I dreamt of making love like beasts

like dogs
like turkeys
like toads.

I dreamt of making love like red

like telephone box red
like double decker red
like red dragon red.

I dreamt of making love like wet

like the insides of your mouth
like the insides of your veins
like the insides of your womanhood.

I dreamt many dreams of you using a variety of adjectives
and analogies and anthropomorphisms and homologies and other long words
and they all ended the same one way

a tangle of bones and textiles and spices
and pieces of me by which I mean ears and lips and varia
inside you.

Define varia, please.

I found it preferable to demonstrate. You found it preferable too.

Nausea was attacking me
watching her hips gyrate away in never diminishing clockwise motion

STOP! I yelled RETURN! I yelled
hoping the counter-clockwise motion when returning will nullify the previous effect

I was wrong, oh so wrong
as an additional dimension of ups and downs added itself to the gyrating one
her breasts bouncing with every step synchronously,
sometimes asynchronously,

I was afraid all this hulahooping & cousins would empty my stomach
just when I needed to show the best of me
and I managed a deformed smile closing my eyes and awaiting the inevitable...

the inevitable did not arrive
but she did

and I knew it due to my superior IQ
and due to the gyration locking my mid-point into sympathetic motion
and due to the bouncing locked between my protruding chin and my protruding belly

nauseousness hastily evolving into arouseousness
I feel like in a sailing ship, she whispered in my ear
and OH! DON’T SAY SHIP! I yelled turning away from her and her promise of paradise
and letting go of all the previously ingested bananas and soup and oranges and what not.

She did not run away.
She waited patiently
and once I finished she undressed me, cleaned me, washed me
tucked me under the crispness of covers with the crispness of her skin next to me
she bounced a bit
we bounced a lot
and the other inevitable happened.
No nausea, brothers, absolutely none if to judge by the stupidity of that smile on my face.

YOU STAYED, I whispered.
You needed me to stay, she whispered
and I knew she was right as she re-started proving my need and her sacrifice.
And once she QEDed
we both shut up,
I inevitably counting my blessings
and she inevitably providing another one, and another one, and another one...

I’ll never make love to you again, she said,
never ever ever never never ever never...
she kept using the same two words in random sequence for several hours
until it was time for her to take a breath.
Yes, she could hold her breath for so long, while talking I mean.
She took a breath.

Then I forced her to lose her breath for several additional minutes
(I could NOT hold my breath for hours like she could)
and after my lips lost control of her lips
she snuggled against me
humming like a toy train just fitted with fresh batteries.
The CLICK! of the batteries cover still fresh in my mind.

I said never, she complained, her mouth muffled against my chest.
YOU said, I responded, I did not.
Oh, you are so intelligent, she responded to my responding
and I responded to her response to my responding by another kind of response
that left her responseless.
And breathless.
And clothesless but this had happened several hours ago already.
You see, even superior intelligences such as mine can get befuddled at times.

You are saying, my dear?
I was praising your intelligence... and as she snorted and was about to rush out of bed...
your body too.
Oh, so nice of you.

Then she went on to demonstrate the accuracy of my statement,
oh, God, WAS it accurate...
I was forced too to learn to stop breathing for hours,
necessity is a great teacher, you know.

You’re the end of my last season
I accuse you of high treason
As the one who sowed me shivers
from my skin down to my reason,

You assail my dwindling senses
With your promised recompenses
This old rutting beast of homo
does assume the consequences,

My voluptuary craving
For your fingernail engraving
Leaves me stranded in that limbo
between mindlessness and raving,

Who needs soft and nice and tender
When your piercing howls engender
Rising hair-ends nights sequencing
from all naught to all scream splendor,

Who wants caressing cantata
Or some languorous sonata
When we sneak under the bedding
I will settle for squamata,

Let me rant your body praises
While your breast my tongue amazes
Smear my thighs with your aroma
as my winter meets your blazes.

I did not yet reach the point of no return,

I will never reach the point of no return
while alive

be it with tubes invading my entries and exits
noisy machines filtering my intakes and outtakes
nosy needles sending a variety of poisons through my variety of circuits
and clocks and counters and screens investigating my every atom

and yet
just show up there next to my groping fingers
and grope they will
up your skirts
inside your intimacies
all alarms berserk measuring that devilish smile which frozen on my face

the last ever

the most beautiful ever.

Don’t cry,
rejoice!
This was my moment of revival, should found a religion.

...and when I finish writing

you’ll need a second change of underwear
after a hour long shower
and a variety of soaps will not eliminate that unique perfume
of you.
Wanting me.

Second?

The first
before a long shower
and a variety of soaps that will not eliminate that unique perfume
of you.
Wanting me.

Will there be a third?
I suggest you join a relevant shop’s loyalty program,
may make things cheaper in the long run.

It was our first date. A blind date.

“He bathed her in rivers of light
and when the light ended
he bathed her in rivers of warmth.”
“And when the warmth ended?”
She sat there, expectant.
I knew I was going to disappoint her,
she was expecting love.
I disappointed her.
“He bathed her in rivers of words.”

She clicked shut her purse.
She clicked her heels to the restaurant’s door
she clicked the door shut behind her
she clicked her fingers for a taxi.
I rushed after her, leaving my credit card with the waiter.
“You expected love.”
“I expected nothing, you are the poet.
I did not expect words.”
“Come with me to my place. Please.”
“Expecting rape?”
“Expecting words.”

She came. Modern, fearless, she came.
I gave her a book.
She was still sitting there, an hour later.
“Give me another book.”
I gave her another book.
Another hour.
“Give me a big bag.”
I gave her a big bag
she bagged my entire collection
“Don’t follow me,” she said
took the bag and left.
I heard her clicking her fingers for a taxi.
All I had was a dating site avatar and a name. Maybe not even her name.
I lost her.

I did not lose her.
I opened the door and she was standing there in all her splendor.
“Did you find a lover between then and now?”
“I found no lover between then and now.
Did I find a lover between now and another then?”
“Follow me.”

I followed her.
To the taxi, to her apartment, inside her apartment.
“I found love,” she said. “I want to find love,” she said.
“Sit down. Write.”
I sat down. I wrote. I stopped writing. She started reading.

I never believed it was possible, it was.
She emulated every contortion mentioned in the poem,
every whisper
every scratch bite nail moan crush touch
deeper touch
deepest touch
steel
silk
silence.
Endless embrace.
Endless kiss.
Endless good bye.

I found the books back at my place, how the hell did they get there?
Who? asked the doorman,
one hand picking a heavy ashtray the other hovering above an alarm button.
There is no such floor here, no such tenant, everyone here is aged eighty and up.
I returned to my apartment.

There was only one explanation
I did not believe in one explanation
I believed the one explanation.
I looked down miserably at the first page of the first book
shivering
unashamedly letting a couple tears smear the ink used to write the few words there
with a neat obviously feminine hand.
“You better believe”
followed by a smiley smiley
crowned with a slanted elliptical shape floating above its head
and incongruously
yet nonchalantly leaning to its left on something that looked like a seven.
It was a crudely drawn scythe.
Aha, now I know. She is left handed, I smiled to myself.

Yes. I know. I will meet her again.
I... believe.

Let’s do it in the forest.
We did it in the forest.

Let’s do it inside the elevator.
We did it inside the elevator.

Let’s do it on the moon.
We did it on the moon.
Hey, how did we get here, it’s impossible?
No idea, I guess some impossibilities are possible.

Let’s do it in the sun.
No, this is impossible.
Why, we did it on the moon?
The moon is cold blooded, not so the sun, I said,
as if it made any kind of sense.

Let’s do it in your bed, I proposed.
She disconnected.

