.

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Mights

    A belligerent, whoring Earth
    passes out poisonous gases from thousands of pussing wounds
    contorting itself helplessly in a caging, gravity straitjacket
    and screams for deliverance
    and motherhood,

    A silent, horny Asteroid
    hurls mindlessly through space
    eagerly looking forward to the howl of colliding atmospheric atoms
    disintegrating into the chaotic fire
    of impregnating Earth, like a celestial phallus
    bound on birthing destruction,

    An indifferent, crawling Chronos
    watches it all impassively,
    from time to time roaring in star splitting laughter
    when the cosmic rays of a freshly designated nova
    punitively hit those puny, humanoid creatures
    trying to measure their measuring skills against immeasurable, mighty himself,

    A hungry, famished knot of berserk gone humanity
    doesnít give a damn about Earth or Asteroid or Chronos
    and traps all three inside joined fists
    and joined mouths
    and joined hips
    defying straitjacket and fire and nova
    to birth, for moments few,
    a child called passion.

    And love? she asks.

    Without it, there would be no passion.

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Written In Stone

    Some people read clouds.
    Others read the bottom of coffee cups guessing the future.
    They claim they read the future
    and charge you a dollar. Or more.
    They lie but, hey, they have to make a living after all.
    Some others, still, read porn magazines
    though the text there is just a modern artistís idea
    of framing the pictures,
    and since no one reads frames there is no actual reading performed.
    Whoís to complain,
    not I, I do it as well from time to time.
    I mean - read the frames. Yeah, sure.

    Yet I do read stones. No, not Rolling Stones, those I do as well
    but them I just listen to,
    I read stones, real stones - marble, tiles, ragged pebbles thrown haphazardly,
    stones. You know, like... stones.

    Did you ever?
    At times I freeze in front a frozen flow of natural lines
    and I start seeing demons,
    other times I see horses, flowers, once I even saw Garfield.
    He wasnít as fat but it was him, doubtlessly.
    Actually, nobody did seem to ever have asked the question -
    does anyone know if Garfield is male? It cannot be,
    now, a male could never be as conceited and as lazy as Garfield,
    not even my neighbor. And he is she. But thatís beside the point.
    Today I saw you. In stone.
    Clean your mind, woman, no - I wasnít reading any frames
    and the framesí content I was reading - no, they did not look a bit like you.
    Nor you like them... hey - whoís conceited now? Told you.
    Today I saw you. And you looked like you. I even tried to kiss you
    and then I had to run away since I heard someone dialing 101.
    I guess cops. Or ambulance. Or the fire brigade. Or her/his lover
    to ask for details to how they call it. He/she should have dialed 5-6-8-3.
    Yes, code, find the code and if you donít then I stop reading stones.
    Or seeing you in them.
    Or kissing them.
    Or wishing they were you.

    I saw also a dog, no, no cats there - a dog.
    He was sitting on your head,
    sure - reading stones allows for strange things,
    strange people read them after all so you have to make allowances,
    so this dog, NO! I donít know what make the dog was -
    Chihuahua, Big Dane, King Charles, Jonathan or Made in China,
    does it matter?... what matters was that it was there on your head
    and you were feeding swans.
    I am not really sure, swans or alligators, one of the two
    but your hands - one had four fingers and one two - were throwing crumbs
    and making strange signs.
    These were probably alligators,
    I doubt if swans would have bitten off your fingers
    tough once a goose tried to bite mine. I was a kid.
    I remember getting home all tears and a goose hanging on to my finger,
    my mom was nice to it and fed it corn to get my finger loose,
    popcorn - mind you.
    No feet. You, on the stone, no feet
    and better so or I would have started dreaming what these feet end in
    and the he/she dialing 101 would have seen worst than just kissing,
    imagine... I would have made it into youtube. Maybe even Guinness.
    I miss you. I love you.

    Tomorrow I will find me another stone. Probably a softer one.
    One never knows.

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Trite

    I donít want to talk about angels,
    everybody talks about angels.
    I donít want to talk about flowers,
    everybody talks about flowers.
    I donít want to talk about butterflies,
    I talk about butterflies. A lot.

    I want to talk about you,
    nobody talks about you.
    No, no, I donít mean it disrespectfully,
    I also know this is not true, well, not entirely
    but I have to say it this way
    because this is poetry, and poetry has certain rules
    which I do my best not to follow, okay?
    You. The human, the woman, the poet.
    The one who was once born and once has given birth and once will die
    and in between molds sand into pebbles
    with tips of toes
    and breaks sunrays into rainbows inside dew hanging on spider webs
    with tips of eyelashes
    and steals paint from the green of leaves
    and from the yellow of nuggets
    and from the white of snow
    to smear with tips of finger-brushes upon unfurling wings of nascent butterflies...

    Oops, didnít I say no butterflies?
    Sorry, unforgivable, I know, incorrigible as well
    as I didnít foresee talking about you. Forgive me, nevertheless?
    Please donít, otherwise the rest of this poem goes down the drain.
    You. The one who dresses, the one who undresses, the one who makes love. To me.
    Make love... who invented this stupid euphemism?
    What does it mean Ďmake loveí?
    What does one make here, actually?
    One makes shoes, one makes faces, one makes fun of someone... but make love?
    Whatís wrong with good old Ďcopulateí from good old Ďcopulareí
    which is nothing else than good old Ďto joiní?
    So more accurate if not for the complaining, pristine ears
    of eternally virginal spinsters of both sexes
    who are dying to copulate, ha, yet donít dare to, ha ha.

    Side tracking. I know, apologies, side tracking from the main,
    from you undressing into bare flesh clothing bare flames
    before,
    from you creating a sea drowning into its own gales and slamming into my ears
    during,
    from you dissipating into glittering diamonds exploding upon my skin
    after...

    Hell, why not copulate (sorry, one track mind)
    why fecundate and not copulate for insects
    why pollinate and not copulate for flowers?...

    Oops, didnít I say no flowers?
    See, talking about you and I slip into butterflies
    then later on into flowers...
    What next? No, I will not say it. No, no way, no way!!!
    and one more!

    You. The one who has to age into the indecencies of mammography.
    The one who has to age into the indecencies of densitometry.
    The one who has to age into the indecencies of colonoscopy.
    Which twisted mind invented all these instruments of bodily, mental torture?
    Probably some sex crazed impotent medical maniac
    dying to squeeze a teat, to palpate a pelvis, to shove a tube up an ass...
    Tell me, do they practice colonoscopy also on aging angels?...

    Oops. Then oops again. Then mamma mia, you did it to me, didnít you,
    you creature, you being, you... you... you woman,
    first butterflies up my eyes, then flowers up my ears, now angels up my ass.
    Broke my promise not to talk about them
    what promise will you make me break next?
    The one about not telling of
    northern lights flooding out of your eyes
    to lay a glossy veneer on the trail of toe tips and eyelash tips and finger tips?
    The one about not telling of
    valleyfuls of copulating flowers in the wake of copulating butterflies
    in the wake of copulating, transmogrifying, deflagrating us?

    The one about not telling the truth about angels?
    No, not the colonoscopical truth,
    the truth of their envy of you being subject to so many poems,
    the truth of their envy of you owning so many smile wrinkles,
    the truth of their envy of you lighting the morning
    and feeding the bees
    and singing in duet with nightingales.
    The truth of their envy of you being that which they will never be.
    A human. A woman. A poem.

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Dead Flesh

    Sharp.
    Like a self-respecting butcherís knife
    the pain, the sensation, the pleasure.

    I descend from your flesh
    falling in the embrace of the chilly, wet bed sheet
    wondering if your pleasure was as sharp,
    as insistent, or sharper.
    Probably,
    you didnít tell me the ceiling needed painting, so
    I guess
    it was.
    You rolled over to my side...
    Your bed sheet is wet...
    Yours? Isnít?
    Is too, you answered, one hour later
    when you woke up.
    I was dying for a pee,
    couldnít risk losing that piece of my humanity you were hanging to
    so I decided I didnít need to pee after all.
    I fell asleep.
    I woke up.

    I found you sitting on a chair next to the bed
    staring at me.
    I rushed to the bathroom
    liberating myself from that liquid tyranny
    then rushed back to the bed,
    same position.
    Thank you, you said.
    For what?
    For letting me stare at you.
    Should I try some indecent positions?
    I asked, a futile question,
    there was no indecent, forbidden, perverted between us,
    I tried nevertheless
    until I heard you suddenly laughing.
    What do you laugh at? I asked.
    Your dead flesh,
    flapping around like a torn sail.

    Sing me a lullaby, I begged.
    You just woke up.
    Sing me a lullaby, I begged again.
    You sang.

    I listened to the mysteriously consonant sounds
    manacled to some mysterious gist
    I had no clue to
    yet bathing me in the secret light
    of something called love.
    I will not say I love you, I said, so trite.
    I love you, you said, desecrating the lullaby
    by interrupting it
    yet picking up anew at the accurate spot of the interruption.
    I will not say I love you, I thought, stubbornly,
    I love you, I found myself saying
    and finding I didnít care for trite.
    Your dead flesh, you said.
    My dead flesh what? I asked.
    Your dead flesh is alive, you said
    descending upon me like a rapacious vulture
    taking my dead-now-alive flesh
    inside that flower growing inside your body
    and torturing me into short ecstasy and long agony.
    Why short?
    As short as the prayer inside your adytum.
    Why long?
    As long as the residing in the rest of the world.
    And one day we die and none is left,
    ecstasy, agony.

    You put your finger against my lips,
    I removed it gently.
    And one day we die and none is left,
    ecstasy, agony,
    and the only way we mortal mortals can keep it alive
    is by entrusting it in the care of immortal immortals.
    The blue semen oozing from the nip of pen
    to soak inside the virginity of paper texture,
    the indecent, lecherous bounce of tips of fingers
    depredating the innocence from keyboardís springy, lecherous nipples,
    the amuck run of billions of grains of magnetic powder
    inebriatingly melting their arousal
    into the burning skin of thin, plastic films...

    I played distractedly with your nipple,
    feeling a savior breathing life into dead flesh.
    Your dead flesh, it comes to life, I remarked,
    unoriginally.
    You started playing with mine.
    Do you think flowers enjoy intercourse? you asked.
    I donít think, I know.
    So how come no one else knows?
    No one knows because we belong to a race of overconfident,
    conceited pricks called humans,
    self defined as omnipotent, omniknowledgeable, omniimportant.
    Self defined. Like a beauty pageant contestant claiming sheís the prettiest.
    No one knows.
    I know.

