poetry,
this palette
of deranged
chords,
in falsetto,
the impossibility
in my dreams,
to be gifted
to you.

equidistance
of time, in
non leaning hemispheres.
paradoxical spring tide.

It was a hollow
- like a starvation
unawarely eerie -

and then...

To be handed
words,
their mellow core,
a mouthfeel like a heartcoating:

a moisture in the desert sand,
this withering height of a not-for-me-love.

Daddy's little girl
is dancing in the yard.
Daddy, look at me.
Dad is long dead, now.
I am dancing, she says.
She spins, clamsy,
pirouettes,
bows,
pas de deux by a single.
Daddy, look.
Skies are wide blue
and the girl is spinning,
the globe under her feet
goes round and round,
faster and faster
and then
she jumps
to the other side of the moon,
unseen darkness in blue light.
Daddy, I am sorry,
I will dance no more.

sometimes you learn.

when you grow old,
yes,
sometimes you learn.

or maybe
you remember
best.

anyway.

sometime,
you'll fall
in love
one last time.

hopelessly,
naturally,
but forever.

none of it
is meant
the way
it feels,
it makes
me feel.

the real thing?
but a cold dish.

i hate emptiness.

time to move.
void is always
vacant.

subway

crowded
half empty
empty
and again

all day long

took every direction

as if
i too
had a destination

wherever to

The plateau.
A stripped upland,
growing glaring facades
and somber alleys.

And the plain.
Unfolded canevas,
ripples in shades of green,
bursting in red and brown soil.
There, and there,
shattered puddles of sky,
anchoring clouds to the ground.
And, further, so far,
a mirage of an ocean.

A plateau.
For staging a fantasy on the run
to realms of possible.

wearing out monologues.

a window.
shattered, the street.

starless night.

like the house
upon a dune,
dawning in the arms
of a salty sea windy,
a hoarsy rust
foreclosing the ways
inside, a home of
a hoarder, yet
a would-be-minimalist,
kind of a patine,
riddling scratches
of drifters.

dared
to ink a voice,
dived
into echoes
of a mirage,
willingly,
delusional.

blue devils'
summoning
watchful censorship.

despondency?
no. the relief
of exiting myself.

splintered night,
the thorn tree
of stars,
all falling.

hours
of broken glass.

try on some words,
little girl

take a match,
check the hollow

put on those words,
silly girl

play the swan,
and its final chant

echo the words,
poor girl

dye the dark
and let go

of it all
and the words

- Hey, birdie! Birdie!!

- Who is this, calling me?

- Would you sing me a song,
stand by me tonight?

- Sure, honey, but I have to tell you:
in a first date, my starter' always the guts!

(spoiler alert: explicit, or whatever...)*


my hands,
cup shaped.
your warmness.
the pace of your
fleeing heart.
your *******,
naked, nibbled,
in my cupped
hands.

far, tree branches skim
the light satin of the moon
- unspoken fairwell

What should I do?

He doesn't have a clue.
He doesn't give a ****.

Shall I tear in pieces?,
bleed my hearted will out?

Too **** sick and tired of that.

I choose...
Las Vegas' lights kind,
a singing lesson,
a vibrant red
to dismiss greyness,
this shadow in my eyes.

I choose...
to feel it all piercing me
and yet to dance

(finally!)

              and so

I call upon
my african soul
and summon
a storm.

There.

There is
no dark.
Nor light.

Just me.

Feeling.

Filled.
Empty.
Refilled.
Empty again.

