Blue In Blue... The blue in your blue The one which I knew Like you, like your blue. The gold left untold As moments unfold And memories mold. The blue and the gold Your beauties of old, The gold and the blue You adorable shrew...

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Stratums... You weren’t born. You don’t exist. You never existed except in those fertile fields of my crazed imagination as I let loose the galloping horses I tied myself to and each took its own whim and direction trying to show me the infinity of choice and of pain and of beauty finally meeting, foaming at the mouth at the other end of somewhere close to nowhere pieces of me dangling from each smelly rope circling each sweaty neck and yet patched-together me still did not find your equal, not even after I tried camels, and then crows, and then whales. Tired, torn. Gave up. Admission. Jealousy? What jealousy? Love? What love? Lust? What lust? What? Define the non definable. As I roam above and under and in and out and around and all over my lover and watch you one bed away, seven seas between us, And you roam under and above and out and in and around and all over your lover and watch me one bed away, seven seas between us, and we care not for the slapping bellies and groaning throats and sweat spills squishing across seven seas and one more colliding and sizzling and mingling knowing there is no place and no reality to take our reality and accept the impossibility of sharing skin and flesh and bones at a touch of mind to mind and thought to thought and nothingness to nothingness. Where is this world? you ask. What world? I ask. And you admit to a moment’s insanity and return to world carrying groceries and smoking cigarettes and cars and banks and roads and sex and edible food and smellable flowers the only world and reality, knowing sanity lies in in-between worlds where we never meet and never love and never lust and always meet and always love and always lust and words you birth I carry and words I spit you suckle the lands forgotten by the once-upon-a-timers and unknown by the once-upon-a-lovers and skin and flesh and bones dematerialize into the most famous of untold stories carrying that uptold non definable into the realms of sublimity to reign absolute. You smile, I smile, knowing me insane, knowing you insane, and skin under skin and between skin and twined with skin and fingers under fingers and between fingers and twined with fingers and gasps under gasps and between gasps and twined with gasps and as we pull apart once more smeared with our insides outside after our outsides met inside our ravenous humanity bellowing its satisfaction, we return once more to groceries and cigarettes and cars and banks and roads and sex and edible food and smellable flowers sole owners of the knowledge of non definable.

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Glass Garden... Stepping around, almost no place between the thousands and thousands of flowers thin, fragile glass petals of reds and of yellows and of blues, thin, fragile glass leaves of greens and of browns and of withered, shards here and there and here cutting the careless heel to the depth of blood and muscle and the careless heel carelessly treading on feeding the desiccated ground its pulsating life and warmth and memories. I started north, you started south west, knowing the random patterns will cross time to time, steps falling inside steps, so rarely, bodies falling into bodies... ever? the smell of melting snow all powerful all encompassing coalescing with the fragrance of consumed intimacy and fractured finger bones and torn silk. I stepped on a toe... did it really happen? you pulled away yet grabbing my arm... did it really happen? we turned we clashed we crashed hundreds of petals exploding between us into a shower of cutting dust settling on skin and in skin and penetrating bleeding channels coloring thin veins into green and yellow and sparkle as rubbing flesh into flesh turned to raging fantasy and painful inebriation galloping ahead of ecstasy dragging the colorful dustcloud through brain chambers and eyeducts and out of bitten lips into thirsty throats scrapping delights right into the ends of nerves and fingers and soft intimate landscapes. You kept trekking your way smiling drunkenly or the other way around pieces of cloth and flesh missing from my attire and body clasped in your fist dropping in small pieces in your wake maybe marking the path to return? or to follow? looking for that exit only in order to avoid it and listening to my parting steps... did you hear me stumble again and more and everafter my fist clasping in turn pieces of cloth and silken skin matching perfectly those holes presently decorating the perfection of you? Din, noise, fanfares, jets, supersonic blasts, we cut through rows of marching humans celebrating ephemeralness carrying our eternal memories inside those scars that will keep re-opening each time we wander by intentional mistake into the garden and step on those glass flowers sprouting like a magical carpet from the imprints of our previous steps in wait for the scrapping sounds heralding once more and again the debacle of those never ending returns. See, my tongue is bleeding, I showed you the sparkling rainbow cutting my mouth into countless hemispheres. Countless hemispheres is incorrectly expressed, you said showing off your mind reading and sticking your tongue out to me in impertinent response and adamant invitation. Those miles separating us and we still could see each other’s tongue... ridiculous, impossible... Not really, you lashed out smashing me against the wall to prove your point and the creaking sound of broken glass underneath our soles and enveloping our rolling bodies was the ethereal music proving us both wrong... this was not reality, neither fantasy, nor dream, this was a new world we its sole inhabitants and it was the snapping tips of our fingers turning it on and off at will with the rest of humanity never able to explain those erratic flares in their sun.

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The Wrong Shoe... It was the wrong kind of shoe. It was the wrong material - not glass, the wrong color - not pink, not made in the People’s Republic of Fairies but in the other one, it wasn’t even a dancing shoe but a slipper chewed by several generations of dogs. Sorry, left the best for the end - it was a male shoe. Just for a few nights, you said, for old times sake... moving into it wearing your pink baby-doll pj’s, your clown size padded slippers with the frightening rolling eyes, your pillow for two (just in case) and blanket for one (cozier, just in case too...). I knew to have lost much of the touch, much of the magic... I still had the keys to the garden, you did not change the lock. I picked up a bunch of flowers crushed them in my hands and strew the glinting shards inside the slipper, over your head and inside your hair and inside your baby-doll pj’s... it was so nice to hear you giggle as your eyes followed me and the glinting dust tickled your skin... do you want to glean some of it? you stuck your tongue baring a glinting breast there where I could not touch it and just watch it and wonder at the charms that will forever be promised me, unattainable. Yes, I answered, knowing this to be the correct answer for the few nights when you would sneak through my closed eyelashes into my bed and offer me your pink and our memories. I woke up next morning finding the shoe empty and the unmistakable perfume of making love to me.

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Glass Tale... Does a glass flower grow? Do glass bees pollinate and glass beetles scurry and glass birds chase glass worms down glass burrows? Yes, they do. Yes, it does. Walk the path carefully, it is accurately marked with glass letters on glass panels, see... those unforgettable glass moments the first letter the first smile the first blush under the veil of distance and incinerating words, the first poem, Making love for the first time when miles mattered no more than dust in the sun, the first fight, terrible, as terrible as the making up, The miles dying to zero, sight, touch, smell, kiss, baring the flesh, invading the flesh the first time, the last time. See, told you, they grow, look at the fields and the forests and your skin in front of the blushing mirror glass flowers and glass flowers and glass flowers, Leave the door marked exit open, one day you may want to enter this way same as through the one marked entrance, or emergency, or service only, or machines room, or by invitation only... Don’t worry about invaders, there are no invaders in our garden, only bees pollinating and beetles scurrying and birds chasing worms down burrows. Don’t inhale for as long as your passage or glass dust will cut your lungs to ribbons and kill you, don’t exhale either as your breath will melt the glass dust into heavy blobs hanging on to flower heads and kill us, just pass through and leave the exit door open for as long as it takes for the garden to live. And how long it takes? Just count from one to eternity, starting now.