*

I rang.
She opened the door, shy, cherry cheeked, downcast eyes,
What is the color of your eyes? I asked.
She raised them towards me and I wished she didn’t,
the beauty of a virgin forest (I am not, she whispered)
the cozy warmth inside an elevator (I most certainly am not an elevator, she added)
the pale skin around the cherries not unlike a summer moon (I hope it is a compliment)
the fire of a rising sun of a sun at zenith of a setting sun (I’m afraid you will burn)
she took my hand.
The fire started at my fingertips
she pulled me towards her bedroom
and the fire invaded whatever was there of me beyond fingertips
she touched my chest with one forefinger
and it pierced right through into my heart turning it to cinders,

Open my buttons, please, she said, turning her back to me
I touched the buttons and they melted.
Open my leftovers of intimacy, she said, turning to face me
I touched the pieces of silk and cotton and nylon and they lifted into smoke.
Open my body, gently, please, she said floating like a dead butterfly down to the bed
I opened her body, a painter placing the last touch of brush to his masterpiece.

We did it, in the forest,
we did it, inside the elevator,
we did it, on the moon,
we did it in the sun... hey, I thought it was impossible, she didn’t complain,
it is impossible, I did not complain back, I did not say we couldn’t create a sun.

We passed all possible seasons together
we invented some seasons of our own
and when all seasons ended we decided we did not need seasons anymore
we had our own forest
our own elevator
our moon
our sun... and oh, goodness, do we still scorch continents together.

Wear your chastity belt. Weld it.
Gather your skirts between your legs.
Load your gun
lock the door
set the alarm on scream/electrocute/tickle to kill.
If chewed shoes don’t bother you get a vicious dog.
Move street, town, country, continent. World.

Don’t answer when I call.
I call.
You answer, stupid woman, ha!
didn’t your mama tell you?
Woman stays woman even at ninety-nine, surely much before it.
Ravishing. Literally. Ravenous.
Man stays man even at ninety-nine, surely much after it.
Ravishing. Archaically. Ravenous.

Am I?
You are.
Are you?
I am.

All it took was a touch of the foremost part of the finger tip of the forefinger
and all your defenses melted
the touch cutting through them

like a plow
through snow
like an ill-intentioned lawyer
beetle sawyer
oily and uncouth with a mean bucktooth cutting through the truth filling it with sooth
like the wire
of a lyre
gutting butter
with a splutter and a sputter.

Chastity belt? Ha!
Skirts, gun, lock, alarm? Ha-ha!
Vicious dog? Kitty-kitty-kitty ha-ha-ha!
Move? Places I will not find you? Where might one find these, please?

I touched
the foremost part of the finger tip of the forefinger
and your skin bared itself to me
and your thighs beckoned to me
and your flesh hungrily engulfed me in its flames
turning me living torch looking for soothing extinction
inside wet constricting caves offered you by a most generous creator
you choked me with a daring nipple ripping slices off my lips
and within seconds looking like hours looking like years
you thrashed every one of the two hundred and six bones comprising my body
threw them in a grinder
carried them to a mill
then passed them through a micronic filter
and finally poured them in a marble urn to place on a high shelf...
for later use... you said, as if micronic dust could hear.

You should have worn your chastity belt... you laughed loudly
and I fully, completely, absolutely
disagreed with you.
Ha!

Who needs protection when dying such wonderful death makes for such wonderful season?

It was the last item on my bucket list.
THE last item. THE item.

I rang the doorbell, ready to bolt away the moment the door would open
I did not bolt away.
She was standing there in all her splendor,
the way I remembered her forty years ago
the way I remembered her for all these forty years passed
the way... “You did not change... was it a year ago?”
“Not very original for a pick-up line,” she smiled, embarrassed. “Want to enter?”
Did I want to live?

The coffee tasted stale, same as the cookies.
They were great, mind you, they tasted stale to me, mind you.
She looked gorgeous, her eyes, her breasts, her knees peeking from under the hem.
She was past her prime, mind you, she was gorgeous to me, mind you.

We exchanged banalities.
We exchanged memories.
We exchanged the pains of could have been
and the joys of was but not with each other,
the stupidity of the events, of the decisions, of the separation.

I found her again on a meaningless cooking site.
She responded with a smiley.
I responded with a heart.
Our ‘let’s meet’ messages clashed head-on on the internet waves, same second?
Now we met. The last line on my bucket list about to be crossed... cross my fingers.
“Your fingers are crossed,” she remarked,
standing up at the end of an embarrassing silent gap.
“Care to cross them with mine?”

I stood up, handing her my hand the way one would hand over a flowers bucket
an engagement ring
a crown.
“Are you sure?” I asked, mule-kicking myself three times for asking.
“I was sure for forty years,” she smiled, blushing, taking the offered hand,
“the only thing I wasn’t sure of was when will end the forty years. Here, read this,”
and she handed me a paper sheet
lines written in a neat feminine handwriting covering it top to bottom,
all crossed but one, the last one. Saying: ‘Meet...’
I was shivering when I pulled a printed, folded sheet from my back pocket,
waited for her to unfold it one-handed, read it, place it on the table next to hers
and with a pencil crossing the last lines on both.
“I guess our bucket lists are full. Now we can kick the bucket anytime.”

We kicked everything in that small bedroom –
the bedposts, the framed pictures, the bed lamps, each other...
an earthquake couldn’t have been more devastating.
“You know,” I panted,
my hand squeezing her breast like I wished to drain it of milk drained long ago,
“if we were virgins we would not have lashed at each other so hard.”
She returned the favor, squeezing in return not my breast, panting,
“You know, we ARE virgins, to each other.”
I knew.

I did not regret the forty years.
I did not regret this moment.
I did not regret my life.
“And now, that the bucket list is complete...”
“...yet the bucket is still empty. Do we fill it?”

We never succeeded to fill it, all that we tried.
Luckily.

I was tired, dead tired,
my brain screaming desperate calls for clemency
and bed.

She was alive, dead alive,
her brain disregarding any call
but not the bed.

She did not talk at all, at first,
just started parading in front of me first dressed
then scantily dressed
then beyond scantily dressed
and when the undressability failed to evoke any visible result
(she kept checking)
she started a cycle of alternating undressness and dressness
varying in tone – size – element evoked – element invoked
still without uttering a word yet with a begin of touches here
touches there
(mainly touches there)
a wildly flipping breast slapping my face
an obstinate curl of hair tickling my nose
ten short tentacles unbuckling my belt
and after propping my eyelids with matchsticks
some incredible feats of courage
dare
imagination
flexibility
using props such as broomsticks and cucumbers and...

my brain stayed dead,
and yet the rest of my body seemed to disconnect slowly from the brain
and start a life of its own
...aha!... was her first articulated scream since the begin of the session
the febrility of those febrile [sic] tentacles rousing... oops... rising exponentially
and with each piece of cloth removed or torn or shredded from my body
her aha!s increased in frequency
in intensity
in devilry
my mute call for clemency ignored
my mute call for bed heeded

brain dead
rest of body infected with her aliveness (alivity? alivehood? alivefulness?) bacteria
not unlike a horror sci-fi story
where various appendages of mine interlace with various appendages of hers
and various traps of mine compete with various traps of hers
and our shared fluidics hastily optimize their course towards perfection
completion
consummation
abolition.

Clemency heeded, offered, finally.

I remembered nothing of it when I woke up twenty-two hours later
until she pushed ’play’
and all I saw was a zombie in the throes of a divine act
sharing it with a human goddess.

She cuddled against my side,
all smiles and warmth and naked skin
letting her hand wander
letting my hand wander...
...if this is you brain dead, I wonder how is you brain alive.

I taught her.
She still had a lot to learn of me. And I of her.

age one

From age ten until eighteen I fell in love eternally every six months. At these ages, this was the size of eternity, and at the end of each eternal period I wrote a love poem to my relevant subject of separation.