**** it.
I am not a bottle!
Here,
watch me
splinting
a dumb heart.

There.
No dark.
Nor light.

take a full hand of words
in a worldly language
and sprinkle the lines
with as much of something
as you can; carefully,
not to split out.

if you reach a slight resemblance
to whatever you meant,
be happy and contented:
that's what you're allowed,
sometimes, but never more
than the transparency of an esquisse,
half-way to incompleteness.

still, you did your best
- and your best-outlined-somehow-you
will stand there, in the open,
a threshold no one really sees,
not even when you think they do.
*(the one in the mirror went silent.)

northern lights, purple
pulse of sidereal fairy
- dazed heart, clinging.

i n k l i n e . o u t l i n i n g . i n s u r m o u n t a b l e . t h i r s t . s u b l i m e d . e m o t i o n . c o r r o s i v e l y . m o v i n g . i n . b l a c k . f e e d i n g . o n . w h i t e . a . b l o o d . s t r e a m . v e r s e s . t o . f i n d . y o u . v e r s o . o f . m e . w h o . a . c o n t o u r . a . i n k l i n e .

day falling
slightly
scented
moss
and dew

quietness
of a garden
bursting
yellowish brown
a redful will

a bench
on the side

its emptiness
its vacancy

i see it

one by one,
all the lines
of her silence,
manuscripted,
brought
before him,

one by one,
all the lines
on her hand palm,
all of her lives,
bringing her
before him.

and one by one,
all of it,
dropping,
down the royal
stairs, into stone,
before him.

stellar hellish heat,
earthly spread lassitude
- black hollowed core.

had a cup of tea
it was icy cold

mended a heart
it was out of date

looked up
there was nothing

took a peek within
it was wide shut

put it all to rest
went for a dock in blue

insomnia
ghostly walk
amongst the sleepers

hushed scaly sound
driving lights fleeing
an image on a mirror

flashing moments
scattered memory screeching
rowdy cradling
                       dawn
                                dyed in red

Once upon a time:
that was the story
never to be told

but a serotinal wind
made the falling leaves
fly and vivid colours

looked for a canvas.
Blurred and unimpressive,
the story remains unread.

je t'ai jamais dit
maman
et on était
plutôt amères
on était peut-être
jalouses
ta vie dérobée
ma vie saisie
par la peur
de quoi
je n'en sais rien
je t'ai jamais dit
maman
il nous a fallu
un mot
un geste
et moi
je suis restée là
dans ce geste inachevé
où j'ai vidé ce que
je t'ai jamais dit

Salty,
like a misty drizzle
by the sea;
sour caramel,
a dark harsh yellow;
a silky roundness
of reddish sweet

- tickling lust.

pantagruelian wait
for the roundness to
burst in pink flesh

a first kiss for air depriving
a first taste of cherry flesh
a first burble of soft bones

i step down
(again)
from the mercy of hope

i enter the deepness
of invisibility

                               this
                     wintry
             frozen
landscape

here
        i stand
        blinded
all by myself

conjuring time and
its sourly blurring
of awareness
into a slight regret of
a what

and

as i drift afar       into the mist

i cry and it is okay
because
there
d        is
a
  o      no
r

Counting blessings
for gratefulness.

Stumbling on zero.

Blinded by aching.

a cling and a clang
a scary noise
there by the swamp,
a growl or a roar,
oh my,

it's a moody blue
birthing a wintry spleen,
listen to the complaint,
*to hell with lyrical,
my silly vein drain I shall!

Oh, blessed wisdom
that led the sages' path,
for it was theirs the bliss
of reaching the living idea,
on flesh and bone human like.

Oh, how seldom
men are granted
such a prize!

So I wonder
whose hand led my path,
of wisdom so unlike,
so sinfully unbeliever
of what could be,

for I have seen
the love I dreamed of
and secretively drank
from the mead that was
not mine to take.

So I wonder
whose hand led my path
and keeps me here,
gazing from a distance,
imposing me to run away
if he said he loved me...

First,
i broke my legs,
seemed you wouldn't stand
me being on my feet.

Then,
i abandoned my hands,
all my dids had fawls,
you pointed it out.

My voice wrinkled
as hoarsely you wanted
me quiet.

Finally,
i slipped my zipper
and let go of my will.

The day that bird
crossed my estrangement,
i took the golden azureous (")
of its passing by
and gave birth to myself.

Trying out my wings,
you now gaze at me
and still your blindness
will not allow you to see.