    I know too, you said,
    no more dead flesh anywhere to play with,
    philosophies decaying into the nťant of mental oblivion
    as we, first heedlessly and then dementedly
    started tearing pieces of heaven from each otherís carnal tenets,
    sweat clouds starting to form underneath the ceiling
    to spout upon us moments later
    the caress of unfurling lilac butterflies
    and exploding monarch burgeons
    and pink fireflies floating down on blue snowflakes
    carrying star seed, to sow upon our naked skin.

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Count

    How many times I carried your naked body in my arms
    barefoot
    in a wheat field infested four leafed clover and five winged dragonflies
    crushing white poppies between my toes
    and red lips between my teeth?
    None.

    How many times I dressed your naked body with my finger ends
    bareskin
    in a nettle bush infested winged chameleons and sabertoothed whelps
    crushing rose thorns inside my fists
    and red nipples inside my mouth?
    None.

    How many times I dreamt of it?
    How many drops there in a summer rain?

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Tourist Attractions

    I told you tales of Albania
    then, seeing your raised eyebrows
    I told you tales of America, Anglia...
    ďYou could have even told me tales of Tanganyika...Ē
    your eyebrows always in the same position.
    ďTanganyika does not start and end with A,Ē I countered weakly.
    ďAngola, then.Ē
    You clearly wanted to tell me something.
    You waited for my approval of choice...
    (Wait! America has the Empire State Building,
    Anglia has the Big Ben...
    didnít know much about what Albania or Angola might have had,
    maybe Tanganyika...)
    ...before you went on.
    ďAll you had to offer me was a bed...Ē
    and when I watched you, slightly crestfallen,
    you added
    ď...with you in it.Ē

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Red-Yellow-Green

    Early morning.
    Nothing alive except for the red-yellow-green of traffic lights.
    And me. Going somewhere.
    Red.
    If I was a sulker I would have sulked,
    unfortunately I am not.
    I close my eyes, a good substitute,
    that and the dead singer bluesing me on the radio.
    The red is visible through my eyelids,
    will I fall asleep before the inevitable yellow, the inevitable green,
    the inevitable shift of gears and moving of wheels preferring to sleep?

    What are you doing?
    Now, right now
    while red before yellow before green.
    Asleep?
    Your nightgown pulling unceremoniously above knees,
    your nipples soft, inexistent,
    your hands hugging the green of the pillow
    and calling it endearing names...
    why did you decide green was me?
    Why not blue, flowery, striped?
    Maybe it is not the pillow you hug?
    Maybe the white cup with the clover drawing
    and the thin crack
    and the hot milk inside waiting to touch your mouth and burn it.

    The shower?

    I donít dare think of the shower
    afraid Iíll not be able to stop thinking
    to think of yellow when yellow happens.
    I donít move.
    I guess I think about the shower nevertheless,
    the yellow penetrating my eyelids
    and commanding my gear shift hand
    which refuses to obey.
    Go away monster, I think rebelliously,
    infantile like an adult
    waiting for a sea of honks to invade me from the rear
    once the yellow dies and green comes to life.
    Nothing happens.
    Everyoneís asleep except me
    and another dead singer on the radio.

    My mind still in the shower,
    still in the gutter, still in Elysium,
    you now at the stage of drying yourself
    and I follow the towel covering parts of you
    and more than that those parts of you it uncovers,
    do I remember correctly the details?
    Was that freckle there or a bit more to the left?
    Was your bellybutton really so deep,
    do you really have only one of them?
    My mind wants to follow lower than the bellybutton
    but my mind refuses access.
    Same mind.
    Probably wondering if the intrusion would be welcome,
    knowing it would be, yet, still, shyly hesitating.

    The green turns yellow again, red again. No honks.
    Did I fall asleep leaving the city all to itself
    and its dead singers?
    The new singer is alive.
    The nightgown pulls down again over your head,
    no underwear yet,
    I wait for the underwear, I wait for the underwear, I wait for the underwear,
    the motor joins me in singsong
    we wait for the underwear, we wait for the underwear
    to be pulled up,
    to be tied around,
    to be knotted at the back,
    to be honked... to be honked?

    I open my eyes. Green.
    I make an apologetic sign to the driver behind me, shift gears into the first
    and move on.
    One more somebody alive in the city is one too many,
    I guess itís time to wake up.
    I send you a kiss, skipping the underwear
    and moving straight into the smile that follows the kiss.
    My eyes return to the wet asphalt.
    Another promising beginning to a boring day.

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Shoes

    I am seated, munching my egg and mushrooms sandwich,
    mind blank, eyes downcast
    not in shame, in munching,
    trying to fill the blankness with something...
    shoes move by, lots of shoes,
    and interminable flow.
    Shoes to fill my blankness, what a joke.

    Black, most of them black,
    men women dogs donít wear shoes,
    yes, I know a comma missing somewhere.
    Most of the men laced shoes, some brown,
    a few tennis shoes, not many,
    men and women.
    High heels only women. One man.
    Boots only women. Two men.
    One woman with gardenerís boots
    reminding me of my green ones, hers black
    her feet flapping inside like matchsticks in an empty tea cup.
    Black leggings.
    One elderly businessman in a corner polishing his shoes with a napkin.
    I didnít polish my shoes in six months now.
    I count eleven pairs of shoes and he still polishes. The same shoe.

    A woman comes in. Beautiful, gorgeous,
    looks straight at me
    and walks towards me with purpose in her stride.
    I didnít know I was that attractive.
    She approaches and picks a sandwich from behind me. A dream shattered.
    A woman comes in dragging a huge suitcase,
    her shoes red, her nose red too,
    she looks straight at me stepping in two steps, turns around
    and walks back out.
    Didnít know I was that frightening either.
    A Goth dressed punk follows. Half her hair shaved, half red,
    pregnant. No, not half, full pregnant.
    She wears army boots, better, armies would love to have such boots
    could stop a direct bazooka hit. Probably weighing half a ton, metric.
    Doesnít matter so much at these weights, metric, imperial.
    She doesnít look at me, thank God.
    She does look frightening.

    The businessman still polishes his shoe. The same shoe.
    A few flat shoes. One flat woman. One fat woman.
    Three slim girls, one in a mini.
    Freezing cold in a mini,
    I swear I could hear goosebumps exploding out through her skin.
    She bends, moves, pirouettes,
    a show though I am sure it is not for the show
    just to keep warm. Her underwear is pink.
    A man follows in buckskins, yellow,
    another man in buckskins, brown.
    A cowboy, just boots no hat. A hooker.
    Two bobbies. The hooker stiletto heels and net stockings.
    The bobbies flat army shoes. They should complain, demand punk shoes.
    Thatís safety.

    A pair of flowery pants carries a woman past me. Canít see her shoes,
    her pants are all over the floor, dry mopping,
    gathering all the crumbs on the way
    Another hooker, one shoe red one black.
    Young, beautiful, she smiles at me,
    front two teeth missing, the rest yellow. A security guard nudges her on.
    Another one, woman, not hooker, in a fur coat sits at a nearby table.
    I wonder if the fur is artificial.
    I feel like spilling her coffee on it to find by her reaction.
    Triggers memory of an old anti-fur ad:
    It takes ten beasts to make one fur coat and only one to wear it.
    The beast with the fur get up leaves, pity, didnít have time to spill the coffee.

    A man with black, lacquered shoes crosses and uncrosses his legs several times.
    A woman in jeans does the same, several tables away. She wears red low heels.
    Probably secret agents exchanging signs. Maybe terrorists.
    Maybe anti-terrorists.
    Maybe coincidence.
    I stand up to leave, following a nice, tight ass on the way out.
    She turns and smiles at me.
    Everybody seems to smile at me today. She is a he.
    I pass.

    The businessman still polishes his shoe. The other one.
    I miss you.

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Insomnia

    Tell tales of the life in invisible prisons,
    Invisible walls and statistical reasons
    Infesting the miles with the razor of wire
    To quash behind ribs sprouting buds of desire,
                                  your beauty of seasons.

    Hide not tales of fingers turned claws every morning
    To tear at the ribbons your softness adorning,
    To free sons of flesh from a tyrantís oppression
    And wait that my hand in defiling transgression
                                  paints life in their mourning.

    While dreamís evil banter demands your attention
    I plunder your thighs from my other dimension
    Your fists taking hold of my wildest illusion
    And blessing with sweat my explosive intrusion
                                  and stardust immersion.

    The movie rolls on under mindís liquid cambers,
    The image flows slowly from grays into ambers,
    From ambers to sparkles as rainbowís glass shatters,
    Kaleidoscopeís marvel shreds nightís white to tatters
                                  as sleep to breast clambers.

    Your nakedness cowers again under covers
    The peace of fulfillment above your heart hovers,
    With morning, surprised, you will find on your pillow
    The color of rose and the rustle of willow,
                                  the fragrance of lovers.

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Career

    Started at her toes.
    A modest beginning, she said.
    True, but I have high aspirations, I countered.
    As high as reaching the top?
    As high as reaching the depths...
    and as she smiled concurring approval
    I tore out of way leathers and textiles and nylons
    climbing furiously towards the top... the depths...
    sinking hooks into her flesh
    and piton into her life.

    Is this the peak of your career? she sang, remote,
    the music source somewhere undefined beyond the blur of my charred eyelashes
    as grappling ankles severed my body in two distinctively asymmetrical halves
    the top raving
    the bottom molesting
    the whole of us both and all and everything
    painting snake despair into the wooden frame of the bed
    that turned splinters
    that turned sand
    that turned ashes covering the street three feet deep
    and us seven.

    I succeeded to unclench, gently, several pairs of teeth from my shoulder
    several pairs of nails from my third to fifth vertebrae
    several pairs of tongues from several pairs of tongues
    bleeding satisfaction.
    You did it to CEO in no time at all, she melted,
    your CV did not mention contagious polymorphosis.
    I drew first butterflies on her belly,
    then smashed cherries against her knuckles,
    then watched her nipples turn beads as I let ice-cubes prowl around uninvited
    smearing the grey-green-glowing ash from armpit down to kneepit
    followed by the leftovers of my finger tips
    followed by the leftovers of my tongues around thousands of exploding buds
    throwing cherry pits into the air
    that transmuted into ripe cherries long before reaching the floor
    to transfix themselves upon scurrying Augusoma Centauri horns
    and crawling Mesobuthus Martensii stings.