At age eighteen I fell in love for my last fifty-three years long eternity, at the end of which I remembered that I forgot to write her a poem. So I engraved a sentence on her tombstone: “Next eternity we meet, I will write it for you at the beginning, promise.”

I don’t know if I kept my promise.

*

age two

Today we are going to celebrate, I declared with unusual determination, and as act one we went out and drank ourselves silly with aphrodisiac cocktails at a downtown bar. See, we reached this kind of age.

There followed act two at a dancing club where we rocked and rolled and tangoed until, exhausted, we barely could keep on our feet. See, we reached this kind of age.

Then came act three, the main act, when we returned home, kissed passionately, undressed and went to bed on our separate beds, in our separate rooms. See, we reached this kind of age.

*

age three

Forty years later and four failed marriages, my side, same forty years and other five failed marriages, her side... she said “Come!” and I came.

“Why did we never marry?” she asked, meaning each other, her frail hand crushing mine. I had no answer, only regrets. Maybe because we did not want to fail?

She kicked everyone else out of the room, “Lock the door!” she commanded and we made love like spooked beasts. The first time. The last time.

The following day she lay there, inert, dead, that beatific smile locked into her lips set to haunt me forever.

You bent.
You knew the skirt was too short and still you bent.

You crossed your legs.
You knew the skirt was too short and still you crossed your legs

You mounted the stairs, slowly.
You knew the skirt was too short and still you mounted the stairs, slowly.

I watched the clock on the wall
our abstention pact about to expire
in five seconds... four... three... two... one... expired

I rushed up the stairs
pushed you in
on
off
everything off except the skin to our flesh and the shiver to our muscles...
impatient... you growled
enough seconds wasted... I growled back
you mean years... you growled back to my growl back
I mean lifetimes... I growled back to your growl back to my growl back

and growls kept oscillating to and fro
until the growl definition was surpassed by a variety of utterings
neighboring grunts and chirps and poetry.

You tended to my wounds, intimate included,
I tended to your wounds, intimate included,

we should have tended less to those intimates included
since wounded or not
we declared another war
and let it rage until we did not care about wounds or wounded or truce.

Another pact? you teased, chewing some lip leftovers, mine.
You mean another shared suicide? I responded, chewing my share of lips, yours, various.

We didn’t agree on another pact,
we did agree on many additional battles, and wars, and lips... whatever was left of those.

You give me an attack of gooseflesh (horripilatio)
each time your elbow touches mine
your thigh flitters close to mine
a strand of your hair tickles my ear... says I.

And you give me an attack of fever (febris)
each time you turn elbow into a dirty word
and thigh into an obscenity
and hair strand into some kind of billingsgate that easily cuts steel... says you.

Why the sudden latinity (latinitas), I ask myself, then you,
when our entire relationship was until now based on pure lust (libidine)
and our knowledge of Latin is close to zero (nihil)?

Ha-ha, dulce est desipere in loco, says you.

Maybe because your dream was always to write an erotic opera
in which you sing my silken underwear into liquidity
followed by the act of retrieving from my nooks and crannies
every grain of the sand which earlier on
you filled afore said silken underwear with? says you.

Wow, what an imagination, says I.
Nitimur in vetitum, adds I, partly agreeing.

And maybe because your dream was always to play in said erotic opera
offering me the bucket and shovel and sand needed
to fill your silken underwear with
that I would then have to sing into liquidity
before emptying your nooks and crannies and other neighboring wonders? says I.

Wow, you agree with me for once? says you.
Acta, non verba, adds you, handing me the bucket, the shovel and the sand.

And... festina lente, please,
we do not want any scratches on your tongue, do we? says you grinning wickedly

I got lots of scratches on my tongue, that’s a given now,
yet who gives a damn - I left you spick and span and grinning angelically, didn’t I? says I.
Aut Caesar aut nihil, adds I.

The blessed obscurity
of that most enlighted of hidden human treasures
entrusted to only womanity
for safekeeping,

The inherited nobility
of that which a god only could have created
perpetrating the role of gods
creating life,

The robust fragility
of that portal into momentary death followed by life
so abused by much of manity
so revered by much of manity,

The legendary humanity, sensitivity, affinity
of the owner of that
of the one offering that
of the one blessed with that.

Or cursed, she says.
Or bequeathed, I say.
Shall I offer you that? she asks.
And watch me die? I ask.
And die with you, she says.

She offered me that.

If it wasn’t romance what is romance
if it wasn’t heaven what is heaven
if it wasn’t hell what is hell?

We circled Alpha Centauri thrice
I holding on to that
she holding on to that other,
We penetrated the heart of an unknown sun
I penetrating that
she allowing that other penetration,
We died as promised, died again as expected, died in third as desired
that enveloping me with that’s perfumes
that other trying in vain to die in fourth.

Why do you speak in riddles? she asked, reading my riddle.
Because of the beauty of solving them, I answered.
I have known the solution since long now, she retorted.
But you did not know the riddle, I countered.

If she was a worm, if she was a knife, if she was a drill
she could not have huddled closer to my heart
than she did.

Do you want some more of that? she asked me some time later
interesting herself in that other.
Do I want to live? I answered
very very very unoriginally. Can anyone blame me?

Say,
you didn’t really think that spooning into me
will prevent it from happening again,
did you?

Not with your panties there, over the back of the chair.
Not with you bare ass fitting so snugly into that of my body
which was its perfect match.
Not with my palm acting as the top part of a bottomless bikini
manufacturing its own spooning idea around your left breast,
the right one guarded viciously by a possessive mattress.
Not with you indecisively almost going away
then moving back
then almost going away
then moving back
then...

Aha, so you did not really think it will not happen.

Aha, so you did really think it will happen.

Aha, so you know it did just happen.
Aha, you know,
Aha, so I should stop trying to pull away and stay like this forever,
fine with me, how long the forever, half an hour?
I am not sure what will happen one minute after.

Aha, I know what happens one minute after.
Aha, you knew it too...

One day I felt illogically irascible, irritable, ill-tempered.

Tell me, Didi,
why do all horrible things in English start with an h?
Hiroshima, Holocaust, Hitler, Hell?
Inclusive horrible itself.

She wasn’t easily riled.
You forget Homo-sapiens, she grinned back mischievously,
maybe why?

And before she puffed away her habitual annoying way
she just threw back a... you also forgot Heaven.

Puff!


PS. Didi, to the uninitiated, is my friend with the scythe.

Bring your cauldron to my kitchen
I will pour it porridge boiling
Then I’ll keep the mixture roiling
Till you’ll moan in hexastichon,

If you bring along your mussel
I will teach it games of action
To the utter stupefaction
Of the rest of flesh and muscle,

Or, if you prefer creation,
Let my lead fill every crevice
Then, expel those hordes (or bevies)
With (most probably) chelation...

Listen mister, wish to play? so
Skip your metaphoric measures
If you want my body’s treasures
Why don’t you just simply... say so?

I don’t know which side of the fence I landed in – Hell or Heaven.
I guess it didn’t matter much,
too benign to be Hell, too bland to be Heaven
and all I cared about was finding her (doesn’t matter who her) so many years later.

I knew it was bound to happen,
I knew whichever side I would be she would be the other side
I knew we still had unfinished business unfitting for either Hell or Heaven,

I kept searching, investigating, roaming the endless space at our disposal
I found it.
Not her but it – the fine print, the loophole, the hole... YES, the hole. Literally.
See, there probably was, eons ago, someone as interested as I was
and this unidentified someone identified something
which allowed drilling a hole in the fence, and drill he did.
And hole I found.
And (as in any good story) hole she found too.

Hi there love, I whispered through the hole.
Hi there love, she whispered back through the hole.

And we exchanged banalities
and we exchanged memories
and we exchanged passionate words that could have driven us up over the fence
only the fence was taller than we could ever have hoped to escalate.