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Making Love On A Bed Of Glass... did you ever make love on a bed of broken glass nothing between flesh and shard but the bareness of skin? may I offer you the dubious pleasure of making love on my bed? I will glean seven armfuls of glass flowers seven bald patches in our garden screaming vengeance as I pour stems and petals and leaves upon the wooden bed to crush with bare fists and knees and soles and drag your naked body underneath mine to roll and yelp and howl your blood mixing with mine painting the transparent crystal red like the Niagara falls, like the Sahara desert, like the Amazon jungle, as glass dust covered flesh penetrates glass dust covered cavities and the rasping sounds are not as painful as the thoughts of feathered beds and pillows empty of glass and empty of us. I will lick you clean, immaculate of blood, and immaculate of glass, and immaculate of slivers, and comb you immaculate smooth, and dress you immaculate white, then fill my mouth broken glass pearls and spray upon you the beauty of broken suns and of broken poems and of broken droplets of blood. no, you never made love on a bed of broken glass, else, you would not bleed so much.

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Love Of Glass... The door was made of glass gossamer thin, fragile, I was afraid to knock lest it shatters, I knocked... it did not shatter, it opened smoothly, not even one creak. I entered, the desolate sound of glass grass crunching under my feet accompanying each step. You were there as well painting glass blades, this one green, the grass did not crumble underneath you. How do you do it? I asked. Painting? Floating. I’m made of glass too, you said painting another blade, red, and offering yourself to me knowing you would break. We made love and you broke, the glass raining. I cried one thousand and one nights then one thousand and one days there was no day between nights and no night between days in your garden. Then you were there again painting a blade yellow offering yourself to me breaking the glass raining. I cried again one thousand and one nights then one thousand and one days and you were there again... How many times? I asked. As many as there are one thousand and one nights and days in our forever, you answered, painting the next blade, this time blue.

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Lost And Found... i found you along my way i lost you along the same way, a bit further on and between the two you taught me of birth, and life, and creation, and love, and passion, and death, and pain immeasurable, endless like my desire of you no, i lie of course i never lost you no more than i can lose my shadow my heart that memory of my first time ever it was with you, you know

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Knowledge... no, i wish not to cut your finger or bite your lip or criminally scratch that soft mound hosting your nipple, i am scared to see billions and billions of red glass marbles rolling out of your body and splintering into as many billions of shards and more as they hit ground and your skin collapses and all that is left of you is your incomparable smile and sigh. yes, you can, do not worry, i don’t knowing that you will painstakingly collect all those shards and glue them once more into those red marbles and pour then back into my body through the scratch or the bite or the cut and fill once more my skin with life giving my smile and my sigh a home to hang on. how do you know? i will not have the time, the knowledge, the perseverance. i know, you have the love.

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Glass Worlds... Look! I said pointing to a falling shard burning its way to Earth. Are these also glass? asked the she-child pointing to the millions of candles flickering in the sky. Yes, all of them glass. And the sun? No, the sun is sun, I answered, sad at such disappointing answer. And this? She checked my pulse tasted my fingertips watching me with big, wondering eyes. This is glass, soft. This is glass too, she decided guiding my fingers first to her cheek then to her nipple. Yes, this is molten glass, I admitted, pulling my finger and watching it stretch until it tore away from the nipple both ends tattered and starting to mend, my fingertips mending first her nipple never mending completely. Oh, a butterfly, she chirped and started chasing it and I looked puzzled wondering at butterflies in the night. She touched it and the butterfly exploded in glass dust and she cried at killing it. No, you did not kill it, I calmed her heart, look... and the dust started fluttering millions of tiny butterflies filling the air and covering her naked skin, her eyes, glinting inside her hair. I see so many colors, she smiled, I want to touch the sun, she said. The sun is not glass, I reminded her, helping her open filigree wings and fly into the ball of fire. I never saw her again, I guess the sun fell in love with her and turned itself glass.

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Shatter... you touched your shirt and it shattered you touched your dress, stockings, shoes... they shattered you touched my breast and your finger shattered you were about to touch my lips and as I turned to run away you grabbed the nape of my neck and kissed me into delirium as all of you shattered. I sat down middle of the mound of tiny, kaleidoscopic glass shards and cried myself to death inhaling splinters of you. before falling into over I felt your heartbeat still living in the billions of shattered hearts.

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before Glass... there was no life before glass there is no life after. there is existence. breath, sex, sleep, food... existence. there was glass in between. fragile, thin, how thin? as thin as the layer of liquid glass between your eye and your eyelid. thinner. as thin as my lace? your lace? the one i do not remember the before of it only the after of it? yes. as thin as its momentary life. and the memory as thin too? the memory as thin as a tree's gnarled trunk, as a mountain's bulging belly as earth pole to pole, igloos excluded. and i? you? i tried to see you, impossible, as you were all around me upon me inside me my skin glinting with your shine yet not with your sight. there was no life before You there is no life after. there is existence. breath, sex, sleep, food... existence.

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Glaze... i squeezed you in my palm, first your hand then your foot then your breast and neck and mouth... oh, mouth... the heat unbearable was it my hold or your breath or both of us as you started melting drops of you raining crystals to Earth the tinkle of exploding beads telling me of the reality of glass and the unreality of dream? i melt into amorphousness, you said, as if i did not know, make love to me before my breast loses its rigid nipple and my thighs their muscled hold and my mouth the wonder of biting teeth. no, i said, i will release my hold on you, no, you said, hold me, tighter, and you offered me you breast before it lost its nipple and your thighs before the muscle melted away and your mouth with its teeth and tongue and moan melting straight down my throat and building that eternal lump inside of it. you melted all around me and inside me the thick flowing glass sticky with perfumes of woman and warmth of whispers unending and the finality of the ecstatic scream when i tore life back from death and your splinters chased swallows before agonizing back into the thin glaze enveloping entrails and skin and mind. i refused to move afraid the tiniest crack will turn you dust. don’t be afraid, i heard a thin voice singing in my ear, my dust will cut into your flesh never far away from your heart. and when you miss my breast just call and i will melt back into woman. legend? i asked. love, the voice answered.

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Writing Glass... I wonder when does glass end? When there are no more grains or no more hearts or just no more heart? I care not for the answer since I ask riddles after I know it. Funny, am I not, asking always questions which end with never, or forever, or eternal, so knowledgeable of the response yet so ignorant of the path there. I fill my pen once more with liquid glass transparent writing my words on transparent sheets... glass, of course, they can never break or wear out unless you step on them. Or drop them. I see you walking around, the only one able to read inside my transparencies words and sentences and meanings much beyond those I know having said and copying them secretly to your heart. If your heart would be glass it would have melted by now in the warmth of meeting, luckily it is flesh and blood. Only bleeding at glass cuts.