    May I apply for the bottom position once more? I asked,
    picking some of the mobile cherries and throwing them
    part into my mouth
    part into hers
    part into the sunís corona.
    She lay her palm on the floor
    letting some of the death carriers fall asleep on the back of her hand
    and picking cherries carefully between her teeth
    crunching some to meet a glorious death in her entrails prison
    spitting some to meet a less glorious death in mine
    before answering, days later.
    Are you sure you are up to it?
    Down to it, you mean.
    Are you sure you are down to it? she corrected.
    I watched that crevasse offering me a place on the other side of the sun
    once again,
    I watched the Augusoma Centauri and the Mesobuthus Martensii and the...
    Enough!... she screamed
    and no one could explain that crater boring itself end to end through Earthís heart
    carrying cherries, horns, stings, CV paper shreds
    and the unmistakable perfume
    of lilac love.

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Drawing Life

    Lift the soles of your feet
    and I will draw on them planks for you to dance on
    and grass for you to run through
    and shoes
    for me to pull off before carrying you to my lair
    to lay you on the bed
    I drew for you.

    Open your shirt
    and I will draw garlands to cover your breasts
    and doves to pull the garlands away
    and hands
    to take the place of garlands
    shaped after my fingers and fingertips and fingerprints
    so you not be mistaken.

    Donít smile
    and I will draw smiles to chase towards your eyesí wrinkles
    and teeth to chase my fingers away
    and a tongue
    to meet the one I drew upon my lips
    once I finished drawing kisses hanging somewhere
    between us.

    Letís draw the woodpecker that will chase us
    and the dog that will bite at our heels
    and the frog that will show us the way out of the drawing
    and into each otherís skin.

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Ice-cream

    I doze off.
    My head hits the wall behind me with a loud bang.
    Then the table in front of me with a louder bang.
    Then the wall again.
    I want to write. I am tired. Bang. A few words. Bang.

    People up and down the stairs to my left.
    People up and down the slope to my right. Mostly different people.
    Sometimes the same people.
    One of them looks like you. A man. I snicker. He should have been a woman.
    A beautiful woman.
    A dog barks. He letís me caress his head and licks my hand.
    The ice-cream has melted. Bang. I believe I look like a rhino
    with the bump on my forehead a nice blue-red-black.

    When the moon betrays the cloud
    Stealing starlightís studded shroud,
    Buying poison from the adder,
    Paying spiders for the ladder,
    Letting painís devoted crowd
    Bite in waves forever madder...


    I shudder. I didnít even feel the bang
    seeing the little girl dragging the little puppy dragging the little doll
    and sending a big smile my way
    as her mother talks and talks and talks on her cell phone.
    The transparent elevator mounts not far from me,
    I avert my eyes as a mini-skirted old woman shows what should not be seen
    and I follow a long-skirted young woman not showing what should,
    a youngster tells a less young guy something on a laptop
    probably selling him a grocery control tool or a hacking tool
    or an atomic bomb for dummies
    and I hope to be far enough before the atomic bomb materializes,
    I yawn loudly.
    A few more words and my eyelids feel as heavy as my melting ice-cream.

    No bang. I open my eyes. They started cleaning the table,
    hinting I should go. I donít.
    I grab my cup and its sludge and sip noisily with a straw. They move away.
    Psychological warfare mastership, thatís me. They turn off the lights in my section.
    I wait until they turn them on again. We (I) shall overcome.
    The battery starts showing empty. 10%. Ha, I hardly wrote one stanza.
    No mains plug around. Thatís their warfare, I guess. Bastards.
    I move to another table dragging the sludge along, mains, victory.

    When the moon cleaves summerís night
    Spreading doubtís invasive blight,
    Sowing seeds of melancholy
    Through my pencilís fields of folly
    With assaults of waxing light
    Volley after raving volley...


    Two stanzas. Yippee, one day they might even call me a poet.
    They, not they who cleaned the table but the other they, they.
    A young guy in a wheelchair rolls along dragging three dogs behind him,
    they all look proud - human, canines, even the wheelchair itself,
    a young girl rushes ahead and jumps in his lap,
    probably his sister... no, correction, his girlfriend or more
    if to judge from the way they kiss and his hand sneaks under her skirt
    with the three dogs jumping all over them as well
    in a tangle of leashes and sporadic applause.
    A group of Japanese blocks my view for a moment, gesticulating,
    when they pass the wheel chair and guy and girl and dogs are gone
    and I have a clear view to a book-shopís door.
    Just a door, painted brown, nothing interesting in the door
    and not even in the shop that carries none of my books. Yes, bastards too,
    the shop owners, not the books.

    My sleepiness seems to have vanished. I close my eyes, yes, no bang, no dozing.
    I open my eyes, does it mean Iím normal, after all? Such disappointment.
    I count the number of skirts on women - three,
    I count the number of trousers - twenty one. Disappointment this way too.
    Letís see what other disappointments I can point to -
    my lover is not around, my lover is not around, my lover is not around...
    yes, probably that rhino horn has grown inwards as much as outwards, probably more,
    Iíd better get my skull scanned, MRId, x-rayíd, etceteraed,
    time to lose the war in the ice-cream shop and let other customers slush in their ice-cream
    while I drag my ass and everything appended to it to the door,
    I should have known the glass was that clean. Luckily it was that strong too
    so it just adds to the rhino effect
    and I apologize profusely to no one in particular
    finally finding my way to the doorís other side
    on my way away from another day without you.

    When the moon turns loose the beast
    And the beast turns me the feast
    And the feast turns wild carousal
    With my obdurate espousal
    Of the fealty - oh, your priest
    Woman, oh, divine arousal.


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Reversal

    The sea
    flows back into the river,
    Butterflies
    amass kaleidoscope back into cocoons,
    Time... time returns into grains of sand
    and I meet you.

    Virgin,
    culling flowers and picking apples and squeezing grapes in your fists
    waiting for me
    to rob your robe to flush your flesh to seed my seed.

    Woman,
    after sea and butterflies and time
    still virgin
    still offering robe and flesh and chalice.

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where...?

    where are you?

    did you sink in that puddle
    on the way from left to right, or maybe from the right to left
    as you were jumping on one foot
    and the heel of your shoe gave up
    and you just sat on the asphalt
    legs dangling in the puddle?

    or you chased that butterfly
    hidden inside your eye
    and you just couldnít get to it as much and as fast
    until finally you hit a wall
    and you sat on the asphalt
    letting your bleeding nose paint
    the butterfly?

    or, maybe, possibly, eventually, perchance
    a nice lad invited you to dance
    bare footed and bare breasted
    your flirting fluttering skirt catching in dry brambles
    about to sprout red and blue and yellow spikes
    about to bare the rest of you
    and you fell on the asphalt
    covering yourself the leftovers of cloth?

    sure, maybe you just climbed a drain pipe
    to watch hatching titmouse chicks
    or free a frightened cat
    or just watch the moon
    from closer by?

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The Word Is

    If I talk to you the language of words
    it wonít be enough,
    if I talk to you the language of colors
    you will drown,
    which one shall it be?

    Poppies, so you live,
    fingertips, so you die,
    hieroglyphs so you keep wondering wandering sleeplessly, aimlessly,
    drunk with the ignorance of knowledge
    or is it just knowledge?

    Maybe I shall try silence. Maybe I shall try absolute silence. Maybe I should just shut up.
    Shut up!
    I shut up.
    Years later. Thank you! For what? Years later, still no answer.
    It probably does not matter,
    language is a matter of definition, same as the words, means, tools it consists of.
    And where there is one single word
    I guess there are billions of languages to say it in.
    Translation is so damn simple.

    Yes, sure, the word is

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Sun, One

    I left my hand in the sun
    clenched into a fist locking all of my words and desire inside it

    letting it burn
    afraid if I open my fingers
    the sun will stray all over the galaxy
    and there will be no tomorrow
    with your words
    and desire



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Sun, Two

    The butterfly
    died.

    The sun raged.
    The sun raved, howled, cried drops of fire onto the moon
    before turning the sad, contorted crimson of evening
    and burying
    the butterfly.

    Then it buried its face in between your breasts
    looking
    for the butterfly.

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Sun, Three

    I smashed it with my thumb,
    the sun

    I looked backwards along my path
    and couldnít see clearly
    without the sun

    I watched hopefully forward,
    seeing you sweep splinters of sun upon your stretched skirt, lovingly,
    then singing it softly back to life
    looking at me, accusingly

    I neared you,
    waited for the sun to shine again
    and I let you burn me

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Metaphors... Maybe

    Youíre a ballerina.
    Youíre a grass leaf cutting through my skin.
    Youíre a white panther showing off her white ivory of canine pride
    and Iím prey.
    I am a rolling drop of wine drying on you.
    I am the floor absorbing your heels - steel or cloth or flesh
    and you dance.

    I am the wound. You are the knife.
    You are the balm.

    We walk barefoot on the freshly plowed field
    and you sink to your ankles
    and I sink to my knees
    and you sink to your waist and I sink to my waist
    and we make love in the paradise of worms and snakes and ants and moles
    redefining their paradise
    and ours.

    Iím a worshiper.
    Iím an old rubber tire leaning against your naked leg.
    Iím a shaggy black dog shaking off the fleas accumulated in a life too long
    readying myself for the dragon. I growl.
    You are an ice-pick running twice through me.
    You are the idol shaking off its dyed porcelain brittle clothing
    and I pray. To flesh.

    You are the blood. I am the vein.
    I am the shell.

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Shapelessness

    In the shapelessness of the Kalahari
    I found the tense roundness of your hanging breasts,

    In the sharpness of an angler fishís tip of tooth
    I found your little toe, its nail painted pink of rose,

    In the stillness of fathoms deep shifting tectonic plates
    Your snapping fingers guide your pirouetting feet,
    In the slowness of flowing lava
    I read poetry, written by you,
    In the shallowness of a tear spread over a forestís treetops
    Hordes of winged horses drink colors from rainbowís mouth,

    Along the shapelessness of my thoughts
    You threaded the absolute beads
    of absolute beauty.