Lover, we have unfinished... hot business to finish, you know? I wailed
rolling thin rolls of A4 parchment and pushing hot poetry her way through the hole.
I know, she wailed back, and whiffs pertaining to femininity rather than ghostility
wafted my way through the hole driving me insane with desire.
Lover, maybe I could get ahm your way through the hole? I dared ask, and you...
The hole is too narrow, oh, lover mine, she wailed her distress at the idea.
Then maybe I could push a finger through the hole, and you... I tried further.
The fence is too thick, she wailed even higher distress at my lack of imagination.
So what about I push my tongue...
The hole is too high, I cannot jump that high...

Poor I kept offering solutions from a long list containing mirrors,
broomsticks, cigars, beads, balloons, harp strings, old haloes, tails, horns, etc.
poor she kept shooting them down one by one with objection following objection
I was dying, she was dying...
(manner of speaking, we were both dead already)
Lover, this is Hell, I finally yelled at the top of my lungs.
Lover, this is Hell, she yelled back at the top of her lungs.

“Who dares defy creation?” boomed a third voice back,
“who dares say both sides of the fence are Hell when one should know better?”
and suddenly we (I and she) were side by side on a cloud, infinity between us
and the booming voice started admonishing recalcitrant us with a boring speech
which I could not time in that timeless nether but it was certainly long.
It ended.
The speech.
“Your punishment will be draconian, frightening, gruesome,
such as never before and never after,” concluded the boom.
“You will be placed together in a time capsule, a one day time capsule,
at the end of which you will be separated forever
and you will have forever to remember that which will be forever denied to you.
And the hole will be closed forever, ha ha ha. So say I.”

As if we wanted anything else.
As if it was not what we always wanted and never got, until then.
As if...

We did not date at a restaurant, there are no restaurants there.
We did not undress each other, there are no clothes there.
We invaded each other the way molten metals invade each other
we tore at each other the way beasts tear at each other
we caressed each other the way a butterfly caresses a petal
a breeze caresses a thread of smoke
a human caresses a human.
Though humans we were not. Anymore. After.

We never met again.
The hole was never found again.
Yet we never stopped rejoicing in the horrors of the punishment inflicted
writing love poems
love stories
love promises to each other,
we had eternity, we had to make inexistent time pass, somehow.

I know about me,
I guess about her.

I am now at volume four thousand sixty two and going strong.
If anyone wonders what tools we use to write,
well – we write on parchment smuggled up from Earth
with pens made of discarded feathers, thousands of those,
and the ink is a complex composition of sooth, fine fuel particles
and paint scrapped from satellite leftovers floating all around
(one thing there’s no shortage of over here, is mad scientists, thank... God?)

I disregard
the pleas of an imploring reason
as I allow
the excesses of an exploring hand
ruthlessly separating ankle from ankle
knee from knee
thigh from thigh
and when separation becomes a physical impossibility
grabbing unceremoniously and imperialistically that most delicate of human fabrics
that God
in his immense wisdom
created.

Forgive the intrusion? I ask, not meaning it.
Unforgiven, you reply, not meaning it,
your hand emulating mine
and adding variations of its own to the progressing debacle.

The ignobility of the perpetrated act starts seeping in
through the paralyzed layers of our consciousness
inclusive its sub components,
but we are too engrossed in inflicting the felony
to pay any heed to moral, morals, morale, morality or mortality

and as the final separation
connection
penetration
extraction
and somnolence succeed each other
there are no leftovers of consciousness
inclusive its sub components
to mean anything to us.

Huh?! you utter, completely lost and desolate.
Huh?! I utter, completely lost and desolate.
Ah! we utter in unison once the shared wrath downs on us anew
and muscle spasms replace any trace of once humanity.

I don’t know if it was the snoring,
but there definitely were cracks in one of the walls
when we woke up
following day.

How does one write lust in rhyme?

Maybe like this...

We rolled the thirty seven stairs into the cellar’s gloom
While buttons winsomely obeyed the ancient hecatomb
And when the clothes joined in the rite
and bones divined the doom
You let me permeate your womb
and seed it with a wight.

or like this...

Let my palms encroach your ankles
Sunrise goes the right, and then
Sunset goes the left, Amen,
Long before your body rankles.

Disregard the tattered satin
As my bleeding canines sink
In that flesh off your womb’s brink
Baptized labium in Latin.

Buster, buster, you’re a riot
I will throw you on your back
Better say goodbye to Jack
When your flesh becomes my diet.

or like this...

Praised be heaven’s engineering every day
I decided I should test it come what may
Then addiction’s steely curse
Filled with lust my daily verse
and with hay.

Today I will have an erotic dream, I decided.

The first dream was about a dog,
a pink one
participating in a dog contest. I don’t know if it won.

The second dream was about a tree in some garden, maybe mine,
I think it fell and I had to remove it.

The third dream was unclear,
something messy about me going to work
not finding the right building and going up and down various staircases
and meeting a variety of people that I was sure I knew but actually didn’t...

The fourth... no need to expand, right?

I decided to postpone my erotic dream for the following day.

The first dream was about a dog,
another one.

The other dreams were about various subjects, don’t remember all of them,
none erotic unfortunately.

The following days or rather nights... the same,
even some nightmares,
which did not really nightmare me since I do not nightmare easily.
Desperation started setting in.

“My love,
I am trying my best to dream about you
but for some unclear reason it doesn’t work.
Not that it ever worked before but seen that I need you now more than I did ever
I tried to get erotica help me out.
It didn’t.”

“My love,
why dream that which you can live?
Why don’t you wear some easy to discard clothes
and come here?”

I wore some easy to discard clothes and came there.
She wore some easy to discard clothes as well.

The clothes might have been easily discardable but discardability took some time
seen as we kept busy at finding ingenious ways of not discarding them
but rather teasing open-close a button
provoking up-down a zipper
vexing the hell out of a piece of elasticity that allowed itself pulled out-in the way
by tiny flips of fingertips (nice seduction rhyme, I find)

and by the time we both started flittering inside
we didn’t have to worry anymore about buttons or zippers or elastics
as they got worn-out of usage or torn out of cloth
and as discardability suddenly became an issue
tearability took over for whatever was left over (not really nice seduction rhyme)
and reality proved more intense than whatever dream I did not dream

when my back smacked the floor
and her breasts smacked my chest
with the rest of her fitting nicely and snugly around me
with the rest of me failing to emulate an octopus but doing its best

until all our disjointed limbs lay dissolved on the floor
with the universe drooling around our jointed limbs
or whatever they were by now.

“Lo-ver,” she both drawled and drooled syllable by syllable into my mouth,
“what-a-bout-your-e-ro-tic-dream?... hr-hr-hr...” supposed to be ha-ha-ha.
“Lover,” I both drawled and drooled syllable by syllable into her mouth,
“thank-good-ness-I-di-dn’t-have-one... hr-hr-hr...” supposed to be ha-ha-ha.
“Lover, mind moving your mouth away from my mouth?...”
I moved...
“more!?...”
I moved...
“more!?...”
I moved...
“oa-oe-ou-oh-oo!...” supposed to be ooooooooohhh!, once I got there.

Who needs erotic dreams, tell me?

Remind me, please, the first time.

No, not the first time
remind please our first time.

Sorry, should have been clearer,
not interested in that first time,
not interested also in Adam and Eve’s first time.
Our first time.
Remind me? Remember?

Of course I remember when.
Of course I remember when, where,
the weather
your hen ass wiggling
my rooster hips swaggering
but I don’t remember it,
do you remember it?
Sun, stars, hell, heaven, death by fire, death by touch? Refusal of resurrection?

Or... rather, on second thought - do not.
Do not remind me even if you remember
and maybe, preferably, you don’t.