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Dialogue With Glass... I could see you, or rather guess at your existence by the refracting light by the breeze suddenly diverted and then returning with no vengeance, by smell, at times smelling pink dripping spring water, at times just pink... transparent, you are transparent, I said, you are not yet you are, what are you? I asked. glass, you said and I heard a tinkle when I flipped a tiny pebble your way and it did not pass through. it cannot be, it does not exist, I insisted then I should see your bones, your blood, your brains... they are all glass, your heart... my heart is glass too, both of them. both of them? yes, the one in your chest too. but then your heart can easily break, I said, horrified. true, it did. the one in your chest too. glass? or broke? both. by whom? I felt something sliding in my palm, felt soft, like flesh, like a small hand, is this your hand? I asked, afraid to squeeze too much though I desired to, I did not know how resilient your fingers’ glass was, there is no such thing as glass people, I said, uncertain though. I am not people, I am woman, it exists on my world. how many people are there on your world? just one, and I feel so lonesome. we walked, or rather I walked and you just displaced air, and flowers, I did not know if you walked or floated or did not exist except for that hand insistently squashing mine. the women on your world must have been a strong species, the woman, I mean. do you know to make love? I asked, more conversational than excited. we barely got to know each other, you responded, more disappointed at my lack of excitement than at my dare. yes, you added, disappearing. I stopped, afraid to have lost you forever, waiting for a miracle. the miracle... no, your hands slid inside my shirt a moment later and the smell of pink invaded my mouth together with your lips and your tongue and I felt a sharp pain into my lip... sorry, an old unhealing wound, you apologized, continuing the invasion now hips, probably, pushing against my hips I tried to find your breasts I did I am afraid, I wailed, don’t, you said, squeeze... we rolled on the grass and then we stopped rolling and we made love and then we rolled again laughing and crying and then we stopped rolling and laughing and crying and we made love again, all the time wondering if you could not see me the way I could not see you. and when the dream is over?... I asked not willing to receive an answer. * I kneeled in front of the empty bed, picked the palette in my hand and started with the fingernails, nacre. I want to see you, I demanded. then the magic is over, you warned me. I want to, I want to, I want to, I insisted further like a spoiled child watching fascinated those floating fingernails touching my brow, resigned. I added the pink to the fingers, the gold to the hair, the cherry to the lips and the strawberry to the nipples, the burnished copper to the ringlets, one by one, adorning the crossroads of your body, and then finally, oh, finally, the blue blue blue to your eyes... oh, god, but you are Woman, I admitted pulling back in adoration and dread seeing the color wiping away in two traces beneath the blue, were these tears rolling? I couldn’t see, I couldn’t paint, goodbye lover, I saw you lips moving but the voice was in my head and you pulled out from the insides of the paint’s thin crust and were gone, somewhere, and the crust crumbled into a tiny variegated mound and I sank my face inside it trying to inhale traces of you. oh, I cried, oh, I cried so much, and the hammer started banging against the glass in my chest...

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Ships... then, when icicles break and glaciers explode and frozen continents sink and all which is left is glass ships carrying the somnolent, tired cargos of the last of humanity's dangling hearts of long gone dust bodies, i will wander around for your dust and your heart to understand the flesh that once was and hear the slow, incipient boil of merged particles which should never have been anything but we.

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It's Nothing To Do With Walrus... It's nothing to do with walrus. Not with waffle, with wonder, with woman, not even with Wonder Woman. Not even with extraordinary, though it starts with an e and ends with a y, like you. What a mess, no? No. No. Don't expect logic or reason but rather paradox and impossibility and passionate absurdity don't expect desire but rather mad desire and insane desire and paralyzing desire when I walk your halls and smear the mud of my mindprints on your transparent glass walls and the fat of my fingerprints on your transparent glass skin and the saliva on my lipprints on your transparent glass memories and bang for doors and locks hoping to never find them but break them, and the glass and watch thin bloodprint lines squiggle their way down gravitation's vectors to reach the puddle at your feet... hey, what is the hue of your beautiful blue when reflecting in ink of effervescent pink? I lurk in your corners, is darkness enveloping me or following me? its brittle dark grey exploding from time to time when the crystal of your teeth bites into the flesh of laughter's goddess and her tasteless blood is contaminated with your crystal resulting in crystal sounds and you laugh so marvelously that grey turns breaking glass and you cut me out from your halls and seed me into your wombs together with your lusts and loves. Or womb. Or lust. Or love. You choose I drown. Smiling. Both of we. I roll and revel in your fields, smelling the woman and smelling the flower picking my teeth and cleaning my fingernails and trimming my hair with slivers of colored glass undressing and washing and perfuming my body with drops of crawling glass waiting for your visit when I will serenade you with the most inane of poems and you will show me that your fingernails and your teeth and your regards are sharper than any glass yet your depths are deeper and softer than any sun.

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Tools Of Flesh... It takes a thousand hands and a thousand times as many words to turn me pale candle, she said. All I had was one finger and a few letters of the alphabet. I did not use them wisely, merely put my heart into them. It takes one finger, yours, and a few letters of the alphabet, yours, to turn me incandescent forest, she said. It was not enough for me, forest. I wanted sun, I wanted suns. I ground my heart to glass dust dipped my finger into it and poured the rest into my words. She licked my finger, then guided it inside her mysteries unraveling worlds for me, she drank my words then let me taste the drops of blood and honey dripping from her tongue. It takes one finger, ours, and a few letters of the alphabet, ours, to turn me incandescent sun, she conceded. I gave up on suns, sun is fine and I let her burn me. There is no such fire, I knew. There is such fire, I found.

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Your Transparency... I look through you to your insides uncovering the way to tornado's haven, your transparency ending there where your heart starts and your blood barks impatiently for relief around my tide and above my howling moan of achievement of death and rebirth, your transparency ending there where your thighs start and glinting graffiti paints itself crawling down your inner skin giving in to gravitation and begging for absolution at the end of my tongue and the beginning of my body's desire, your transparency ending there where your mouth starts and white tools of war decapitate my fingers while a muscled snake coils itself around my countless tentacles letting red gate keepers suck out my entrails and vigor and blessed emerging unconsciousness, I look through you to your fire and I dive into the siren's call.

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Stepping... Stepping on broken glass, the crunching sound of broken dreams and lives loud beneath my leather boots and weight of body and passing time and youth. What has youth to do with it? she someone asks and I know it has nothing to do with it, it has to do with imminent death and its oncoming march and youth is just a milestone overturned somewhere along the way. I take off the boots take off my clothes, the crunching sound now dulled by the pillow of flesh shaping itself around the shards and absorbing the pain and the splinters, thick blood coagulating around them like mortar bringing the treasure of devastation to heart chambers. Your poetry so dark, she someone says covering her eyes with metal sheets once I open my chest and let her see the glint inside. Is this the sun? she someone asks. This is you, I tell someone she.

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Nipple Of Glass... I bit it, hearing the crunching sound and knowing of the pain to come - your demolished femininity now sliding like miles of razor wire down my throat making sure I never forget your pain, my pain. Your body coiling around me asking for more, insisting, and as I chanced my way to the second nipple I felt nails breaking under my skin and teeth shattering upon my bone letting glinting shards slide down my body cutting memories in the art of my need. Nippleless, nailless, toothless... what is left of me for you to love? you asked. The rest of your glass, I answered, taking a torch to you and melting you into the shape of forever. Then I took the torch to me melting us both into the shape of us.

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After So Many Years And One Death... there is no door out matters not how much you or I or we may be searching, no way back not even at a ridiculous final price to pay, no sideways path except towards that one point of altercation where all which is left is blank eyes and sharp odors of unending love making and mouths bathing in a saliva sizzling on the melted glaze of twined teeth. I pull my fingers away from your nipple daring not to watch the blister and hear the sigh of your breast. Song, not sigh, you correct me, pulling your hand away from my blisters and guiding mine back to yours. Where is your hand gone? I ask, devastated at the lack of pain and you amply compensate with a fist closing once more its muscled trap around my shamelessness. Come, I beg. we shut up, letting our bodies talk with the language of skin and exploding muscles, and as glass winds try to tear the grip your hair sews itself into my chest and my nails sew themselves into your hips and nothing but a cosmic upheaval can severe the ties. Making love, it cannot be eternal, you say. Birthing love, it can, I say.

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shortcut... we tried love. our own reality show with a limited public of two in between the confined walls of a rectangular screen and an elongated handset and a crowded cabin and bodily narrow passages of life. other words and rhymes and punctuation marks applauding and cheering hearts exploding and bleeding at times... blood. we invented the word, burnt all thick dictionaries and shrink definitions and unpopular beliefs and created it anew. we call it love, improperly. it is not, it does not exist we use the word as a shortcut to what does. exist. i don't wish i had the language, i want no one to know i want no earthliness to mar its purity, like the invisible face of god - see it and die yet... unseeable and god it is not as many would die for the right of one glimpse. i had that glimpse of love and i live to tell the story. maybe this god is more forgiving? maybe it is not a one god but split, between man and woman together love. the word. not the reality. the reality indescribable. i entered the cage willingly, glass all around me for you to see my outsides, my insides my intangible sides. you entered the cage willingly, glass all around us for no one to see but us. love is not a god, it is a shortcut to the entity which is us.