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before, during, after

    when a finger touches finger
    and an elbow touches arm
    as the whiffs of sunset linger
    behind eyelids trapped in charm
    and the lilacís reigning glory crowns your hair in raining blue
    waiting to molest your bosom with the redolence of dew,

    when the shiver veers to rumble
    and the rumble turns to quake
    as your armorís buttons tumble
    pulling satins in their wake
    and the blaze cremates the bodies writhing madly in the glow
    like a snakes nest agonizing under lavaís deathly flow,

    when the silence grips the valley
    and serenity descends
    as the whispers brimming galley
    through beclouded minds transcends
    and as bodies carved by fire the encroaching sunrise shun
    we dissolve in pools of glitter filling cracks inside the sun.

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The Walls Of Jericho

    Never knew the wall of Jericho were so colorful,
    and I studied my Scriptures.

    Never knew they were so bountiful either,
    so bounceful, thrustful, shapeful, so... full.
    Dropping around a waspís pride
    fluttering between muscled thighs
    hurrying on an almost desperate rush to achieve destruction
    clicking underneath hard heels, cracked soles, painted toenails...

    Never knew there were no trumpets needed,
    and I studied my Scriptures.

    The soft texture melting underneath invading archaeological fingers
    inner layers dissolving under the penetrating gaze of archaeological eyes
    tiny buckles opening
    sandals dropping
    the primal layers under tumbling, vanishing civilization
    resolving into pointed nipples, impudent curls,
    woman.

    Never knew of such treasures,
    Tutankhamenís a boy scoutís colored glass, Atahualpaís a girlís bone comb
    and I studied my Scriptures
    (allowing for the scribes never having heard of emperors and women).

    Such disrespect,
    as we kicked the crumbled leftovers under the bed
    and delved into delicate, accurate, methodological study
    of yowling cats
    and dredging rivers of skin
    and the chaotic state of flesh of before ďand then there was light...Ē

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ladder

    cross! climb! cut!

    collect!

    weave a ladder from the crumbs of seeds and the leftovers of flowers
    and the dust of dry leaves and snowflakes deformed into drops
    upon warm palms...

    cross! climb! cut! further,

    one more parapet
    into tomorrowís unknown rampart
    then a bastion
    then a merlon, sliding through a crenel...

    cross! climb! cut! smile into the darkness of the unknown...

    why darkness?
    maybe light, maybe music, maybe the riddleís final knowledge,

    weave a ladder,
    collect your clothes those you unclothed earlier with my hands
    collect your hair ends those you tore earlier with my fingers
    collect your flesh shreds those you decanted earlier with my mouth
    from your body
    and weave your ladder one mountain further,
    there
    where we meet again and again and again

    until no any more againís in front of us
    but so much beauty
    written
    on every rung of the ladder.

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Lilac Madness

    You roll your hips.

    You roll your hips
    and you roll your thighs
    and you roll your ass
    and you roll your eyes like a virgin seeing it first on the Manneken Pis
    (and wondering what is all the noise about)
    and my brain rolls into knots
    like wet towels
    dragging the rest of my body through coiling sessions
    to shame six snakes and one octopus
    competing.

    I loose my nose in beerís abounding foam
    crunching bubbles between breaking teeth,
    I crunch nuts inside fists
    draining the resulting dust into the beer,
    I gulp the yellow miracle
    caring not for the slippery drivel sliding alongside my mouth
    and soaking into my t-shirt
    ďWaiter, the bill!Ē I shout
    leaving before he hears me
    dragging you along a trail asphalt before and magma after
    upon stairs marble before and marbles after
    onto a bed covers before and tatters after,

    lilacís single cracking bud
    turns from drizzle into flood
    and before the melting summer grabs your reason in its wake
    lilacís madness
    rapes your blood.


    You roll your hips.

    You roll your hips
    leaving pieces of red cloth hanging on rushing car fenders
    biting at driversí sanity
    biting at my insanity,
    your shoes lose their heels in between the cracks
    of the pavement
    as you sidestep shards of broken bottles
    and dance in between the zebra crossing black stripes
    and the passers-by
    and the clumsy bicycle riders falling over pots of flowers
    and dogs favoring the fallen pots
    before pissing on the fallen bicycle riders.

    I chase the cars
    the dogs chase me
    trying to recuperate the pieces of cloth from car fenders
    before you turn naked in front of the world
    and a sheikh offers me a camel for your flesh
    or a gypsy his fiddle or a beggar his collection of empty soda cans and one shoe
    then I chase you
    before you chase me
    and when we finish chasing each other
    there is no more cloth to your skin
    and there is no more breath to my mouth
    and you feed me your flesh and your breath and your sweat and your yowl
    turning mephitic hunger
    into the attar of a valleyful of crushed roses.

    lilacís skin turns old and cripple,
    fades its jaunt with cackling ripple,
    yet before the one way passage we will mate in fleeting glory
    and with lust
    defile your nipple.


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Inversion

    How old were you
    when you did not yet know me?

    Older or younger than now?

    How many times did you count summers
    in one summer
    and lilac flowers in one nosegay
    of lilac flowers,
    only,
    and some bees bothering no one except the purists of you and summer birds?

    Did you count the summers to me
    not knowing of me?
    Or the autumns?
    Not knowing of my autumn.

    I know you listened to birds
    at all times, even when there were no birds,
    even when there were not even pictures of birds
    even when you slept.
    No, you did not tell me, I know, you did not have to tell.
    You also counted the linden trees and the time to next blossoming season...
    see, told you, you did not have to tell me. I simply know.
    Like I know of the first time you made love
    like I know of the first time we made love... no, you did not tell me.
    I know.

    How old are you when you make love to me?
    Older or younger than you first made love to me,
    older or younger than when I first made love to you,
    older or younger than when I make love to you,
    older or younger
    than when you learned of making love and thought of making love
    and afraid of and dreamed of and forgot of?

    Your toeprints on sand,
    of course sand does not carry toeprints,
    your toeprints on my flesh,
    of course flesh does not carry toeprints,
    of course sand carries toeprints of course flesh carries toeprints
    when the under of your skirt reflects in the sand turning it glass
    and the under of your skin reflects in the under of my skin turning it wound
    turning it cluster desire raw, bleeding, exploding into seeds
    exploding into flowers
    exploding into lilac monoterpenoids and male androstadienone
    exploding killing vanquishing subjugating enslaving
    and all I remember when waking up
    is joined hips
    and mutual addiction, thralldom, and dipsomania.

    How old were you when we made love for the third time?
    How old was I when we made love for the fifteenth time?
    How old will you be when we make love for the hundred and sixth time,
    how old do we get
    as we lose our grey
    and we lose our wrinkles
    and we crawl back into adolescence, puberty, will we be charged with statutory rape
    as we creep all the way back into ovum still making love
    beyond the rules of life and love and lust,
    are ova allowed to make love?

    I comb your hair.
    You sigh, content. You even donít complain when I pull too hard at a knot.
    I comb your hair.
    You undress me, claiming I could get a cold in these wet clothes.
    You are naked already, long ago.
    You volunteer to comb the hair on my chest
    before climbing on it, calling it your private Everest,
    first claiming the apex, then the crux, then the climax, then the vortex
    before leaving me for Morpheus
    curled,
    my combed hair your mattress,
    your curled hair my shirt
    fluttering leftovers of me pollinating that lilac eternally blossoming in your insides.

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The Things You Are Not

    You are not white,
    you are lilac-white.
    I know, Iíve investigated all those places
    youíre supposed to have kept white, private,
    sunless.
    I even touched them,
    watched them explode into countless tiny bumps
    turning sand-paper and raking against my skin leaving red splotches
    before turning silk again,
    flesh.

    You are not young,
    you are child.
    Iíve seen you collecting shells
    in your shamelessly lifted skirt.
    dancing in your pajamas,
    shaking with emotion next to your wax heroes... Bruce, Marlon, James
    almost jumping into their limp arms
    before squeezing your flesh
    inside mine.
    Not apologetic,
    radiant.

    You are not woman,
    you are virgin.
    What else shall you be called
    when you dream in pink with dragons
    and you read in pink with ribbons
    and you undress in pink with shivers
    when you abandon the real world to the real you
    underneath
    and you recover your hymen humming softly each time,
    again,
    ready for tomorrowís pink with dragons and pink with ribbons
    and pink after shivers.

    You are not flesh, nor lover.
    You are words. Poem.

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Decay... or Decadence?

    I feel
    flower,
    on the wrong side of blossom,

    I feel candle,
    half my wick gone up in smoke
    half my muscle lying at my feet, thickening that pedestal I donít need,

    I feel dog,
    one bite left in me,
    probably never able to deliver it, practically waving my right to...

    ...the shower door opens,
    you emerge dripping, shivering, no goosebumps... ostrichbumps,
    your curls glittering... ď...but I am not curly...Ē


    I feel king,
    I blossom into you, I burn around you, I bite...

    ď...you were saying...?Ē

    Was I?

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Desire's Zombie

    Chris Rea on the radio.
    Is it Chris Rea? Sounds like to me.
    Maybe not.
    A woman walks the dog.
    I shift gears,
    a man walks Toy, no, it looks like Toy,
    most dogs look to me like Toy,
    even a Rottweiler, I think
    kicking back a tear that threatens to blur my view.
    A bus. Owns the road.
    This world needs a cleansing rain,
    if I was God I would rain buses,
    with their drivers. License to kill.
    Ray Charles. Of that I am sure, even if he sounds a bit unsure
    first claiming that itís alright and then asking me if itís alright.
    Chris Rea. CR. Ray Charles. RC. Croix Rouge. Red Cross.
    I sink for a few moments into the Cabbalistic mystics of gematria
    (ChRomium, Costa Rica, Christiano Ronaldo, Richard Cory,
    Robinson Crusoe, Roma Cittŗ aperta)
    before shifting gear from low mph to medium mph to high mph,
    still looks like a crawl
    and I join the millions torturing each morning the highway asphalt.

    I try to memorize the poem,
    writing in such heavy traffic would be suicidal,
    Iím not yet Richard Cory.
    She bought me a portable recorder but I left it home
    (0:1 to visitors, damn).