Let’s live it.
Not re-live it but live it.
Not like the first time but a first time, the first time, our first time.
Tabula rasa. Palimpsest. White canvas and we the watercolors waiting next to it.

You ass-wiggling hen
I hips-swaggering rooster
we meet a first
we touch a first
we shiver, rustle, moan
infinite patience replaced at ever growing rate by infinite impatience

and a key breaks in a lock
and a mattress gets emboweled of its hay
and I pull you out of your clothes heedless to tears and seams and buttons
and you pull me out of my clothes heedless to textile protests and accumulating dross

and whatever follows never happened to either Adam or Eve
or God would not have banned them but rather burned them

as we interlace
and interweave
and intertwine
and we flow like a tidal wave dragged by a swelling moon
until... sun, stars, heaven, death by fire, death by touch.

And we refuse resurrection.
Second time around but who the hell remembers the first time?

Of course I feel thirty-three,
not again
but all the time.
Not by choice
but by given.

Of course my body doesn’t feel thirty-three,
not again
and not at any coming time.
Not by choice
but by given.

And never the twain shall meet...
well, they met once
but not again.
Not by choice
but by given.

Horrible the thought,
yet not as horrible as all that.
Half of the glass full
and as long as the other half keeps away from the defiling prevalence
of the under-the-ground dominion
I’ll keep craving and lusting and loitering around that source of all
dragging you with me into the abyss
of momentary unconsciousness
again and again and again

until it won’t matter anymore
the half full emptying itself as well
into a forgotten hole
ownership of the under-the-ground dominion.

Long time from now
Or short.
Irrelevant.
Thirty-three all the way,

join me?

Naked
you bend forward toward me
cascading hair liberating the nape of your neck
and an entire spinal column assailing my sight...

don’t move!

and I wait for the sun to rise from the deep valley opening mid of your lower back
first a tiny spot of light
then a pizza slice
then a pizza bitten left and right of the middle
until the entire disc rises away from the flesh in glorious brilliance
click! click! click!
with me almost forgetting to avert my eyes and burning my retinae...
I am not sure I watched the sun as much as I watched...

...me?

Naked
you bend forward away from me
cascading hair falling in between the apex of your thighs
and something close to divinity assailing my sight...

don’t move!

and the heavenly spectacle repeats itself
with much more landscape to win or lose
and a much slower reaction of myself
click! click! click!
and for several days I walk around seeing only bright spots and smiling idiotically
contentedly
remembering also the sun rising but also...

...me?

Naked
you stand upright,
your back to me your legs askew your laughter conquering, invisible
and I wait for the sun to move towards its setting
with the pizza sighting evolving in upside-down fashion
and tiny cracks in the sun... cracks in the sun?... I scream
and you giggle
pointing out that there are certain tiny curls which if misinterpreted
when viewed from a certain angle could be interpreted as
and before I manage to scream

don’t move!

you hastily turn to face me and the cracks change position
while the pizza continues evolving
and I finally understand
click! click! click!
seeing the tiny cracks emanating from your body
and curling and wriggling upon the visible sun surface
with the sun’s deep red masking my face’s deep red
and my heart’s deep red
as mesmerized I, goggle-eyed I, cross-eyed I forget the pizza and watch...

me?...

Naked
you made additional propositions
every day another one,
the sun between your hanging breasts
and the sun between a variety of fingers and toes
and the sun bitten between your two rows of teeth
and the sun hanging to your left ear
then your right ear
then escaping your armpit
then...

and I click! click! click! ing

...I hope not for Instagram!...

Oh, my love, my love,
of course for Instagram
for that private Instagram encoded into my brain
and never to leave
my life.

Naked
the sun above your eyelashes
the sun supported by a nipple
the sun...

*

Now, my love, your turn.

Gulp!

Click, click, click!...

Tired, tired, tired!
Tired of you there
tired of your breast not cupped in my palm
tired of your belly away from mine
of your voice not heard of your teeth not sunk in my flesh of your nails not bleeding

of writing lecherousness
instead of living lecherousness...

tired, tired, tired.

my finger rested at the nape of your neck
in shivering anticipation
before starting its perilous journey southwards
meeting the first ledge sculpted in flesh
climbing atop the first vertebra for a breath-taking adventurous moment
before descending into the first vertebra interstice
for a much needed intake of air
then reached the following ledge
the following vertebra
the following interstice
the next
the next

finally reaching the last of them
there where your spine ends and the rest of you begins
I hesitated

don’t!
master you commanded slave I
and I didn’t
leaving me no choice but descend further
do!
and I did
part the gates
desecrating the almost holiest of holies
and gleaning
and sharing
pleasures unworthy of mortal me in the presence of deity you
until the difference between hell and heaven turned endless mental cacophony

ending
unfortunately.

you rolled over
waiting for me to finish suckling my finger
until you refused waiting any longer

now place your finger on the tip of my nose
and start the descent
anew.
I hesitated

don’t!

and I knew the journey this time was fraught with greater dangers
with greater wonders
but master called
and slave answered

and my finger started its crawling descent
to the holiest of holies

the graal!

the graal I assented, uncertain if it was day or night or Earth.
the graal, it was.

I never knew, I said,
taken aback by the sheer wonder of it
and discovering the reality of myth

hidden under so many layers and layers of garment
you were not born with
you never asked to be harnessed with

and you let me free you from.

I never knew, you said,
unaware until that moment of the sheer wonder of it
and discovering the pleasure of abandon

once you set your mind to offering me your entire collection of garments
your birthright did not demand
and your desire for freedom demanded abandoned

that you asked me to free you from.

Count! you said.

I have nothing more to count, I said
having counted already everything pair like ears, eyes, lips, fingers, feet, hands and other
inclusive some pairs
that God in his immense wisdom
subcontracted to a celestial Michelangelo
to design.

I have nothing more to count, I said
having counted already everything impair like nose, tongue, navel, chin, neck, spine and other
inclusive some impairs
that God in a repeat of his immense wisdom
subcontracted to the same celestial Michelangelo
to design.

Count! you said, and touch!

Ohh!

I started counting
pairs
impairs
ears, lips, tongue...

admiring creation
adoring creation

and when I finished with the obvious design
I left the straight path towards the artistic design
admiring God’s insight
adoring his subcontractor’s design
falling in love with the obviously intentional flaws left for me to discover
analyze
investigate

and then

I started touching, same,
pairs
impairs
ears, lips, tongue...

admiring creation
adoring creation

and when I finished with the obvious design
I left the straight path towards the artistic design
admiring God’s insight
adoring his subcontractor’s design
falling in love with the obviously intentional flaws left for me to discover
analyze
investigate...

And now count! touch! invade! you commanded

which was completely unnecessary

as sinanthropus me descended several millennia in time and ferocity
forgetting the count
and skipping the touch
and reaching straight into the invade
with you admiring
adoring
giving in to your complementary primal instincts
and loudly thanking celestial Michelangelo for the complementary design.

It must have been a... Michelangelina, you snickered, after
discovering
analyzing
investigating...

Once
I was screaming my head off in Italian in the car
listening to a CD as I was driving from point A to point B
(the loud motor masking my false overtones and undertones and rest of tones)
in complete disregard of my absolute ignorance of the language
and of the rest of the assassins in other cars swarming around me
and of your hand which in abuse of my lack of defenses
kept sneaking there where it had no business sneaking under said circumstances
and either pulling open my belt
and/or dragging down my zipper
and/or making unfulfillable (momentarily) promises
as it slid between cottons and skin
more interested in the skin than in the cottons
and most probably the main reason for my various convulsions of tone
and dangerous changes of lane
and steamy window your side of the car.

