my love
thy hair is one kingdom
  the king whereof is darkness
thy forehead is a flight of flowers

thy head is a quick forest
  filled with sleeping birds
thy ******* are swarms of white bees
  upon the bough of thy body
thy body to me is April
in whose armpits is the approach of spring

thy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot
  of kings
they are the striking of a good minstrel
between them is always a pleasant song

my love
thy head is a casket
  of the cool jewel of thy mind
the hair of thy head is one warrior
  innocent of defeat
thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army
  with victory and with trumpets

thy legs are the trees of dreaming
whose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulness

thy lips are satraps in scarlet
  in whose kiss is the combinings of kings
thy wrists
are holy
  which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood
thy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases
  of silver

in thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes

  thy eyes are the betrayal
of bells comprehended through incense

today, i wore my perfume
in case you’d come,
in case you’d hug me
and tuck your head on my neck,
kiss me on my forehead
so i won’t have regrets
—but you never came
i hoped, what a shame.

Has your soul ever been displayed,
Framed by thick wooden-glazed borders,
and set up in the gallery of another's life?

Can you say the painting of you
Beams with joy through heavy clouds,
Sliced by sharp shards of glass-like light?

If not, may you then brush-up yourself,
Quick blots of pink on sunken cheeks,
Lighten the shade under each eye?

Or will you draw the curtain,
Blind me to me, and you to you,
Pinch out the last flicker of fight?

Parcelled and promised.
But not yours, nor mine.
Drags on. Flies past.
Never really unwinds.

A cure-all or illusion.
Could make fools of us all.
A force to which everything
Eventually falls.

An irreplaceable treasure,
That can’t be held in the hand.
Just one way that we measure
Our lives on this land.

I once hung clothes
from a line, canned
strawberries, and wished
for paved streets.

Now, I long for gravel
dusted sheets blowing in the wind
beside strawberry fields
concrete can’t reach.

if the reader
falls in love with the character of a book,
their love can be eternal.

he can over and over re-read
each part of his beloved.
he can just stop for a while
and gently touch the mirage.
he can even ****** a piece
and carry it for a lifetime.

but what happens
if the character
falls in love with the reader?

in dutch "trap" means "stairs"
they say
stairs stand for growth

maybe a trap does too
so
what are you going to do?

gut me like an orange.
tear away my skin
till i’m raw and ripe,
ready for you to **** out the juice
swallowing every drop
let me run dry
and make a mess around your mouth
then after chewing me up
and biting me down
spit out my flesh
let me sit
used
discarded
begging to be eaten