    I hardly had one minute of high mph that I have to go back to medium,
    works on the highway, millions of dollars of machinery going to waste
    no one works there,
    a long year ahead of us of ecological fumes and high taxes and earthquakes
    my exit and a small Fiat Panda insists overtaking me on the right,
    woman driver... oops... youngster driver on his quest for thrilling death
    I leave him two miles behind pulling bad Goofy out of my sack,
    overtake the police the fire engine the ambulance the train (no, not on the road)
    take my exit. AC DC. Thatís the way to start the day. Bang!
    Alternate Current. Direct Current.
    ACtinium. Ante Christum. Anti Christ. Apple Cider. District of Columbia,
    leonarD Cohen, haha, Damn Car (in front of me)
    smoking my view, smoking the street, smoking the city, the continent, the world,
    I turn my engine off in disgusted protest
    and lose the power steering and almost hit a pole.
    Finally. Parking. The sweet smell of concrete,
    underground garage, elevator oil, airconditional legionella pneumophila, step home.

    Beeps. Clunks. Coughs. Chats. Conferences. Clicks. Hmms. Tics. Tacs. Zzzs.

    The distance from heaven to hell is like the distance from tan(90į) to tan(-90į).
    Infinity to minus infinity. Same point. Distance Zero. DZ.
    Deutsche Zentral genossenschaftsbank (hope I got this one right),
    DZongkha (no, donít speak it), Dead Zone (yes, some people I wish there),
    Denuded Zone (the hell with semiconductors, suddenly I miss you). DeZire.
    Hey, who carez about spelling at zuch moments? Desireís Zombie. Me.

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Biography

    You know,
    sometimes I see you dancing
    and I donít know which name to call you - willow, whip, water?...
    funny,
    all starting with w... ribbon, found one not with w,
    ribbon, whisper, whirlpool... okay, Iím probably w doomed,
    letís skip this one.

    Sometimes I see you searching for an expression
    hesitating between laughing, crying, wondering
    the little girl in you pulling at each
    and, undecided, hiding her embarrassment
    behind the closed eyes of a kiss,
    hoping mine
    are closed too. They are.

    I watched you making love, many times.
    Sometimes to me, sometimes to others, in another life...
    okay, if you insist, to me...
    I watched you making love, many times.
    I watched galloping bisons, crumbling sky-scrappers,
    butterflies testing their wings a first time.
    I watched you making love. Many times.
    Trampled over, buried under, caressed by.
    Wondering why I stayed alive,
    knowing.

    Today I will not write you a poem.
    Today I will write you
    a short biography.

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Friday 13th

    The traffic flows.
    All the big jams are in the other direction, damn,
    am I not important enough?...
    I feel unjustly dishonored, snubbed, publicly humiliated,
    oh, thank God, a jam, a small one but better than nothing...
    we wave to each other from open windows
    big smiles,
    horns blare in gratitude,
    a butterfly crosses impudently the road
    drawing angry revs from cars dying to smash it...

    The coffee machine works. Thatís a bad sign,
    even if all I drink is hot chocolate,
    itís not supposed to work.
    I feel like filling in an official complaint
    when I push the button just in time to find out
    someone left his (it was a hers) full cup there
    and the brown overflows to the machine, overflows the floor,
    down the stairs,
    fills in the decorative pond, the gold fishes delectate on the sugar,
    the fire brigade is called in,
    happiness.

    Computer on. Error message.
    Oh, blessed be He, off... on... blue screen, not even cursor, nirvana,
    impatiently looking forward to the spiritual experience
    of calling the call-center
    that someone decided to outlocate to India
    and someone picks up the phone
    talks to me in wonderfully melodious Hindglish
    and I understand none and nothing
    the screen changes to red, then to off, then to glorious smoke
    (my neighborís PC, he got connected to Bulgaria)
    then I get connected to Bulgaria as well, then Costa Rica, then Nicaragua,
    then I cut the phone,
    turn off and on again
    and a Messianic beep with Jewish undertones and Moslem overtone
    tells me itís alive!... itís alive!...
    (I almost get fired running through the corridors screaming itís alive! itís alive!)
    and the fat windows cleaner winks at me
    (from outside).

    6 out of 49. Lotto. 1000000 Euros, plus minus some zeros,
    todayís the day I get rich.
    I will buy a new tooth brush, three new shirts,
    a pair of trousers second hand but in good condition,
    Iíll get myself the maxi option at McDonald, with mayonnaise,
    rich manís dreams...
    the pregnant lady in the geometrical precise center of the TV
    starts calling out the numbers
    and after five Iím a miserable heap of despair even if the sixth is a bullís hit
    she hates my guts
    and I didnít even father her fat ugly unborn child
    she destroyed my life forever
    gone the tooth brush, the shirts,
    the second hand trousers (were supposed to be blue), the maxi, the with mayonnaise,
    Iím about to cut the tree in the garden and let it fall on me...
    beep! Whatís that? beep!

    Kiss me stupid! says Billy... uumm... Dean... uumm... Kim... uumm... she!
    hiding on the other side of the screen
    and I decide to postpone my tree plans for next Friday 13th, whenever it might be.
    Everybody deserves an 11th chance, or is it the 12th already?...
    even I.




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tales of you

    did I tell you?

    your toe,
    the skin dry, cracked,
    signs of once upon calluses signs of recent blisters
    toeprints barely discernible
    the heel slightly leathery
    your ankle delicate, doll like, some tiny veins visible
    the calf shapely the knee round the thigh a mix of muscle, flesh and tendon
    hiding the drama of fiery passion under thin layers of cellulite and tiny hair roots
    turning animalic steel once I approach the door to your...

    your belly,
    flat, some fat making it soft
    some scars making it feminine
    a flurry of dimples pimples freckles birthmarks petechiae maculae
    hiding unsuccessfully under a fluffy layer of soft, colorless hairs
    surrounding your belly-button
    ascending your hips your buttocks
    descending the valley of secret, unwritten poetry and the door to your...

    your back,
    the bony vertebrae
    creaking, cracking, whining with each move displacing the natural order
    under the unnatural handling my palms choose to offer
    the ends of ribs
    starting soemwhere where your breasts choose to bristle
    running along sides where shivers choose to reside
    cutting like rapier ends into the restless palms
    that once belonged to my arms
    and now look for those ancient, forbidden paths leading to the door to your...

    did I tell you
    that age made you as beautiful
    as La Gioconda before Leonardo and La Juliet before William
    and La Venus before Alexandros?

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Amuck

    I sink my fingers into your hair
    pull your head back
    and bite, hungry,
    a famished dog, an angry reptile, a horde of ravenous termites
    basic instinct taking over
    demolishing reason, infesting muscles,
    teeth
    crunching teeth,
    the howl...

    I comb your hair, softly,
    forehead through scalp through nape, neck, shoulders,
    softly, again, again,
    I lick your wounded lip, I lick your wounded breast, your thigh...
    ...are you back?... you ask,
    cuddling into my chest
    and counting my ribs and the bites, scratches, blue spots along them...
    ...are you?... I ask,
    accepting you into my skin, flesh, heart.

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another day

    the beast
    wakes up in the east,
    caressing urbanely the belly of lizards
    while boiling the shadows in cauldrons of wizards,
    its manner subdued,
    even prude.

    the day
    like a screaming old jay
    marks ruts through tranquilityís somnolent valleys
    with larks waking up in zephyr carried galleys
    and chirrup invades
    the glades.

    a she
    morningís fresh potpourri,
    a she that is you writes her rhyme on my chest
    then chases the beast and its flowers way west,
    I watch her depart
    with my heart.

    hey you,
    the one whom I knew,
    return to the tree growing tall at my feet
    curl naked and pert on my poetry sheet,
    forget day and beast,
    and feast.

    then smile,
    I donít mind your guile,
    I donít mind your innocence, folly or lust,
    I donít mind the tinkle, the wrinkle, the dust,
    just bring back your breast
    to my nest.

    the beast
    falls asleep in the mist,
    the lizards, the wizards retreat to the cracks,
    the larks float to earth among zephyrs and flax,
    my wishes unwrap
    in your lap.

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Independence

    I donít undress you
    you undress yourself

    I don't make love to you
    you make love to yourself
    my body your tool of pleasure and torture before insanity
    after insanity after resignation
    before the smile summing it all up in a few wrinkles

    I donít dress you
    you dress yourself
    fighting off my clawing fingers
    digging into your cotton like bur hooks like hawk talons
    like assailant grapple

    I donít undress you
    I tear your cottons I invade you I veil you
    caresses

    I donít tell your story
    you sigh

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legends

    you dress yourself aroma of linden flower,
    you comb your hair backwards
    with my fingers

    naked, sitting on my knees an telling me the story of Penelope
    and of Cinderella and of Isolda
    chasing a ladybug on my chest

    then chasing it on foot as it flies away
    your bouncing breasts driving insane a few misguided hummingbirds
    then you return to sit on my knee,
    naked

    you paint rainbows with five fingers in the air
    then on my cheek
    I cannot see the result but I see the blush in yours

    the sudden rain awakens your nipples
    and drives the hummingbirds to the shelter of your dangling hair
    you change one knee for the other

    then you join them together
    spread your thighs around them and sit facing me
    and you fall asleep on my chest, my wet hairs your cushion

    my index finger guiding one hanging baby bat
    to hang from your left shoulder
    like a tattoo of heaven on a madonnaís left shoulder-blade

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The Kaleidoscope In My Mind, And Other

    A million years, give and take a few,
    is all it takes to write a poem.

    I tried a few shortcuts, didnít have a million years,
    had no choice.
    It shows. Imperfect.
    Hope forgiveness is one of your traits,
    allowing for imperfections,
    for weaknesses, for mistakes, for a comma forgotten.
    An exclamation mark. A kiss.

    Tried also listening to music instead of writing a poem.
    Not bad as an approximation, almost.

    You light candles. You try to move your hands above them,
    whisper what you imagine you are supposed to say,
    you try to prepare food the way you think you should,
    you listen to music. In your heart.
    You write poetry. You find the approximation enchanting,
    mine, yours, ours, almost life. Maybe better than life?

    We walk side by side. I try to catch your hand, miss,
    you try to catch my hand, miss,
    a dog runs between us barking happily,
    followed by a duck, a few cats, no elephant. I wouldnít mind,
    I wouldnít be surprised. This is the way of poems
    and we donít have a million years
    so we find the otherís hand and make love there, on the street.

    I will drink sweet wine, I say. I will drink beer, you say. Why? I say.
    I will paint a flower on your cheek I say. I will smear the ink, you say. Why? I say.
    The dog runs back happily. An elephant follows. I knew.
    Why? you say. Why what? I say. Why life? you say.
    Because of poetry, I say
    and you pirouette in a cloud of dust
    allowing the world to see your thighs and me to see your heart.