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i wish me... i wish me the glass gardens of your flesh to stomp around like a joyful elephant knowing nothing will be broken, neither trodden, nor shattered, i wish me the glass gardens of your mind to sow the glass seeds and water the glass sprouts and pick the glass roses imagining the flesh thorn pricking my little finger to suck heartbeats, i wish me the glass gardens of you the beauty of your stained glass framed by the poison of your lead strips inhaling the few moments of real life you own the secret to.

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The Miracle Of The Roses... And then there is the miracle of the roses and girlish pink and sunset amber and a trio of nightingales accompanies a duo of larks cutting into the green of leaf and the thickness of cobweb as the world succumbs to a deluge of Blue Ringtails and Black Torrent Darts and Ebony Jewelwings, mystical. Brutal, the all subjugating hunger vicious, beastly, rude, rapacious fists form mighty chelae grabbing ladings of cranial hair and pectoral mounds of flesh and screaming threads reluctantly slipping out of seams as abdominal muscles contract and loins contort in the glamorous frenzy of unfettered tornados slashing the flesh and igniting the lungs before that fulminating roar telling all of the end of all worlds. And of hunger. And then there is the miracle of the roses and girlish pink flows back in the valleys and sunset amber underlines once more horizon's inverted smile and a trio of nightingales accompanying a duo of larks bathes in the green of leaf and chases trills in the thickness of cobweb as the world succumbs to a deluge of Cairns Birdwings and Pipevine Swallowtails and Small Coppers, mythical. Listen... do you hear flaming glass melting back into blistered skin?

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Poor Eros... Eros might have been a god or a godling or a godly craftsman... ha, Eros was an innocent suckling, at best - a first grader before he visited your mind and mouth and skirts. to leave drunken with knowledge he never possessed nor could, even after. I saw his trail, followed it unclear if these were tears or sweat drops or sun beads and tasting when I didn't swallow and swallowing when I didn't gulp and gulping the rest like a horse after a trip in the desert looking for the taste I knew, now out there to cover the world. poor Eros, poor world, you fed them all of you except that which you reserved for me and me only - that hypnotic, exotic, erotic... charm. I broke the bottle poured the ambrosia down my throat together with the glass shards and the escaping vapors just making sure it stays this way.

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Palimpsest... Layers popping up time and again steamrolled, quashed, carved out, yet popping up, time and again from paper's fiber and cloth's stitches and skin's cells overriding reality and nature and wish... Is there such a word as eternality? How many fingers, how many palms and kisses and skin grafts have steamrolled and quashed and carved out mine? Molesting, demanding, arguing with sweat and grunts and demands your shape deforming under the weight of flesh other and of lust other and of nights shared with other. Yet popping up time and again the glass flour escaping those inerasable layers sowed by the weight of my flesh and of my lust and of my never shared nights. Your nightly bread, my nightly nightmares, our nightly knowledge.

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Bottled Memories... My collection. I opened the door to the cabinet, slowly, afraid any tremor might shatter my collection, my treasure, my bottles. This one, carrying traces of your lipstick when you gulped hungrily to fill up your bodily thirst after filling up your bodily need with me, pink, your lipstick traces, still carrying the smell of your mouth when you laughed when you cried when you gasped when you swallowed whole pieces of me, I near my nose to the bottle’s rim keeping safe distance afraid to get sucked in and be locked forever in a world of memories and fragrances. The other one, where you flicked your cigarette’s ashes in, hating your smoking envying your cigarette and your ash and your smoke willing to give up life for those moments between avid lips inside billowing lungs getting lost inside smarting eyes and parts of me falling to the bottom of the bottle, still there, grey, refusing to crumble memory of fire inerasable. The stinking bottle, capped and sealed hermetically where we peed together like the world's last and greatest of retarded kids the invisible, once yellowish vapors turning us into raging beasts the bottle overturning as we emulated its gyrating movement and hearing it spill its contents as I spilled into you and you spilled over me, I shake the bottle slightly there is still memory inside lapping at glassy entrails. The one heart-shaped, trite, even more so than a snowing glass-ball, the eau de cologne squeezed to its death and last drops as you kept pouring and shaking the bottle on our skin and our intimates claiming it made gliding smoother, and tastier... ha, I remember the taste, do you? as I lick the edge of the bottle, bitter, your sugary insides missing and the memory competing the stale wine of the present. I keep pulling them out to range them on the table dry petals breaking underneath, staining the tablecloth, sticking to wet spots underneath my eyes, the brown square one we watched the sun through the cracked one you dropped when I kissed the back of your neck the never opened one probably crawling by now with botulinum bacteria, I start blowing softly across the gaping mouths a lullaby cacophony of memories marred only by the breaking of sound as I blow across a closed bottle top and as I blow my nose from time to time.

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spillout... split the sky with your index finger's manicured nail then let it slide further down splitting my forehead my chest, these are not angels spilling out from the sky though they are winged and fire sworded and haloed, they are tailed and clawed and roared too swooping down you like heaven's fierce army to warm your bath and blow your skin dry and lullaby you to sleep... i wrote them there inside a glass jar i allowed you to shatter with your fingernail, these are not brains neither wisdom words spilling out from my forehead though they are defined and spelled and articulated, they are coarsed and rawed and indecented too swooping around you like psyche's ferocious cohorts to soothe your yearns and nurse your languishes and palliate your pines... i rhymed them there inside a glass bowl i allowed you to shatter with your fingernail, these are not ribs neither lungs nor sighs spilling out from my chest though they are murmured and passionated and desired, they are lusted and raunched and wantoned too swooping inside you like flesh's feral hordes to nourish your passion and nurture your desire and coddle your delirium... i scratched them there inside a glass heart i allowed you to shatter with your fingernail, sew the sky with your five fingers' soft fingertips then let them slide further down sewing my forehead my chest.

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Marbles... I collected the rain, as much as it fitted in my cupped palms. I knew I would find them there, not in the puddles, not in the gutters... there, in my palms. I let the water seep out, then the hail, then the pebbles, there were not many of them small, cool, transparent, I found just three. Glass marbles. This was all you sent me. I locked the room, locked the house, locked the city... touched the first. You materialized, your eyes wild with excitement unborn your arms reaching for dreams unknown your body shivering for touches uncraved, yet, "two more to go..." you laughed as we discovered love. In the morning you were gone, not even the marble, just a bud of glass denting the linen. Feverish, my skin burning, my flesh a hell my breath a desert I couldn't resist locked the world... touched the second. You materialized once more, birthing the excitement in fury knowing the dream's intensity craving for the touches you learned, before, "one to go..." you whispered living the love. You refused to go with morning, you couldn't stay, the marble gone as well into a rose of glass with sparkles of red. I watched the sun, ascending, descending, ascending... I didn't have to count the knowledge, I counted the fear feeling the weight of that last marble in my pocket.

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The Last Marble... I pulled it out from my pocket, shivering with fever with fear... I couldn’t resist the call be it even death... I touched it. She didn’t appear, I just heard her laughter sharp, clear, exploding together with the glass into... glass, thousands, millions of shards shaping themselves to thousands, millions of minuscule marbles their insides boiling with rainbows and forests and rocks melting into leaves and sunsets... I started sinking in a sea of marbles each one I touched exploding anew then anew, the beauty, the fire... enough of them? I heard her voice and I tried answering but the marbles started pouring inside me choking me, loving me... enough of them? she asked again and suddenly she was there and the flood stopped as we floated upon the clinking, endless expanse holding left to right hands. Then we joined right to left hands. Then I spit the few hundreds of marbles from my lungs and we joined mouths. Shall we join further? I heard her breathless murmur talking with my tongue clutched inside hers. Never made love on a sea of marbles, I thought afraid to answer knowing she knew the answer already. I tore her open, penetrating her body with the fierceness of a dragon’s claw pouring a river of melted glass into her womb as she devoured the insides of my mouth and our hands crushed to thin glass dust the steel of our nipples. Call me, she left her message upon my lip dissolving into the sea and I knew I had no choice but to call again... I touched another marble... I had trillions to go, why waste life?