Once
seen the dangers of using private transportation means
(see above)
we tried using public transportation means
and while you pretended being busy with watching the scenery
I pretended letting you pretend you were busy watching the scenery
while behind the scenes and under the scene and around the scene
and out of scene and view
my hand having stopped any attempt at pretense
kept investigating a variety of access paths around your garments
and under your garments
and inside your garments
and once access was granted
initiating such a variety of insertion extraction scavenging techniques
that the driver/pilot/conductor was forced to boost the airco settings
or face a revolt and/or a meltdown and/or a micro climate change.

Once
the end of any trip invariably triggered a sequence of events
which included broken keys
and forced locks
and thrown-about luggage
and cracked panes
and damaged textile items inclusive a mix of textile dependencies
and wounded body items inclusive quite imaginative body dependencies
and hot sequence items inclusive triple-X rated sequence dependencies
all of which events finally settled down into the after the quake silence foreboding
and expecting
the next mayhem attack.

Once
words I laid upon your skin were sinking into it
like acid dripping from a pen
were burning into it
like the sharp tip of a red-hot nail
were drawing upon it butterflies that took off once drawn
and seeds that sprouted once sown
and squirrels that hopped off once my fingers bitten.

Once.

Gone.

How old were we
before becoming as old as we were?

Children...no! No even teenagers!
But young enough to crave
and old enough to crave
and both enough to swim inside each other’s creek
and glean each other’s crave
from inside all hidden gates
and secret passages.

And when the creek got turbid
and the breathing labored
we made sure the other did not get out alive
before getting a taste of dying
resurrecting
and wishing death anew.

How old are we
to forget how old we were?

You drove all the way here to bring me your nipples
then you drove all the way away to take away your nipples.

You asked me to stop judging your thighs
and focus instead on devouring your thighs.

You told me to stop being so fucking roundabout
and start being so fucking fucking

so I dragged you by the hair
through mud and thistles and broken pebbles
and once all clothes tore off your body
and longitudinal scratches your only dress
I lay down on my back for you to savage my face
and my feet
and all in between
and latitudinal scratches my only dress
and when we joined face to face
then face to back
then back to face
then back to back
then face to face anew
we would have looked to an alien
a math copybook-page torn out
and scribbled with exotic symbols symbolizing woman
or man
or woman and man ensnared in the act of ensnaring each other
and filling the void they were born with
with the fill they were born with
for each other.

I called in the fiddlers
and their fiddles
and commanded them to tie us with their fiddles’ chords
and perform on whatever chords were left
the sounds of a lark
dying.
Because we were going to break the chords
and separate our bodies
and you to take away your nipples
and I to stop devouring your thighs
and we to stop fucking

and nothing beautiful left in this world for us,
the lark
dead.

Sit on me
while I sit in you

Take a cupful of me
while I take two cupfuls of you

Let your mouth compete with you
while my tongue competes with me

Do you hear the sound of pebbles dripping in a lake?
I hear the sound of a lake gathering pebbles in its depths

Scream!
It’s about time I do

You screamed?
I didn’t hear you busy as I was with my own screaming

No worry, this is not biblical fornication
this is biblical bliss.

We rested glued for many hours,
biblical glue.

They (whoever, loud cacophony)

Shut up!
Fuck off!
Crawl back to your hole!
Who won Brazil versus Germany?
You lump of old meat!
+! (that’s the sign of the cross forefinger over forefinger)
Scram!

I (I, murmured blessing)

Fuck you! All!

...then I pinch her left side nipple
she the queen and I the cripple
while she calls upon me hell
I the beast and she the belle

then we lie upon the pyre...
stupid humans, light the fire!

Most of what I write is good.
Nevertheless, some of it is outstanding.

Ha ha ha.

This is what I wish to have written on my headstone
(the ha ha ha excepted).
My future headstone, that is, none right now,
and irrelevant that it is worded in present tense.
After all I write it now, present tense, right?

And once rumor gets out there in the world
lovers will come to make love upon said headstone
other lovers will come to fornicate upon said headstone
and some even fuck there, upon said headstone.
I hope all will remember to bring their own blankets,
headstones are notoriously cold all seasons, four-lettered seasons included.

I hope you too
even though we never did any of the above mentioned synonyms
or maybe because of it.
Your hot ass on my cold stone...
what better sensation in this (the then this) other world.
I promise to accompany it every step of the act,
threesome is not my thing but, hey, do (will) I have a choice?

Lay your flesh upon my marble
Let them fuse to dream unreal
And as you upon me kneel
Hear the lust inside this garble,

Open up your mind and senses
Open up your flimsy garb
Hang it on a rusted barb
Flood with ichor all pretenses

And while I invade your body
And your nipples fiercely swing
Listen to the songs I sing
In between sublime and bawdy

Give me your insiding drama
Give me your outsiding sweat
And I’ll drag to my duet
Eros, Hathor, Freyja, Kama...

Wonder what are those long, thin cracks crisscrossing the marble
after you wake up from the was-it-a-dream? dream?
These are the billion and one poems I want to write you
in addition to the thousand and one I did
and never did
and never do
and never will
and they just lie there, on the headstone,
waiting for Ezekiel’s prophesy to dawn upon them
resuscitate them
resurrect them
upon your sight.
Maybe alongside me
upon your body.

OK, time I stop with this existentialism/noumenalism nonsense
and revert to the hedonism/asceticism nonsense

makes more sense
to the senses.

Come, hold my hand,
at least for starters.
Then hold anything else you feel like,
for continuation.
Then hold nothing
but the one thing needed for finalization.

May I hold your hand, at same time?
Then anything else
and then the one thing needed?...

And now maybe it’s time we share
hands
anything else
and finally the one thing?...

Don’t giggle
as we dance a devil’s tango
lying down naked in the bed
(you think it difficult?... wait till the next)
neither a devil’s samba
lying down naked in the bed
(told you it was getting more difficult)
nor a devil’s rock’n’roll
(impossible? ha, just watch us do it, yes, naked in bed)

you giggle?
Ha ha, sure.
Because we’re not in bed not naked not holding whatever insinuated.
Let’s do it, for real. Come!

*

You came.
You suffer from some sick imagination, you know?
I know.
You came though. Shall we share?
The sickness?
Amongst other.

You held my hand. Promising start.
You hold my hand.
This is what you proposed, isn’t it?
Gulp. Mine. If this was the way it started...

You held anything else. And I mean anything else.
You hold anything else.
You mean everything.
I mean... well, I had a problem concentrating.
You held anything else
your hands finding various entrances into various garments
or creating ones, violently or not,
or recreating after I objected and closed and you re-opened
and as you investigated possibilities and discoveries and pure adventure
you kept pushing me hotel-way
door-way
bed-way.
Gulp gulp. Mine? Shared? If this was the way it continued...

You held nothing. I mean you dropped your hold on everything else
then you dropped my garments into an incinerator of fortune
then you held the one thing. Only.
You hold nothing. Only one thing.
This was your final intent, no, finalization?
I mean, I wish to share
the hand, the everything, the nothing but one thing, may I?

and after your garments ended in the same incinerator of fortune
we danced the tango
the samba
we rocked and we rolled
the bed never knowing when it became floor
the floor never knowing when it became bed
we never knowing when we started sharing
when we ended sharing
when we started sharing again...

How do you call this, philosophically speaking? you asked
still holding, still sharing, still forcing me to reciprocate.
The poetry or the doetry? I asked.
Yes.
Something that ends in ism or something the ends in ity? I asked.
Yes.

You were not making sense, you were not making my job any easier.
I had no ready-made answer, never thought of it, still don’t,
would carnalism do? I tried, many gulps later,
would lusticity do? I tried additional gulps later.

You departed.
I’m still looking for a suitable word,
maybe then you will return?

OK,
I know I wrote already something starting with OK
so what? I feel like starting with OK again.