    We embrace, the tree between us, hands stretched to the limit, fingertips touching.
    Life is beautiful with you, I say.
    You donít say, you hook fingers into mine, crush the tree to a rose
    and let the thorns spike our chests.
    Now we are one you say,
    watching the blood stream between our bodies,
    as the dog chases the butterfly on the tip of its tail
    and the moon allows you to wear its crown
    at least until we part. Never.

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Of You

    I saw you dressed.
    I saw you dressed undressed dressed
    I saw you in between, both ways,
    all stages.
    You even created some new in-betweens, specially for me, thank you.
    No, not enough of them, itís never enough
    but thanks, nevertheless. I know you tried.
    I know you keep trying.
    No, I donít prefer you undressed,
    I prefer you beautiful, you are, all stages, any stages... sure, I donít mind, dress.
    Wait! Did I say... dress?

    I saw you beautiful.
    I saw you beautiful beautiful beautiful
    I saw you in between, many ways,
    a variety of stages.
    Yawning noisily, dancing divinely, chewing majestically and swallowing sloppily,
    limping, pirouetting, chasing cats and guiding grasshoppers across the street.
    I touched you,
    sometimes while yawning, sometimes while guiding
    always while sleeping. You, not I.
    Yes, you touched me too while sleeping,
    I, not you.
    Beautiful has no definition, though one I know of is you.
    Yes, even dressed.

    I saw you. I see you.
    I saw you, I see you, I make love to you.
    I make love to you even when I donít see you,
    stages irrelevant.
    Yesterday you flew around the linden treeís top, dropping flowers around me,
    the day before you did the same, it was a blossoming cherry tree
    and even before that you flew, the other way around,
    collecting nectar and pollen from the rosy apple flower
    painting my face clown, painting my body naked and my clothes burnt
    and making love to me, four days ago and more and again.
    Then painting me dressed to paint me naked just to make love to me again,
    yeah, excuses.
    You donít need any. Just tell me.

    Swirl around me, be the river.
    Blossom around me, be the orchard.
    Touch me, be the wind.

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Somewhere Along The Way

    Somewhere along the way
    I stopped writing poetry and I started writing poems.

    I took the stranglehold off the glib, pseudo-intelligent
    and moved it over to the elaborately persuasive, invasive, compulsive
    dragging within the mesh lifetimes of art
    and eternities of lost opportunity of beauty,
    songs
    now lost, now forgotten, now never written.

    Your bare shoulders flutter
    on both sides of your bare spine
    under you bare neck
    overseeing your hanging breasts and lower hanging nipples above my avid mouth
    and I try to return to the poetry of writing
    while gulping the poetry of flesh,

    Where are your fingers
    while not around the pen
    while not between my ribs
    while not evicting from you the remains of soap and the remains of me?

    Maybe it is time to choose a table top
    instead of a bed,
    maybe it is time to offer a fist instead of a palm,
    hairs dangling from between locked knuckles
    telling of passion as inarticulate as a Shakespearean sonnet
    and grains of salt telling of sweat burned by fires loaned from hell
    and spread through a dormant paradise
    with compounded interest until usury results and paradise absconds
    dragging with it fig leaves
    and false modesty
    and usurping hesitation.

    Of course I can rhyme like a god whoís been crawling
    On broken church tiles among worshipers brawling,
    With fingers of fire on his ribsí naked lyre
    Playing Erosí crude hymns among craving limbs sprawling.


    At your side, at times.
    Behind you, at times.
    Inside you, at times, every times, any times, selected times, indecent times,
    sinful times,
    delicious beautiful blessed times,
    all times.
    Run! a butterfly, there! and you run like an amok stricken puppy
    chasing the butterflies I draw on sand wings open, close, open, close,
    wipe, draw, wipe, draw, further and further until you fall into the sea
    and the sea falls into your eyes
    and you fly
    with the butterfly.
    Smell! there, a linden tree, above! and you climb the smooth windows towards boughs
    you smell and I see and we draw
    your palms suction cups your mouth suction cup your soles suction cups
    you jump the next window upwards
    then next window sidewards
    and I follow the trail of your lilac essence
    leading me to your thighsí crossroads
    leading you to the top of the linden tree where you open arms shaped into wings
    and fly away with my heart
    and the rest of my poetry.
    Please, bring it back...
    Make love to me! Who calls to whom when we die to survive?

    I finish combing your hair,
    you finish collecting broken shells on three shores
    and I finish combing your hair again
    spraying it with broken shells
    and all the waves that died at your feet.
    There, a sun! I point to the sun.
    There, a moon! I point to the moon.
    There, other lovers! I point to other lovers and you say What other lovers?
    Three puppies run away from their owner
    to pee on our ankles possessively
    chasing us all the way into the sea, we bark, they laugh, we all howl,
    a pelican chased by a seagull hides underneath your wet skirts
    I join him and he prefers to run away
    while I peel your textiles
    and wash your ankles and your armpits
    then carry you to my lair
    where we mate and then make love.

    I rave through the throes of untinged inanition
    Abiding the touch of impleting perdition,
    Effulgent desire spitting rivers of ire
    Finds den in the sanctum of thighs and cognition.


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Heat Wave

    So what if you wear a skirt?
    So what if your legs lean up on the table edge
    and your skirt dangles down to the floor
    and I drop a book just close by,
    you donít really think I do it on purpose, do you?

    You donít really think I follow the back of your knee and the inner of your thigh
    and the soft, white rim that penetrates your fleshís roundness
    leaving something to my eyes
    something to my imagination
    and something to my despairing lust...
    do you really think I think this way?
    Do you really think I am able to think at all?

    Oh, sorry, it is hot,
    you asked for the ventilator, didnít you, the oscillating one?
    You did not? Oh, it is so hot... I was sure you did, it was probably the cat,
    meowing, yes, ha-ha.
    No, I did not mean it to blow your skirt further up,
    first beyond your knees,
    then up your thighs
    then over your head, you understand my prude rush to go and grab your skirt
    and pull it down tucking it for security between your legs,
    sorry, my fingers just missed the mark in the rush of the moment
    I was over-zealously tucking
    didnít pay attention I tucked slightly too high
    pushing too hard
    misunderstanding the resistance to my tucking efforts... forgive me?

    Tell me,
    donít you think it might be better to remove your skirt altogether?
    This will solve the book problem, the regard problem, even the tucking problem,
    there will be nothing to tuck, ha-ha, isnít it hilarious?
    I promise even to turn around.
    No, this mirror is not reflecting,
    I mean it is reflecting but I wear polarized eyeglasses and I see nothing reflected,
    hey, where are you? lift your left hand, did you?... see?... I see nothing.
    No, donít put it on the back of the chair... huh?
    No, I did not see until a second ago, I guess it is a technological miracle,
    I see now, I see now, since I saw already
    mind if I turn around?

    You sweat, damn heat, let me cool your skin a bit, ok?
    Iím just helpful, my nature,
    here, here, your forehead, nice and chilly, no?
    you neck, give me the shirt, it prevents air from your body, nice,
    yes, sure, the bra as well, such horror, preventing air from your breasts,
    mmm... like the cool towel around your nipples, nice, no?
    No, I look just not to make any mistake, not just to... look, you know,
    yes, I do not mind being even more helpful
    comes with generations of helpfulness,
    sure, pull them down from the hips, down your thighs, beyond your knees, ankles...
    I will hang them to dry on the back of the chair...
    why? my shirt? my trousers? my?... are you sure?

    Are you really... sure? It might get a bit too hot, you know?
    okay, okay...
    are you really really sure?... oh, really really really...
    mmmmmmmmm...

    Hey, what was that? a tsunami?
    I ask, gasping for air and watching my various parts spread all over the floor.
    She stretches to twice her length
    then coils languorously three times around me, licking every inch of her passage...
    mmmmmmmmm... delicious...


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Backwards

    I stopped counting the years
    backwards.
    Too few left, depressing.

    I started counting falling leaves, instead.
    Theyíll never end to my knowledge
    before the end of my knowledge.
    A preferable entertainment.

    Why donít you count mosquitoes, or cockroaches? she asks, theyíll never end too,
    and she stretches languorously over me
    allowing me a taste of falling nipples.
    Will the falling nipples end? I ask. Will the taste end? I ask,
    after it ends,
    and she lifts the sun above the sea with a laughter and an encore.
    Leaving me guessing.

    I walk to the bathroom backwards,
    return backwards as she takes her turn.
    Are you trying to turn time? she asks.
    A little, I am trying to see more of you than naturally expected,
    and this time she lifts the sun to some number oíclock, doesnít matter which.

    She offers me another encore when back, I refuse.
    Some numbers better be left in unitary digits per day, I insist,
    though she wins
    and I gladly lose the argument.

    I stopped counting the years, backwards.
    I stopped counting years, altogether.
    I stopped counting.
    I moved into collecting sun jumps instead, a better hobby
    with toes fighting off the wet sand
    to cuddle and fall asleep inside a crumbling sand castle.

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Like Writing Flesh, Like Writhing Flesh

    When I write
    I donít think. I write.

    Sure, there are words there,
    rules, grammar, exceptions and punctuations,
    even some peeks inside encyclopedic articles
    or dictionaries. So what?
    I donít think. I write. Who needs to think
    when all that is needed is a tube filled with ink
    grappled by a robotic machine composed of flesh and phalanges
    and the rest is pure automation. Like an Ouija board.
    Only that one is farce.
    This one is reality. Emotion. Love. Passion. Fire.
    Poetry.
    Who needs to think?

    I tear your clothes, is it poetry too?
    I cut them to ribbons
    then tie them to artificial flowers
    then cover your nakedness with colorful knots
    and tips of fingers arranging and rearranging the knots
    so they feel better
    and I see better
    and we glue better shared nakedness and poetry
    yet to be written.

    You tear my clothes, this is poetry.
    You cut them to ribbons
    then knead them to dough mixing my cloth with my flesh
    then my sweat
    then my remnants of glimmering traces trailing all the way from you
    to me and back
    and you feed me the concoction adding
    crumbs of fallen plaster and splinters of splintered bedknobs
    and your suffragette nipples demanding equality of opportunity
    with your tongue and snarled hair
    and swollen desire.

    When I finish writing
    I never finish writing.