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The One Moment Of Death... The hearth, red, reflecting in the glossy pink of your lips, in that barely visible humidity lining the top of your thighs as they part, slightly... or is the hearth a poor reflection of those flames lambent upon the inner walls of your passion? “It is a poor reflection,” you pull me over above inside and I see glass drops leaving your eyes on their way to explode on the chilly tiles as I pour my fuel into that inferno consuming us. The one moment of death – crowning a lifetime of inexistence until the one moment of life there, inside you, to die. I carry you to the bed, covering you with wet blankets to protect the walls, the room, the house from lingering fire and I watch perplexed the charred stain mid of the floor barely resembling your contorted shape. Glass shards glitter around the darkness of coal sending clusters of sparks to those bodies we call stars. I blink. This is not an illusion.

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Drawer... you sift through your underwear drawer, carefully, disturbing first the white silk then the poem, moving the laced black satin out of the way to find the poem underneath the one laced with word and rhyme and triple periods, a few cottons, pastel hued, the softness of down between your fingers and the runes I wrote upon the texture as you stretched your ass in the air offering me the view of Eden found and the papyrus of paradise lost, the pink bra... between the textile and the inner padding a short poem spiraling outwards just there around the spot where your nipple will fit in again and again for a lifetime of sighs and smiles and passion remembered. you hesitate, after laying all of your feminine delicate adornments on the bed, eyes sparkling and lips murmuring some of the words you read as you peel off the bottom of the drawer the last pair of panties that singular, strange, solitary texture weaving the glass fiber with the silver thread with the dried petals with memories. you pull them up your thighs smoothen them upon your flesh the second time in your life after that first time when I guided them the same way down vowing not to make love to you if I ever break any of their crystalline web... I did not. break. I made love to you. you pirouette in front of the mirror, dance, tiptoe, laugh, then slide your hand into the waistline and pull savagely... millions of glass drops raining upon the floor there where you step and tiny red drops stain the white tile and carpet. no one, not even you, will follow in your footsteps, you murmur, lying on the sparkling bed and covering it with thousands of red stars drying as fast as they soak into the linen. * you wake up, sit cross legged on the floor a mound of sharp crumbs to your right and slowly and patiently start lining them all together back into fiber and thread and petal knowing that when you are done you will remember the one poem you just smashed, the poem of fingers.

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Pink... Pink your panties your bra your shirt pink with its white polka dots and its eight nacre buttons... I know, I counted cursing each of them though less and less as I reached towards the last one, your skirt, your flowery tennis shoes, your stockings the left of which I ruined in my impatience promising you to replace the smoothness of nylon touch with the silkiness of finger touch... I guess I made my promise true, didn't I? White your skin pink your flesh those selected few spots I usurped with the might of king and the wail of beggar, yes, I know, I own some pink spots too and you offered me to investigate describe then usurp in your turn with the might of queen and the wail of woman eye for eye tooth for tooth pink for pink love for love, passion, lust, wildfire. I dressed your pink insides with your pink outsides, kissing each as it disappeared inside its textile cage your fingers all the while running errands through my hair down my back searching for my teeth on a mission for yours, I counted from eight down to zero the buttons... your nipples, they show, I mentioned, your lust, it shows, you grinned snubbing my clumsy attempts at decency and tearing us back into our natural pastels the litter of garments bedding our twisting whites and twined pinks.

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Of Memories... I remember when we were the last humans alive on a planet fallen prey to fire, ours. I remember when we pulled away from the other licking the dripping life knowing the wound never heals. I remember when focusing eyes told us the fire has abated and the world is back to its hum yet thunder refused to lie to sleep. I remember not ever wiping my insides clean, did you? Memories take the shape of the glass container hosting them. I broke mine to remember you differently each eye blink, not to change you but to preserve your inexhaustible rebirths of innocence.

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Conversion... You murmur, you convert my flesh into a Gordian knot of desires and frustrations and thrills and trills dying to die the painful death of whispering between your lips and whipsawing between your breasts and whining between your thighs withering into a clumsy mess of undisentanglable whorls. You listen, you smile at the sound of dripping skin filling your hungry pores with dandelion’s heart bitter milk and pine sap’s glutinous honey honing the razor of your glass sword with fingertips glittering with the dust of fine diamond words as I thrash inside my corporeal confines waiting for the coup de grace to cut the pea sized knot of that primal undefined matter into a universe.

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Book.Books... I read of your naked beauty. I read of your beautiful nakedness. I read of your beauty. Of your nakedness. In words that could not be misinterpreted, disinterpreted, needed no interpretation only knowledge. My words. Written long ago when I knew. I still know, knowledge does not change, not when it is written. By me. About you. I wonder about meanings. How come even meanings stayed unchanged when winds rushed so many times around a rolling Earth and so many generations of butterflies and flowers died before rebirth before redeath before rebirth?... is meaning something to do with knowledge? I print the sentences, cut out the words and let them fall randomly then pick them up at random as well witch – truck – smile – smile (there are more of this) – one – ditto... I sweep them all in a pile and put a match to them, I know them all by heart no need for the physical manifestation of memories. I close the book. I close the books. I lay my head on the physical manifestation of your breasts and close my eyes. I hear the sound of breaking glass. You did not break the books to forget, you broke them to prove that you do not need them as you start singing in my ears witch – truck – smile – smile...

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All I Cannot Remember... There are moments when I flash myself inside your flesh trying to remember all I miss then missing all I cannot remember then mixing between the two knowing that somewhen I will never have reason for one or the other. I never counted your toes, do you know? I never ascertained your belonging to the ten digited human race by counting left to right then right to left then trying to fit roses between those of the left and kisses between those of the right. What does it feel like to have thumb and forefinger encircling your ankle? I never unzipped you. Never zipped you either. Never pulled around your brassiere and down your silk stockings and out of way into the ripping valleys of hell your lace panties demolishing the unforgivable out of industry to uncover the out of unsatable hunger. Never washed you clean, oh, never washed you clean. Of that torrid human slime lubricating the marvelous machinery called body which, moments before the wet cloth revealed the skin underneath engulfed us in the odoriferous sensations of the burning forest around and inside our shared empires of skin, our flesh a dying army of slaves, our breath the visiting death. You never offered me a half empty glass the rim carrying your lipstick, awaiting the moment I lay a full empty glass on the night table our tongues searching desperately the other missing half down each other’s throat to find only glass dust crunching between teeth and chests and howling belly orchestras.

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Send In The Cows... Love is not an art. Love is art. Art has nothing to do with love. Art is love. Humans crowd our existence all those marching from the statistical impossibility of their existence to the absolute certainty of its end filling up the alleys and the valleys and the galleys tiptoeing there where they should gallop and dancing there where they should dance yet not yet following the dictates of others’ senses, yet not theirs. Yet not now. There is no equal to the opening top button of your shirt not in sun not in mind, there is no equal to the manner you cry knowing the knowledge you know and the wishes you wish knowing you shouldn’t carrying the single touch into your single death, there is no equal to your eye fixing the landscape no one else lets you see I let no one see your top lip hiding underneath a tongue avidly looking for sustenance before finding it before losing it before your teeth lock around my eye making me see the whispers you sigh. Motors, and steps, and slamming doors and creaking beds and cows roam while the only poets of life and body live the endlessness of years in seconds and the eternality of carnivorous beauty in drops teeth interlocked in the spasm of consummation and the agonizing multiplicity of flesh about to emerge back from poetry while motors, and steps, and slamming doors and creaking beds and cows roam. We fold our poem and mail it mouth to mouth not wondering anymore about the stamps we lick into each other’s skin.