OK.
Hello my (living) lover
this is your (dead) lover
writing you a letter you’ll never receive
from a place you’ll never reach
since it does not exist.

Which does not prevent me from lusting after you like I was alive
from a place that would exist
if the various religion trumpeters would have been correct
which they are not
and now I know.

I do not need you to write me adoring letters I’ll never receive
and send me naked pictures that will not pass local censorship
which does not exist either
but if you agree to think about me in the most humanly possible sinful manner
relish the thought that I will read your thoughts
and wallow in them in the most humanly possible disgusting manner.
And not only humanly possible
but unhumanly as well since human limitations do not apply to me anymore.

OK, I know it sounds strange not getting such a strange letter from me,
but I dare say it is not stranger than those portraits master Picasso kept drawing
the last days of his being of humans.
Of course, he got millions for one and I get zerrions for one
but this is just an infinitesimal difference, so I am happy with it.

My (living) lover –
weather here is good, or could be,
housing is free, or could be,
taxation inexistent, or could be
my lust endless, or could be, pending arrival of an answer letter from you
which I gave up waiting for.

OK, all this does not make more sense now
than it did a few lines up
which does not matter
seen that all this palaver stops existing the moment I stop key-punching.
And since it will make perfect sense
once we share the same under side of the same bed sheet
it will never make sense

Makes sense.

Dry,

don’t sit next to me or you’ll dehydrate
and get as wrinkled as a shar-pei
as a fist-crushed aluminum foil
as a sun-dried tomato,

my brain empty
my inspiration vault emptied
my ideas swirls turned a symbol of emptiness.

Don’t

let me touch your head or it will shrink to apple size
let me touch your breasts or they will shrink to pea size
let me touch your mind or it will shrink to single thought size
let me make love to you or it will shrink to eye-of-the-needle size...

...and the main problem will be for you to get away from it...
you completed the sentence
rolling in circles on the floor around me
and laughing your head off...
...though, you added, thread size has no problem escaping a needle...
you improved on your statement
rolling in ever smaller circles on the floor around me
and further laughing your head off
as I shuddered in sudden apprehension.

Damn clown,

I hissed your way
dropping to the floor next to you
and checking our shared theory,

proving it wrong to sounds of full propositions
reduced to single letter size, vowels mostly.

See, it wasn’t as bad as that, you murmured
when the distance between your vowels turned to regular breathing.
I see, I acquiesced
when the distance between my vowels turned to regular breathing.

You sink into your bath,

completely, absolutely, unequivocally naked
not even lipstick to your lips or nail polish to your nails

naked,
almost the way you were born
give or take a few layers of dye to your hair
a few incisions of ink to your skin

naked,
the way I imagine you naked.

You sink,
the water slowly engulfing your outsides
a few bubbles where the water makes an effort to engulf your insides

you reach bottom
small breasts slowly undulating with the wavelets
until they sink too and the only visible vista from the neck down
is the tips of your nipples.
Then they sink too,
your nose the only human component resting above water.
Peace.
Perfect, august peace.

You shiver, did you fall asleep?
your hand swiftly turns on the hot faucet
and the bliss of steam cuts the shiver and fills you with momentary gratification

you open lazy eyes
send a lazy hand out of the cocooning wetness
and lazily pick a... what is it you pick?... a poem?... mine?

You start reading.
You read the lines.
Then you read between the lines.
Then you choose the lines to reread and the lines to skip
and your thighs start a soft frictionless movement between themselves
slowly adding pressure and friction to the effort
the other hand joining in the melee
your eyes shut tightly
your mind blank
pressure
constriction
you moan...

You stand up
exit Eden dripping a mix of water and soap and woman
soak yourself dry
pull yourself into cottons and silks
and drop me into a pedal activated oubliette...
for later retrieval... you smile my way
before you return to the world.

lover lover
my sweet lover
you have found another lover
clouds of butterflies your bedding
soaked in tears that I be shedding
at your wedding.

winsome lover
vestal lover
fades the dream of you my lover
glitters eagerly your bedding
with the dust that stars be shedding
at your wedding.

listen lover
tell me lover
oh my lover oh my lover
burns with lust your bed and bedding
as the garments you be shedding
at your wedding.

lover lover
lover lover
once my lover lost my lover
burning flesh and tattered bedding
on your lover you be shedding
at your wedding.

We started riding
then we stopped riding
then we rode again.

Following day we rode some more
finding new ways to ride
to dismount
to mount
to ride slower and faster
and when I complained I couldn’t ride anymore
you patiently proved me wrong.

Several days in a row
researching the subject
and ourselves
and the industry devoted to riding skills and riders
sometimes silently
sometimes noisily
sometimes in awe
even giggling at a few unexpected riding turns.

And after a week of ceaselessly riding
all sore and delighted
we promised ourselves to do it again
there was so much left to discover.

And I also finally understood why one has to brush one’s teeth after riding.

Your lilac is so dark and luscious, she said.

I wish I had enough lilac to fill a swimming pool for you, I said
and then throw you in it until you drown
in perfumed beauty,

And when you try to swim to the edge
I’d pull your head underneath the surface
and down there rub your back into the violence of crushed violet,

You wouldn’t mind as you’d be forcing me to bite the bitter of petals
and the sweet of flesh
and together we’d create tsunamis to uproot mountains,

Then lilac will eat away our garments
before I start whipping you with fragile clusters tied into nosegays
then I start caressing you with the leftovers of same clusters,

Before I start filling up your entire collection of body openings with tiny flowers
before I start emptying same collection of same flowers
before I fill up your entirety with me,

Following which you reconstruct replicate recreate same
same flowers
my body,

Lilac lilac on the wall who’s the fairest of them all, I’d ask
If you don’t know by now you never loved her, it’d answer
I know, I’d answer, I love her, I’d answer, just wondered if you knew.

I love the view, I’d love to sit there for hours, she said.

I’d love you to sit there for a lifetime, I said.

Your skin
crossing the border into perfumes territory
ravishing the essence of orange blossom
of jasmine blossom
of woman blossom.

Your skin
at war with sunlight
with moonlight
with candle light
establishing the bloodline of skin light.

Your skin
conquering human skin
mind reason
will and its power
dreams real and unreal.

Your skin
facing devastating incursions
violent commands
abominable onslaught
mine all.

Your skin
roaring with its roaring vessels
bleeding with its bleeding vessels
turning mine to ashes
in revenge.

I watched
the exodus of your flesh
as it was leaving the familiar warmth of the insides of your clothing
for the unfamiliar chill of the insides of my bedding
and I shuddered in anticipation.

You watched
the exodus of my flesh
as it was leaving the familiar warmth of the insides of my clothing
for the unfamiliar furnace of the insides of your flesh
and you shuddered in anticipation consummated.

We watched
the exodus of flesh from flesh of flesh from bedding
its return to the familiar warmth of the insides of clothing
the departing of clothing with flesh entombed in its folds
shuddering
in the agony of realization
of a history never to re-write itself.

And I guess we cried.
I know I did.

Making inroads into you
what an art
yours
accepting me.

Making inroads into me
what an art
yours
invading me.

Making inroads into lust
what an art
yours
excavating me, kneading me, sculpting me.

Our lips touched
then our tips of tongues spliced for a couple seconds
pulling back in haste
maybe embarrassed maybe scared
leaving me with kissing your shoulder
and you with biting the lobe of my ear, gently, it stayed attached.

We did what all lovers do –
sat on a bench
knee firmly against knee
thigh tightly against thigh
hips crushing
elbows entrapped like fishing hooks sunk into flesh
and started counting falling stars.

We agreed that at one hundred we will do “it”.
When it looked like one hundred was too far away we decided on ten.
At three we did it.

Not many are the memories chasing me with such insistence.
Memories?
Well, I hope.

I need your body

your breast to hold
your lips to fold
your hips into mine with a vise to mold.