    I dig a hole to fill it petals of white roses
    and snowflakes guarded from three winters ago
    and thorns burnt to ashes inside a matchbox painted red hearts
    and I carry you,
    lilac between your dangling toes and wheat plaited with your hanging hair
    and bees harvesting nectar at your corner of lip
    as I lay you inside the brimming hole
    together with me and with you and with us and with poetry
    watching the overflowing petals and snowflakes and ashes flow between tree roots
    and down snake burrows
    and all the way into butterfly wings wishing for birth.

    I ask you to write alongside me
    the opposing calligraphy of mirrored bodies,
    the new words born of breaking all pens
    and spilling all inkwells
    and tearing all pages
    as we inquire the vicissitudes of ripping skin and reaping sighs
    and ripening words.

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writing under the influence

    I read verses
    others wrote to other

    the complexities of expression exploding against my intellect
    until I excommunicate intellect and instill emotion
    and the complexities of expression infuse,
    penetrate,
    finally gain sense in their colorful, immeasurable way

    now I can sit down and write the poetry
    that you do not have to understand,
    just let glide between descending eyelashes and fresh mascara
    along with the splinters of glass
    and the melting snowflakes collected along the way

    treetops, what are treetops? you ask
    and I do not remember having written about treetops
    telling me you see your wish
    and fill the lines between my lines with odoriferous remnants of forgiving forgetfulness
    twined with rose garlands
    and lilac ashes

    you donít ask what is love

    you know I do not know what I write about
    and you are clement in refusing to shame my ignorance
    preferring instead to point me to a point of sky
    where stars are not yet born
    and ask me to fill it with words,
    which I find easy

    another day has flung its coat upon the western guards,
    my cheek inhales the bluish tint amongst the inkwell shards
    with mustangs trotting in the mud transuding through my lips
    and scraps of dream remindful of the lust beneath your hips...


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ogre

    soft,
    I wish I knew to write it
    like you.

    like you
    write
    like you
    are.
    soft.
    like pollen like honey like your breast nipple excluded milk included.

    you dance
    and your toetips trace hieroglyphs in the sand
    telling of fire setting in the west
    and fire rising in the left
    of your chest,

    you sing
    and your vowels echo from shop windows
    when you hide behind the glass
    the consonants, the fluttering skirt
    and the unanswered questions
    of your flesh,

    you dream
    and you smile
    like a dropping snowflake like billowing silk like sand after melting before freezing into glass.

    thankfully there is no wind today, I say,
    why? you say,
    because I would have to tie a string around your waist
    and drag you behind me somewhere between lamppostsí tops and larksí bellies, I say,
    and everyone would peek under my skirt, you say,
    but only I would know, I say,
    know what? you say.

    I smear butter on your soles
    then I smear butter on your palms, on your lips,
    are you preparing me for sacrifice? you ask,
    I sprinkle salt on your soles
    then I sprinkle salt on your palms, on your lips,
    are you preparing me for sacrifice? you ask,
    I undress you and make love to the rest of you
    only to watch the green flames consume your soles, your palms, your lips
    before you commence kneading the ash leftovers into my skin
    feeding the ogre
    who lives on the blood of words
    and the softness of longing.

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Psychicicity

    I said Good morning, my love.
    She said Good morning, my love.
    I said Good morning my love, my love, my love, my love.
    She said Good morning my love, my love, my love, my love.
    I said You echo me.
    She said You pre-echo me.
    Great, at least I wasnít talking to a wall.
    You are not talking to a wall.
    Oops, a psychic, hopefully she doesnít read the rest of my mind.
    I know whatís on your mind.
    Well, maybe it wasnít as bad as that, I guess, she didnít run away screaming.
    Why should I?
    Gulp! is much too insignificant an onomatopoeia for my throatís behavior.
    Why should I wear that skirt?
    Oof, I let my breath out slowly, my convulsing throat back to normal,
    wiping my brow on her breasts then descending to her belly.
    She giggled, it was ticklish.
    The skirt was yesterdayís discussion.

    I said Do you want butter on your toast?
    She said Do you want butter on your toast?
    Or marmalade?
    Or marmalade?
    I eyed her suspiciously, she was either making fun of me or not paying attention.
    Mama made marmalade?
    Okay, the worst of them all, an echoing psychic rhyming poet lover.
    Are you an echoing psychic rhyming poet lover? I asked,
    in my mind, not aloud.
    Yes.
    I started shivering...
    Butter and marmalade, yummy yummy.
    Oof, once more, and she could echo herself all she wanted.
    I rushed to her side of the table, made her stand up
    pulled down her panties
    and kissed there where it counts,
    pulled them back up, kissed again, pushed the chair underneath her
    and rushed to my side of the table
    piling three layers of marmalade in between three layers of butter
    and adding olives, eggs, goat cheese... no, not on the toast,
    on her plate.
    Something wrong, my love?
    Yes, I love you. I thought it, I didnít say it, didnít fit the question.
    No, I love you. I said it.
    She smiled, the butter, the marmalade, the crumbs dripping to her chin
    and in a cleavage that gave me a religious thankfulness moment.
    You smile strangely.
    I licked her chin clean and took her hand.

    I thought I am frisky...
    She said I am frisky.
    I thought I want you, now...
    She said I want you, now.
    I thought I want to tear that cloth, that underwear...
    She said I want to tear that cloth, that underwear...
    He he, she wasnít any echoing psychic rhyming poet lover,
    I had no underwear underneath that cloth...
    ...to wear, to tear
    that underwear...

    okay, maybe rhyming poet...
    mmmmm...
    mmmmm...
    okay, maybe echoing rhyming poet...
    and milliseconds before I was about to tumble on my back
    I found her tumbling atop of me...
    okay, maybe echoing psychic rhyming poet...
    lover.
    lover, I echoed.
    I guess there is none better, I thought,
    our clapping bellies creating an echoing psychedelic rhyming poetry of their own.

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Question Mark

    Thereís enough animal
    left in me
    to be called human with a question mark.

    To crave your thighs around my neck,
    a flesh necklace weighing much like a corpse
    crushing much like a python
    smelling like woman.

    To howl above the one hundred decibels thick wall of sound
    of Rock and Stones blasting from monster loudspeakers
    and be heard beyond the one hundred decibels
    blasting from the depths of your throat
    and all the disjointed joints of your body.

    To accept the singular reality of shared death
    and its aftermath of life
    with as sole memory a liquefied mixture of sweat, saliva, semen and blood.

    Refusal, to disentangle tentacles,
    to tear open wounds crystallized against wounds,
    to pull teeth out of knuckles
    and gasp for oxygen, nitrogen, hydrogen and lilac perfume.

    A cloud crosses the moon,
    the big yellow eye blinks closed for a moment
    then opens again
    letting bat shadows flutter across its scarred surface
    together with falling leaves.

    Itís soon autumn, I say,
    finding my humanity again.
    I wonder if I am sorry for either.
    Your hair is glued to my thighs,
    I start unsnarling it softly
    shooting excuses your way just to allow me to never end combing it -
    dead moths, dry leaves, fleas, broken pins, dandruff,
    drops of dew carrying buried pearls
    and swallows begging to pad their nests with its silk and luster.

    You wait, patient.
    Knowing soon the question mark will strike my humanity anew
    and the animal leftovers will take over once again
    paving the road to yet another unrecorded death
    and yet another unrecorded miracle of revival.
    And beauty.

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Assumptions

    Assuming you were a virgin.
    Assuming I were a virgin?
    Yes.
    What do you mean ďassumingĒ, what do you think I was once?
    No, I mean assuming you were a virgin now.
    Were now? Were is then, are is now. No?
    No. We are in the conditional, assuming is similar to if,
    therefore if you were now is okay.
    Then why not assuming you are a virgin?
    Because are is hard and were is unclear.
    You donít have to use rude language.
    Or you mean it is unclear if I was a virgin? You must be out of your mind.

    I certainly started getting out of my patience
    my fingers doing opening and closing movements,
    I should have pushed them in my pocket for safety
    but didnít wear any pockets at the time.
    Okay, assuming you are a virgin, okay?
    Finally you get it, she consoled me, raising eyes to the ceiling,
    funny time she found for checking the plastering quality.
    But Iíll let you use were, youíre kind of cute when you do,
    and she giggled.
    It my turn to check the ceilingís plaster, but for definitely different reasons.

    Okay, assuming you were a virgin
    and your breasts would not drop but be firm, virgin style,
    and your belly would not be soft but be firm, virgin style,
    and your thighs would not be cellulited but be firm, virgin style...
    She lay back on the bed, turning her back to me,
    Okay, when youíve done insulting me, call me again.
    I think I even heard a sob,
    so I turned her around gently,
    Wait, love, the compliments are about to come...
    It sure didnít sound like it...
    She sniffed, pulling her nose and looking for a hanky in my pockets
    and since - as earlier mentioned - I did not wear any pockets at the time
    she found something else to cling to, desperately.
    I was desperate to get her off the clinging
    but did not wish to offend her yet again, I had to be brave to the end now.
    And assuming you were in Vienna
    waltzing the night away at the Zuckerbaecker Ball...
    Huh?...
    with twenty handsome hussars
    Huh?...
    ok, cuirassiers...
    Huh?...
    ok, dragoons...
    Huh?...
    ok, bradpitts...
    Mmm...
    competing for your beauty and your favors and your next dance...
    ...you mean all those body parts you mentioned earlier on would be firm, yes?...
    I preferred to continue my line of reasoning,
    though I did not like all of a sudden the reduced clinging...
    ...And I was a young, low servant, low of class, low of money, low...
    How low?
    ...very low...
    So low?
    ...and I would have come to you, giving you a poem and declaring my endless love,
    my bursting heart,
    my dream of sharing with you a life of passion, of flowers, of butterflies...
    ...how low did you say?...
    what would your answer have been my love?

    The clinging was gone.
    I didnít think she fell asleep, not by the way she kept interrupting.
    Her breathing regular, eyes flitting under eyelids
    no doubt examining hussars, cuirassiers,
    her mouth smiling from time to time
    and at one moment moaning contentedly... did she reach the bradpitts?...
    well, I opened the Pandora, now I had to deal with it.
    Me and my big mouth.
    Lie down!
    Huh?... It looked like it was my turn to huhíing.

    Assuming I were not a virgin...
    Assuming?
    Assuming my breasts drop, my bellyís soft, my thighs cellulited...
    A...a...a...assuming...
    I had to be careful with the intonation.
    Assuming you were not a hussar, cuirassier, dragoon,
    you looked like a bradpitt if not for your tits, belly, thighs...