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Nerd... True there were kisses before. There were kisses after as well. True. Certainly. Yet none the kiss. Before. Or after. Virginity before and after. And hell in between. What philter smeared your lip on mine turning the complexity of tricuspid valve and atrial septum and left ventricle and aorta into the brittleness of gossamer glass, the new profession of love nerd born. Once. I will die with it. Or rather it will die with me like never was except for words and words and words. My heart will never break. It will shatter driving generations of pathologists insane as they try to recompose the fact and the reason not knowing the reason to be woman the fact to be kiss.

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look at you... look at you through my eyes, lady, as if they were the clear of glass and you resided inside the orbs... as you do. look at you and wonder not at unrecognizing that feline shape letting rainbows spark between the nibs of its claws and dropping petals from the roses blooming in its cheeks. look at you and wonder not at colors draping the figure in waves and music enshrouding the colors and fireflies painting in the music their glitter. look at you and wonder not at halos and comets and unicorns in and out of your hair and skin and mouth. look at you and accept the irreality as the only reality which counts in me.

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After... After the muscles' frenzy decayed into limp satisfaction, after the gasps became breath and blindness just lowered eyelids once again, after we refused to pull out to pull away to pull textiles there where the fashion was burnt skin just moments before and the jewelry pure liquid and growling desire. We leaned back into the cushions smelling, smiling, savoring, watching each other in the windshield reflection knowing to be the only humans on the planet ever. "There is only one time the first time," you said. "There is only one time the one time," I said.

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Awayness... nothing won me the right to your words than words, mine and meaning, and meaning the meaning. desires are endless realities none memories only a few worthy of the pain’s beauty fantasies as many as desires and then the one more for the button I wish missing. I don’t care for your flesh I rave for it following its call till the sand is ankle deep then waist deep then mouth deep knowing you will come swimming through the dunes your tail slapping a glossy trail as the sand solidifies into glass embracing, burying us in the act of love and abandon. I don’t care for your flesh, I sing myself its runes and let the echo reach your hiding to tear your clothing to tatters and knot around your nakedness memories of my arms. I don’t care for your flesh I only wonder the words it is writing each time your hand touches the spots mine did.

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cycle, re... i am waiting for an invitation i know will never come. i shower, brush my teeth, change my underwear, my overwear, smear my suede shoes with shoe cream... sorry, the result of excitement, sit down, wait. i shower, brush my teeth, change my underwear, my pajamas, kiss the pink words once written, tuck them under the pillow sleep, dream. yes, pink dreams. food, drink, women, work, words one way trips to the sun uncertain i wish to again allow gravitation to pull me back to shower brush change. i shudder, waking up in a snowed field, thin steam rising from the puddle underneath us as we bathe the other’s body in our caresses and touches and the water ignites and the snow turns ashes as our bodies turn visceral brains contorting alongside bodies in devastating conflagration as we don’t make love, we create suns. i fall asleep anew. i shower, brush my teeth...

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Like The Striking Of A Match... Does it matter how old we are? Does it matter how young? How beautiful, ugly, healthy, sick, tall, small?... it did not matter before we met, and after, and much after, will it matter ever? We created worlds, we smashed worlds, we dreamt, we cried, how many loafs of bread did you cut since? As many as I drove miles? Life, like good liqueur stirring in an ever spinning glass kept throwing us together, if smiting like steel balls to evade again each to a random new direction if squashing against each other like rotten tomatoes, like honey drops, like fingers sliding in between fingers and crushing. How many lovers did you have? How many did I? As many as the times we watched the same sunset through different windows from inside different arms knowing that this sunset will always be ours, us, we, one? Ours. Us. We. One. Sunset. How would future historians rate sunrise, corona, apocalypse against this sunset? Like the striking of a match.

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To Remember... there is always the first moment, the jolt, the broken glass that can be repaired yet not turn whole again ever. there will always be a leak, a stain, inerasable fusion scars to diffuse the light in remembrance and you are scared to bend lest the next clack is final. did you feel it that first time? your vascular system all built of thin walled tubes and you were never aware of it until they shattered leaving you with scrapping sounds in your veins and tiny coagulating drops in your tears for a lifetime. I walk along gilded paths, pebbles turn gold at my touch and petals flutter away at my kiss and from time to time I cough, dissipating the mist of red droplets and the shimmer of glass turned dust. I don't have to remember you to remember you.

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a memory of... so hard in your softness, so much harder than in your hardness, the down cutting the diamond till all that rests is diamond dust, and down dust, and those memories never to die and those never to be born. I cry, reading your words, not like a baby like a grown-up, like a man, never regretting the was ever regretting the never going to be never regretting the was that is always going to be. I live in circles, of love, of day, of work, of sweat, of lust passing through the butter of life and from time to time encountering the passage of a mindless razor or an exploding galaxy, my inner self a scarred battleground wounds dried out, smoke dissipated, a lost cut seeping blood with no cessation. so damn short, so damn deep, so damn hurting, so blessed with the memory of that pink hued fingernail which sank to the root its root there. pain is not a curse. pain is a memory of love. stupid. how can there be a memory of love when love never ended.

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about eternity... you donned your deadliest of weaponry, your wet t-shirt stretching into invisibility there where it matters, your false eyelashes blinking on and off those suns blue, those pearls rolling, your mini-skirt revealing your details of sculpture for the reveling mine, your smirking mouth the one which taught me that kissing is an art I failed at, before, then you un-donned it all to feel just for this once what dying was like. and you couldn’t return from the “over there”, no more than I could. are we eternally dead or eternally living now?

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Romulus... The forest is so tall that roots grope drunkenly to clouds while treetops drag on ground where squirrels roll watermelons in circles and yellowish, newly hatched chicks ride fox cubs’ backs looking forward to a swim in the river. I move carefully among the thousands of glass lianas hanging all the way down to my chest and as they move they touch each other with the beautiful, monotonous clinking of hollow wind-chimes. Am I alone in this wondrous place? Suddenly I hear other chimes moving my way, melodious, enravishing, and I see you parting the glass curtains into vibrating ribbons until you reach my stay where you go down on palms and knees and I crawl underneath you, Romulus underneath the wolf bitch suckling from her teat his creation.