To love is a clarity,
a insight,
an offer of sanctuary
to our lover.

Would you know it...?

The wind claims my wings.
Irisdescence
composes my chant
and my chant summons life.

And i leave.

a witting clap
echoes

flocks of letters
take flight

words'
remainders
to gather

to lit a fire
within the night

smoke
above the canopies

the burial.

another,
again.

there
will be
no tomorrow.

children die.

mothers bury
the unripe fruit
of their womb.

who has
turned out
the light?

I take my pencil
and draw two lines,
two points of escape
into the horizon line.

I draw a road
to walk through
the white blindness
of time.

I picture myself
on the road,
two points of leakage
behind, to drain the void.

Happily I get lost,
in the round bend of the road,
and become a hobo
in a new found equator.

took that train,
just had to,
took the steps
on my free will
or whatever
and jumped in.

what a ride,
i tell you,
what a ride.

but dizziness
is just a blur
and that's why
i'm erasing
the bridge,
ahead.

Are you the man I dreamt about?
I do not know
because you are the man
I chose to love
the way you were.

Yes, my life once had a glow,
I shined in the light of a purpose.
I expected us to be unexpected
and to smile at each other
in the discovery of that change
taking place in an invisible way.

You hold my love, you say,
but you don't hold me as then
in fear of losing me,
making sure I was for real.

We kept moving through time
side by side, insulated alone,
both choosing silencing ourselves,
avoiding convulsions,
suicidally.

Love is a hopeless fool.
Can you not see it in my eyes?
There is an eternal longing,
yes, for feeling to be loved.
This does not feel to be loved.
Unloved, lying next to you,
I am cold. You are cold.
One can not disguise
loneliness.

Took my seat as usually, an old broken
puppet in a shelf, left alone, staring around.

And this girl is walking and now she seats
right in front of me.

Renaissance white blouse.
Brown almond soft skin.
Wet red lips.

She looks right into my eyes.

We smile.
No.
We laugh. Openly.

If I had lean towards her
we would have kissed.

I can feel her lips,
I am sure
she would taste
like cherries,
her skin fresh
as a breeze
smoothly warmed
on my leaning.

We should have kissed.

If I wasn’t I.

And I shiver,
leaving the train
thinking of her
all this time after.

I wonder... Have you
aged enough, upon grief,
came to love this matching heart?

[for Ellie's book poem challenge]*

In last,
the brat
pointed
to the slate,
to the grid
chalked there.

"And then
he found a way out
of the maze!",
he said,

and as he spoke
he erased a line
in that last square.

He smiled,
toothless,
to his best friend:

now
both of them
had it wrong
but that cage
of loneliness
was open wide
- at last!

do you WANT to live?
do YOU want to live?

days' rock.

heavier, as
Sisyphus' one.

i'll go to sleep,
now.

please.

All the rivers i longed,
a moist slightly rehearsing
dawn's dew, a glitter yet to be;

every shade of crimson
i concealed, sinking
the horizon in cooled suns;

each word i teared apart,
the weight of emptiness
forbidding to dare

- all i've declined
willingly
resigning life,

i have taken, to draw
a shore, your outline,
and, clandestine,

i watch, as the rain
washes away the horizon,
in the other side of the mirror.

Worldly life picks out
each one of us:
the main character
upon a stage for delusion.

Cheers and spotlights,
special effects solace;
frights, fights, sighs,
all but blind spots.

Main characters
of make-believe...!
Wordy life feed on us:
now you are, now you are not.

buried my feet
in the river bed
deep in a freezing time
incapable to choose to flow or drown

got rid from the sand
looked for wings
tried a life-lift in the aurora
the heart heavy on a love consistency

neither sandy or fancy
could ground me or root me
all fails its gravity pull
extraneously i stare the flutter of my feet

i tried, oh i tried
to reach out

did you not
notice?
the hummingbirds!

still

this metallic cold
of not belonging

never again
to be kissed