I need your body, the one I will never have

your breast to hold
your lips to fold
your hips into mine with a vise to mold.

I need your body, the one I will forever carry within my mind

and once I liberate it from clothing serfdom
I intend to inspect every square millimeter of its surface
and every cube millimeter of its subface
(your objections safely locked away for later retrieval in a few years or so)

starting with the tips of toenails
following with the toes to their various lengths and positions and toeprints
up to your ankles where I’ll hesitate lengthily between metal shackles and finger shackles
on to your knees forcing them apart and watching them jerk back together
forcing them apart and watching them jerk back together
forcing them apart and just as they are about to jerk back together
guiding the tips of my fingers up along your inner thighs
and watching in fascinated satisfactions the knees split apart
until there is no more split apart possible
and varieties of strange music start emanating from deep inside your throat
when I almost reach
when I do reach
when I sink more than just finger tips there where thighs unite like communist proletarians
like hinges on doors
like rhymes to poems

my quest driving my exploration further up, unabashed
investigating the depth of your belly button
and the height of your breasts
and the flint of your awakening nipple
on to your throat as it just fits between my coupled thumbs and forefingers
your chin just underneath your lower lip
your lower lip just underneath your upper lip
your fangs allowing me a swift tongue to tongue conversation
upper lip, nose, eyelashes and green emeralds underneath and arches above
a forehead begging to be kissed and a haystack of hair begging to be grabbed
pulled upwards from the bedding
head to head face to face mouth to mouth clashing

not yet, you breathe venomously

and turn face down and demand inspection be continued
on the other side
top to bottom
head to toe
haystack to toestack
the inevitable hesitation mid-way foreseeable, foreseen, implemented, passed

now, you breathe a different kind of venom even before I reach your toes

and you turn face up again
and I slide upon you
and our venoms mix
and our cacophony celestial
and my mind locks in its various treasure coves all the impressions collected
raw
unedited
real. Almost real.

Now you have your memory, you would have said.
Now I have my memory, I would have said.
Now I have my memory, I say.

It must have been, what else?

The subway car was filled to refuse,
I was propped, sandwiched, sardined in from every direction
no need for any hand-holding.
Actually I could have lifted both my feet and still rest upright.

The train stopped
some passengers filtered out, some filtered in,
she filtered in.
She, the Providence she.

I saw her
she saw me
click... did I hear click? Or detonation?
Nobody died so probably click.

She squirmed, squished, squirted between the masses of compact flesh and cloth
like an eel in water
like oil between piston and cylinder
like... there she was
right in front of me
upside down... oops... frontside back
pushing against each other almost without volition, almost,
her hair filling my face
her spine filling my breastbone
her ahm filling my ahm...
a few squirms later she rotated and we were face to face
cross-eyed facing cross-eyed
nose tip almost touching nose tip...
...hey, I couldn’t help but notice that you were pointily interested in me a few seconds ago...
she hissed, trying yet unable to look down...
...and still interested...
she almost breathed into my lungs her jasmine and rose and lilac perfumes,
the only separation between us
imposed by three very rigid supporting vertices of an upside down isosceles triangle,
two hers, one mine... damn? bless? them separating flesh columns.
Your place or mine?

The following is not a story for the faint hearted,
so I’ll skip it, being a “love thy neighbor” guy.
Suffice to say that her tattoos melted into my skin
and my flesh melted into hers
and many years later we are many kids later
and we still melt. Into each other.
That original isosceles not as perfect as the first time
but as rigid as any time it came to life since. Which is often.

Life is beautiful. Thank you, Providence.

She lay in the bath tub,
soaking so much hot water
that I started worrying that once she pulls the plug
she’ll flow into the sinkhole alongside with water and bubbles and soap leftovers.

Hi, I said.
She raised lazy eyelids – how the hell did she keep her mascara on?
There was no trace of shame
or remorse (why remorse?)
or guilt (why guilt?)
Hi, she answered, want to join?...
an invitation that no male ever wherever ageever would answer negatively.

Everything except skin deserted my outsides
and I sank slowly
the hot water searing my skin red the way of a lobster.
But I had to show courage, determination, manhood
so I kept sinking until I felt her underneath me –
full front layer – hers – supporting full back layer – mine.
No, I didn’t feel heavy, Archimedes helping,
no, it did not feel awkward, it felt heavenly.
Shall I soap you?...
an invitation that no male ever wherever ageever would answer negatively.

Answer implied, I did not answer, just let her do,
she was in no hurry and neither was I.
Men are strange creatures, even stranger than women, you know?
I didn’t know
I didn’t agree
I didn’t care
as long as her circular motions and latitudinal motions and longitudinal motions
kept their lazy dynamic.
For example this bush pushing out of your upper lip...
she hit it viciously and I feared my teeth would surface from under said lip...
women would die if blessed with such an outgrowth, you know?
I knew.
For example these flat breasts stretching over your ribs and their miniature nipples...
she hit one on my nipples viciously and I feared I’d need it removed...
women would die if blessed with such an undergrowth, you know?
I knew. I also feared that which would follow. And followed.
For example this shape-shifting proboscis mid of your body...
her hand raised and hit the water viciously, an asteroidical splash following
as I was out of the tube faster than an eel,
after all I still needed said item... she looked up and down and up at me...
women would die if they couldn’t control it for their own use, you know?
she grinned like a vixen, licked her lips like a leopard, clicked her teeth like a hyena
and I certainly knew,
it was an invitation that no male ever wherever ageever would answer negatively.

I jumped in, face down this time
and the boiling water around us not far in its appearance than boiling porridge
and in its scalding power
and in its soothing effect...
Sorry, I still don’t find any usage to the upper lip brush and to the miniature nipple
but as for the other item of temporary uselessness... mea culpa...
it’s just a matter of timing, isn’t it?

We floated like an oversized flesh barrel
caring not for frogs
or turtles
or sharks.

We were blue and shivering once we woke up from that deadly embrace,
luckily for us there were frogs
and turtles
and sharks all around us keeping us at minimal survival heat.

People, you don’t have to believe my words – here, I am alive, see?

Did I lust for you?

I did and do
the war between my knees and yours a wonderful ado
the year before, the year of now
AM, PM anew.

Do I lust for you?

Of course I do
and for as long as sol trails fa and doesn’t jump the queue
I’ll claim your body every night
at forty-three past two.

Will I lust for you?

If will or do
it matters not if saint or whore, if queen or wretched shrew
we leave no hour bare of lust
if odd, if even too.

To watch the sun emblaze your hair from rooster’s call to arms
Until the moon sinks in your eyes its parlous silver charms
And once you leave the living world to join your dreamland’s trove
To search between your skin and cloth the hidden, burning grove.

I don’t believe I’ll live to see another bluish moon,
I’ve overstayed a bit my time – one June? one afternoon?
But in the minutes left to roam this swollen piece of dirt
I hope to catch a passing glimpse beneath your flying skirt.

My mind conjures the dust of lust from its infamous lair
And twines it with the howl of hounds and streaks of solar flare
The potent nostrum to my crave invades the nostril paths
I grab your skin and cull your sweat with tender, cleansing swaths.

I waddle through the grime of time invoking right to err
To blunder though the rhyming fields like Shakespeare’s rightful heir
Abusing any worn excuse and dictionary clause
To get your flesh abide the law of my edacious claws.

I see myself upon a hill, the freezing raindrops whip
While soaking garments rip from flesh as we stitch hip to hip
I etch a rainbow from your thigh up to your nipple’s crest
And as you feed upon my pride I feed upon your breast.

The visions falter... klaxons, barks and sirens fill the void
Alongside diesel’s stinking fumes and groveling fungoid,
I turn into a lump of meat devoid of pulse and breath
My wish fulfilled, I now await the smiling grace of death.