    Hmmm... assuming!
    I raised slightly my voice and intonation, carefully choosing the exclamation mark.
    She got up, on her knees,
    pushed a finger against my breastbone and made me fall on my back
    ...yet assuming I loved you...
    Loved???
    The three question marks pealed like church bells.
    No, assuming I loved you NOW!... it was payback time, so I shut up...
    and thinking of hussars... grrr... cuirassiers... grrrrrr... dragoons... grrrrrrrrr...
    no, not bradpitts... thank god for small favors...
    I saddled you...
    sounded slightly better, she did...
    and started riding you...
    sounded much better, she did...
    and now assuming all assumptions about breasts, belly, thighs have to be tested,
    mutually...

    sounded perfect, she, did...
    You mean asummmmm...
    Yes, asummmmm...

    Some poetry lacks words.
    Iím afraid I reached this stage in my recount.

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Boiling

    Iím going to boil my brain, she said.

    I guess she meant she was going into the sun.
    Or maybe she was going to sit in front of the microwave.
    Or maybe she was going to become a radar technician? an x-ray technician?
    an astronaut? Which nut wants to become an astronaut?
    Do you want to become an astronaut?
    Maybe rather an astronut, he-he?...
    No answer.
    Who else boils their brain? Maybe she meant brains?

    Hey, what did you mean?
    No answer.
    I started worrying, maybe she was in the boiling process already.
    Lover, careful, donít boil the body too... argh... I mean leave something... argh...
    (is argh the right onomatopoeia, I wonder?...)
    I mean donít boil the whole of it, I mean the body... argh...
    I mean the brain... breasts... arr... brains...
    I mean think of all the shoes you leave behind.
    Write a poem about boiling, donít do it for real.
    No answer.

    ď...and there was no shadow
    and the asphalt melted around my shoes
    and I had to walk between the stinking cars
    and I tore my skirt on a nail forgotten on a tree together with a wash line and one sock
    no I did not take the sock
    yes I took the nail
    and I am sweating between my breasts
    and between my toes
    and between my thighs...Ē


    Okay, she didnít boil. Not her brains, for sure now. She mentioned thighs, no?
    But I wasnít fully unworried yet.
    Love, I mean, love, is all your... arr... body... arr... ok?

    ď...and Iím going to grab your xxxx (censored)
    and bite your yyy (censored)
    and Iím going to zzzz (censored) you
    and the dog barked
    and the cat jumped from the tree...Ē


    Okay, she didnít boil. Maybe her hearing did. None of her flesh.
    Now I was certain.
    Love, Iím so glad none of you boiled.

    ďHuh?Ē

    She opened the door carefully,
    the baseball bat ready in her hand.
    I disregarded that,
    went all over her minutely, did not find any unidentified damage,
    all was previously inflicted by me,
    then I licked her all over too
    knowing the tip of the tongue to be more sensitive,
    all seemed right,
    then I checked various specific points with a magnifying glass...
    hey, your tits look bigger, and I kept changing the zoom...
    Perfect.
    Love, none of you boiled.
    Say aah. She said. Sing a song. She sang.
    Whatís this, a tooth-pick? Ha-ha, I took the baseball bat away
    then smeared yoghurt all over her
    then let her make her threat true.
    The censored one.

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Contrasts

    You write
    softly,
    I donít say I wish to write like you
    I say I wish to think like you,
    softly.

    You open your mouth to the sky
    and it fills down
    I open it
    and it fills gravel,
    no, none edible
    but you find strawberries at times inside the down,
    I find olive pits. Not even olives. I refrain from wondering who spit them.
    Does it get later into ink? I guess so.

    You lay a blanket of soap bubbles on the bed
    welcoming my nails and screws,
    You chase butterflies where I find only mosquitoes,
    when I regard my wrist-watch
    you regard the falling of sand, counting the grains to next time
    and liberating imprisoned fireflies...
    aha, now I know why your eyes glitter.

    Your womanhood... soft,
    my... I wonít say it... hard, well, mercifully so. I think.
    Watch, music, you say
    and I donít know where to watch,
    Watch, lust, I say
    and you know exactly where to watch.

    Letís meet,
    there where you comb my eyebrows
    and I comb your breasts,
    where you comb my eyelashes
    and I comb your hips,
    where I stop combing you and suddenly you slash
    through down, through bubble soap
    and you meet me on the gravel and olive pits and nails
    and I cower and you tower
    and we bite.

    Your poems always end savagely, you say
    sheathing the nails.
    I watch in the mirror the red ruts criss-crossing my chest,
    cannot see my back, I feel it,
    and watch you opening your mouth to let down melt into it
    and I open my mouth and gravel snaps my teeth
    and I have no answer and I stop looking for an answer
    and I care not for an answer
    as I lie on my back letting you comb my chest
    and lick pain away from red dripping ruts.

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Before The Threshold

    Your head on my shoulder.

    We pass under the bridge
    and garlands start dropping around us.

    You lift your head, in wonder,
    Donít, I say
    as the garlands start withering
    and you haste to lay it back on my shoulder
    and the garlands start flowering.
    I will get a stiff neck, you laugh.
    I cup your breast.
    Now you can, I say.

    You lift your head, carefully,
    and blue birds start picking garlands and dropping them around your neck.

    We pass the bridge and look back,
    the only garlands those around your neck,
    the only birds those carrying your robeís train.

    Dream? you ask.
    Yes, tell no one, I answer
    carrying you over the threshold.

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Lady Gugu

    You have a spelling mistake, she said.
    No, I donít.
    You do.
    I donít, you called them gugu, didnít you?

    First email... a gugu laid an egg in my flowers pot...
    her eyes shining...
    Second email... the gugu laid a second egg...
    shine changing to tears, dancing...
    Third email... the gugu mother broods, maybe it is the father?
    a pirouette, she falls against the bed frame
    and rushes limping to the window
    afraid she might have scared away the mother, father, whatever...
    no way, a lion would not have scared away the mother, father, whatever...
    Fourth email... where are they?
    Fifth email... where are they? foot stamping impatiently.
    Sixth email... they are here!... two!...

    Of course two, what did you expect - seven?
    They are pigeons not cats.
    I think I heard her shriek all the way from there to here,
    though Iím not really sure. Maybe it was a passing airplane.
    I know I saw her, thatís a certainty.
    They are so wet, and ugly and wonderful.
    Red nose running against the window pane,
    eyes running, mouth running...
    In a few seconds she retrograded to child,
    to even before she knew she were what they called a girl kind of child -
    making faces to the poor hatchlings,
    rapping softly with her fingernails,
    googooing to them, then guguing, maybe a change of language would help,
    trying to communicate with them...
    for Godís sake - trying to communicate with pigeon chicks...
    Luckily she did not scare away the pigeon parent,
    sex unclear,
    who finished the job of procreating and took over the job of feeding.

    She started taking pictures of them, sending over...
    ...see, this is small pigeon shit...
    see, this is bigger pigeon shit...
    see, I have enough pigeon shit to export to the Chincha Islands.

    I did not want to correct her,
    specifying that selling shit is limited to other bird species and bats.
    Pigeon shit is just pigeon shit, and if it had a market
    Piazza San Marco would have become a gold diggerís pilgrimage of choice.
    But as long as images of the small piggyís (she called them guguís)
    kept pouring in
    I let her have her dreams. Pictures poured in.
    My disk started nearing overflow,
    I would soon have to buy an additional one. Probably two terabytes.
    Another shriek, this time I was sure it was not an airplane.
    They flew. With pappy gugu. They are back. They are beautiful.
    I am in love.


    I knew she was slightly exaggerating there, I mean
    I knew she was in love with me. She said it.
    She even said only me.
    Could be...

    Disaster. Sudden. Distress. Immeasurable,
    as a tearful email crawled in...
    ...the little guguís got suddenly frightened,
    they flew away without their parents,
    they are lost,
    the parents are here calling them, searching for them all over the city,
    they will die of hunger, cats, cars, chefs (French),
    my heart is breaking...
    It was, of that I was sure. Breaking. It scared me.
    She joined the search party, not thinking where or how,
    just to be out there,
    part of the gugu family, part of the family of life, race species sex a non-issue,
    blistering at the end of the day, crawling back tired, thirsty, hungry...
    Sudden happiness, even partial...
    ...papa gugu just flew in with one baby, he is feeding it now...
    they flew out together,
    I am following...
    she even forgot the ritualistic muaaaaahhhhh
    as she followed.
    Hey, what are you, Lassie? But my email fell on deaf eyes,
    she was already following
    God knows where, God knows until when,
    hey, there might be cut-throats around!...

    I found them.
    Now, this was what I would call a miracle.
    Papa and mama gugu found a sheltering place in the field,
    they will be ok. I recognized the babies by the fluff on their heads.
    They guguíed to me and I guguíed back.

    I kinda believed that.
    Now I am happy again.
    Letís make love.


    I wish I was there then. I really wish I was there then.

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Presence

    That moment in the day,
    when you are not there.

    Define it!

    I cannot define the inexistent.

    She smiled. You can be a philosopher about it.

    You mean the quiet?
    No birds?
    You mean the colors, black and white? Not even gray.
    You mean words?

    Words?

    Yes, words, like dictionary, not like poetry.
    And even this lacking.

    What could a dictionary be lacking?

    Words. Words like when you are there,
    like softonomics, artomation, kissmet...
    Expressions. Expressions like when you are there,
    like the number of the breast... I could hear her giggling...
    a penny for your tights... she started laughing...
    absence makes the horny grow fonder... she was getting hysterical,
    I had to stop before risking a heart attack,
    so I didnít quite spell it when I said
    ...and I wonít tell you what put a cork in it turns to...
    she moved from getting to got.

    It took three days.
    Quiet. Not the she not there but the she there quiet. Some hiccups.

    Youíre putting me on, she finally managed.

    Now, this is an expression that should be used,
    in its unblemished form, even with you around... DONíT! I had to shout
    as her face was starting to deform again,
    or I would have had to wait another three days.
    She DONíTed.

    I know of no such words, or expressions.

    Sure.
    I guess you are with you less than you are with me.

    Is this part of your philosophy?

    This is part of me.

    Kisses are not philosophical.
    Some expressions took new meaning.
    She made sure of it.

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