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Paint... I wanted to surprise you, waited until you fell asleep and started painting the world your color, all of the world. It wasn't easy with just a few hours to do it in, had some problems with the rivers, with dragons insisting on keeping their green of scale and old ladies insisting on their blue of hair, with music, and then there was the whole of the North Pole... I succeeded, with seconds to spare. You opened your eyes, I waited, all ready for praise and eternal sex, then you swiftly closed them, your terrified gasp cutting through me. Uh... uh... it didn't sound so good... What have you done? you asked, eyes tightly shut, fists clenched. Painted the world your color, thought you'd like it, I wailed in distress. Fire, rainbow, butterflies... all? I nodded, then remembering your closed eyes I mumbled a barely audible 'yes'. Why? To please you. I tried to take your hand but couldn't open your fist. I wanted the world to be your beautiful color. You sighed, took my hand and crushed it in yours. Please, I don't want my color, I want our colors. I cried. But why? You touched my face and tasted my tear, the color of your color. Because even your tear tastes like my color, and your voice sounds like it, I feel like I am alone in the world, my world, lonely. I want to be in our world. Are you sure? I tried once more. Yes, you answered. It took me days. It was immeasurably more difficult to re-invent colors, and tastes, and sounds, it took me days and you didn't open your eyes even once. It's done, I kneeled next to your bed. You opened your eyes hesitatingly, your smile spreading into the world your warmth following. Thank you, you murmured, our colors, our tastes... also the dragons? Also the dragons And the North Pole? Even the polar bears. You crawled into my arms burning each part of me in contact with you. Lover? Yes... I answered cautiously. May I ask you a favor? Anything, I rushed to answer. I do not mind one color not to be ours, you whispered. So, maybe my effort was not wasted, after all. Which? I asked. Love, you said, and I felt a mountain landing inside my stomach. Love? Which color do you wish love to be? I asked, ashen faced and rigid muscled. Love. I wish it to be your color, and you snuggled even tighter into me, falling asleep again. The mountain turned sun as I started rocking you and butterflies landed upon your eyelashes.

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wxyz... those so called four-lettered words composing our scripture, describing eden with our mouths the flaming preachers and our bodies the foot stamping congregations until the apples hiding in naked loin orchards sate the preachers' ravenous appetite and we wake up, there, where sweat is the wine and copulation the morning prayer.

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t color... distance. that solid glass wall transparent, invisible, impenetrable, not even mud sticks to it not even bleeding knuckles and crashing bones pass through, or pass in. there is a thin layer of void, slicing the thickness of it like a blade all the way from the infinity of it to the infinity of it and paint pours through a tiny hole wherever unseen filling it with all known hues of grey from t milky through t murky through t muddy until final t black is reached when visions blur and disappear on the other side. gone. visions. vision. gone. I pummel the wall with the inefficient hammer composed of words and punctuation and curses and finally I ram it with my forehead and for a moment short tunnel vision clears the crystal and I see beauty on the other side of distance. then, red drops absorb in the immaculate surface and t color pours back into the cracks healing, curing, killing. t, like time.

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Climbing... I climbed the wall, not daring to look down - not because of fright of heights but because of fright of seeing the distance unchanging, I groped the soapy surface pedaling my way upwards through absolute immobility of position waiting for muscles to fray and to burn and to disintegrate then finally slide back down dragging the rest of me to the base of the glass and it all. When did your hand sneak down, there, into the sea of sweat to pull me out of my clothes and drag me half way up again laughing at my nakedness and encouraging my garrulity claiming words are wings which we might share until we meet there, on the top of the wall and drop the wings never willing to be able to fly back down. Hey, I know all you wanted was my body, same like I wanted yours, and my heart, same like I wanted yours, and my soul and my rhyme and my silence same like... only half way left now up to infinity and I will keep chiseling flowers into the glass to support my toes and tears into the glass to support my flowers and nightingales into the glass to support my tears and a bed for the nightingales to nest under and for us to nest above. I forgot my hand inside your shirt, around your life you forgot your hand inside my belt, around my life we gave up our one season for our one moment, and the sun never knew it was once candle and the candle will always know it was once sun.

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Isaac... I stopped wondering. I kept turning the pages, listening to the clink of glass as today fell on yesterday same sound as yesterday falling on the day before, my eye able to penetrate every which depth of those passed yet unable to see even inside the single depth of tomorrow. Strange memories book this one. Neither could I turn back and touch once more the texture of those flesh adornments garishly decorating the in-between pages gone and lost and unforgotten. Funny, isn’t it, how time dead long ago still lives in that ever rotating carousel wearing our brains to dust. Never out of fuel, grease, never out of guests sitting on the knees of previous guests layers over layers deep each and every tugging at each and every corner of my body... skin, lips, tears. Tried once in a moment of frenzy and madness to use a hammer both ways. Yesterdays tomorrows all. And she said, lay not thine hand upon the book, neither do thou any thing unto it... I let the hammer fall and watched it sink into the skin of Earth with the rest of my bones continuously raising images of my flesh cutting through the life of hers.

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Dance, One... Did you ever dance barefoot on a marble floor strewn with broken glass yet not even one drop of blood trickled down the shiny surface, as you were floating? You did. I know.

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Dance, Two... I watch the tips of toes stretched ballerina style sinking in those air cushions carrying you so easily, and I follow the mirror-clear reflection from the floor carrying my eyes up ...down?... the artificial you past your ankles past your calves, knees, thighs, there where all ends and all begins and artificial you reflects back inside the flesh of real you filling the skin of real you floating, encircled by my arms, as my bare feet leave red traces all over the floor.

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Dance, Three... It wasn’t love making, it was dance, the music written on the tiny surfaces of our finger tips and toe tips and tongue tips, the music played with the tiny surfaces of our finger tips and toe tips and tongue tips, the violin wail dying inside the one cymbals strike which shattered the glass and strew it all over the floor.

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scratches... scratches, from two to twenty two, or four, or thirty four taking all fingernails and all fingers and toes by two's and by three's and by... and tooth marks? tooth marks? as many. or more from as many teeth or more and as many or more mouths and... there is only one mouth. are you sure? I checked with my finger, with my mouth... she was completely wrong. but you don't argue with a Cerberus who thinks itself a Woman. was Cerberus a bitch? now, this was a question that only a woman could ask. no, wrong, only a Woman. so after all, my fantasies had some truth to them, or was it the truth that had some fantasy to it and the red traces trickling along the convolutions of my mind was that one reality I had lived so little in? I am not so sure I want to break the transparent wall between me and the world, no, not afraid of the shards. rather afraid to learn that my scratches and tooth marks were never there.

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Everafter... The stain of steam upon the windshield looking upon the blinding immaculacy of snow. We did not see it. The stain, the windshield, the snow. The heel of my palm crushing the tip of your nipple your insides crushing those of my daring outsides visiting the incense-filled adytum, an eternal flame about to burst and rip stain and window and snow out of existence. Ripping us out of existence too. We found our way back to Earth, slowly, knowing the tremor in our bodies will never cease neither after nor everafter. Was it the reason for spring following? I try to write. Both hands holding the pen and that tremor still there so many years after, as I knew it would. Everafter is a long time in hell.

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Passion... remember the night to come, when i tear open your door and i tear open your shirt and i tear open your body and you bite chunks off the sun and swallow the fire and me. remember the moment to dawn, when you bury your breast in my mouth and i bury my seed in your field and our nails turn claws burying finger bone into vein looking for the source of blood through endless layers of skin peeling back beneath scorching caresses. remember eternity is built of single moments... or is eternity one single unending moment?... or does a mortal’s one moment of magic count against all of god’s eternity?... when years of wait die in seconds of passion and seconds of passion die in years of wait to die again in seconds of passion to die again in years of wait... scrap from underneath your fingernails that immortality i buried there when you dragged my living carcass torturing it back into life, touch it to your lips. death never dies twice. Passion never dies.

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wondering... if your flesh was glass, I'd let it pour down my throat dragging behind it all that blood and fire and death. your glass is flesh, and I let it pour down my throat dragging behind it all that blood and fire and death. I always wonder at times and at times I always wonder and always and at times and at all those other times left over how would you look like dressed in transparent white. and I never wonder again until next time when I wonder because I know. is there such purity as it would have been?

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wraps... like trying to wrap rain drops in little envelopes of glass, or waves in eternally metamorphosing large sheets of glass and watching the effort go to waste as drops and waves and glass all break in sounds of crunch and splash and sigh... my sighs, at failing the impossible yet trying once again knowing you would expect me to try and I would, too. I try an even more terrific feat, covering your body with huge fields of gossamer thin glass, undressing you first, naked, more naked than the day you were born when you didn't yet own the naked soul you now do, and I pay special attention to your toes wrapping each one separately after kissing each one separately, and to your thighs and your tiny curls wrapping each separately after kissing each separately, and to your nipples refusing to wrap until I have no choice after kissing each blue from red hundreds of times and you beg me to continue before the blue turns red again, bleeding, and to your lips... the first I ever kissed, the last I ever will not. you smile and the cracks flower at the corners of your eyes and the masterpiece snows around you in glittering powder as it explodes as one single piece dissipating into enigmatic words forming around your flesh. we don't cry, we knew, and you watch me silently as I rub the microscopic needles over my glistening skin before I penetrate your welcoming hunger knowing the bleeding spots are not only skin deep.

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Late Night Visions... When flakes of snow turn crystal bells And sing the white upon the dells, I see your face inside the smoke And in the waning greyish cloak the blue of wells. Your fingers land upon my arm And endless shivers slowly farm, Then end the trail inside my mouth To feed my never ending drought your endless charm. I close my eyes to beter see That angel sitting on my knee Who fans her lips upon my nose Before around my lips they close, then all of me. Then I betray the gods of love And steal from them the magic glove To carry you through heaven's door And burn your flesh upon the floor, my gentle dove. Each morning with the break of day I look into the sun and pray To once again invade your skin And when I ask to feed you sin you say I may.

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Fingers... You could squash an elephant with your little finger, I said. You could easily squash me with your ring finger, I said. Before you squash any just let me squash your nipple between thumb and forefinger, I said. You left one finger out of your epos, you moaned. Out? I wondered and expected a blush but not the blush.

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Fridge-Magnets... The sea could be blue, Some wish might come true, A love may be choking in layers of glue, then there's you. What's that, some kind of fridge-magnet rhyme? Well, sounded like this also to me. Had to try again. When throbs wrap your breasts like a summer night's dew And thirty three rainbows with strawberry's hue The paleness of cheeks early mornings imbue, there's you. Mmm, that's kind of better, like a biiig magnet. Try maybe... again? Hmm, that was encouraging, though a bit... demeaning. Let's see... When thighs knit in loins threads of shivering magic, unrolled from a fantasy's silvery clew Before joining lions in rampaging fury through hell’s gaping gates into firehole’s brew And claiming all sunsets in one sweeping bellow to floodgates embracing desires anew, you. I... I... I... I've seen fishes doing better than that. Though the ensuing fire-hail was human indeed.

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Memories Cave... probably a hundred years from now, maybe less, maybe more, surely some time... still looking for my way there, all that artificial light and muted voices no electric guitars, no dog barks, no butterflies and "Forbidden" signs everywhere (luckily not inside my head, there is same forbidden space there even for "Forbidden" signs) and soft walls... what the hell (pardon me) is the difference between paradise and asylum, even the colors are similar. true, no electro-shock therapy, I found there were worse things than electro-shock therapy, things like no-time so there isn't something to look forward to its end... a hand slides inside mine, a nice shock this one, finally... "where were you?" I ask. "where was I when?" "a hundred years or so, Earth years, maybe less, maybe more." "I was busy, searching." "you found?" "yes." you pull me, beyond the rows of smell-less flowers (out of consideration for allergies) and lukewarm brooks (out of consideration for throat affections) and plastic bees (to make it feel more Earth-like) past the huge Cerberus ("plastic too, I checked", you giggle) I help you push open the heavy doors into the darkness they click shut behind us and diffused light turns on instantly... "where are we?" I whisper. "memories cave," you say loudly, "here you can scream if you wish." I didn't necessarily feel like screaming though you did, and a few crystals shattered. "oops... well, they will never need them anyway..." you laugh, pulling me by the hand on the narrow, glittering path. "what is the glitter?" you touch a leaf on the side of the road, it shatters to glittering dust, you touch a flower it shatters to glittering dust, "these are memories people don't care about temporary, irrelevant." "and if they shatter?" "they don't care. they don't know. but I don't think anyone else found the door, they were afraid of the Cerberus." "weren't you?" you stop, your hold tightening, your eyes glittering and it is not with crystal dust. "I had a dream to follow. I knew." I don't ask what you knew. I know. we keep walking, no-time here so time is no issue, "it took me many Earth years to find it, it will take many Earth years to get there." Earth years... so irrelevant, can be a hundred, can be a thousand, your hand hold is what counts, maybe a thousand is actually better, I think mischievously squeezing your hand till it is supposed to shatter like the crystals. it does not, you are not a temporary, irrelevant memory. we walk. we arrive. "this is the patch," you say, pointing to a bed of flowers and grass not different to the others - crystal glass, crystal flowers. "yours?" "no, neither yours, I don't know where these are, wasn't looking for them. ours." "why?" "why what?" "why were you looking for ours, not for yours, not for?..." "I wanted to know." "know what?" you don't answer. you unshoulder the heavily hanging bag, the one that I offered to help with when we started, so many years back, and that you refused. you untie it and pick out... a sledgehammer?... you lift it... "hey!" I shout in fright, "hey..." I whisper in wonder as all I can hear is tinkle... tinkle... tinkle... as you smash it down again and again and again and not even one single crumb of one single crack jumps off the flowers. only bells, tinkle... tinkle... tinkle... I am too shocked to ask. "our memories," you say, "solid crystal. like steel." I attack you, drag you down, rip your clothes, bite... deeply... "are we allowed to make love in paradise?" I whisper, barely able to control my shivers. "this is not paradise. this is a shared venture - paradise and hell," you explode in laughter and I almost tear your tongue off as I smother your mouth and ransack your body again, and again, and again... "our memories, we broke them," I feel like crying, picking up crystal shards from your back, thighs, belly, "how?.. how?..." "no, you silly post-human, we are building new ones, this is not breaking, this is re-shaping." "and when will they become steel again?" "depends." "on what?" "on what we do next." "you mean tomorrow?" "there is no tomorrow in no-time." "so... there is a very long 'next' coming," I smile suddenly, finally getting off my post-human limitations. "yes, some fools call it eternity." "and you, what do you call it?" "I? I call it love," you say, and the sounds of smashed crystal blend to interminable perfection with the sounds of your interminable sighs.

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In A Black And White World... In a black and white world you are not the color, you are the liberty to invent, create, give birth to color, to pour it in molten glass and drip it in glowing ore and think it in kaleidoscope before letting it burn inside emotions, with emotions, slice emotions into tiny fragments of second which envelope dreams and desires before they have a chance to die out of the world. In a black and white world you are the window suddenly imploding under the onslaught of melodies we never heard yet always knew, notes and murmurs and chirps bleeding along the sharp shard edges as the uniqueness of red passion drips and the pool of that indescribable uniform red reflects a hands hold, a lips hold, a thighs hold when we prefer to drown in the red of passion rather than breathe in the black and white of world. In a black and white world I enmeshed myself in layers of steel, three, and layers of void, thirteen, and layers of frozen pain thirteen and three hundred and never knew that skin is glass and glass thins to brittle and your end of finger penetrates the steel and the void and the pain reaching the glass of skin and the brittle of glass and I turn flaming flesh searching for the fate of flaming paper... ashes, gladly dying in that holocaust of emotions your end of finger carries.

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smiles... darkness descends like a groping hand, each finger a scythe each fingernail the hungry, thirsty blade looking for absolution through savagery. I reach out to welcome the invader, just about to touch... and a thin layer of melting glass covers my skin with whispers and the blades bounce and I see the blue in the darkth as it gathers me gently in its silk and carries me away to the flowers bed we seeded so long ago. didn't know I could still smile. did we seed smiles too, now ready to be written?

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