By the sun and by the moon
And by the morning that never comes
By the light that kills the darkness
I swear, I have never loved!

Never in my life have I craved
Nor have I looked with my heart’s eye
Someone else that was not you
I swear, to you I can not lie.

And my fingers have never touched
The way they touched when they touched you
And the heat you gave my blood
I swear, no one else can give it too.

No one in this life has got me drunk
As it did your skins perfume
And when I was with someone else
I swear, I have never loved…but I loved you!

A wish,
It’s a piece of dirt in your hand
Not a gem, not a clean crystal
Holding the rainbow inside.
It’s just a clump of dirt,
Scattered in the palm of your hand
Moving between your fingers
As it were alive, breathing,
Warming your hands and you heart
When you’re cold at night
When your thoughts are scattered
On the corners of your brain
And nothing seems to link them together
Except, the touch of that cold dirt
The idea of holding something in your hand
The wish,
The immortal pieces of dirt
Waiting to be transformed
And depending on your fingers, to change,
To morph into the most beautiful ball of dirt-
Your, perfect ball of dirt
Your idea of wish,
Your idea of clinging on to something.

**** your darlings,
**** your darlings!”
I heard this phrase
a long time ago,
and I killed them all!
In hope that doing this
my writing-
like a fountain will flow.
“**** your darlings,
**** your darlings!”
they said,
and so I did!
I killed one, I killed three
I killed four…
and I wrote as much as I could
to complete myself,
to become whole.

“**** your darlings,
**** your darlings!”
they said,
and I killed a lot!
I killed one, I killed three
and I killed-
as much as I could count!
And my writing did flow,
drowning myself in it,
drowning my flesh
my soul, my clothes;
But I did write…
I wrote as much as I could,
surrounded by corpses
ghosts, and souls…
only to complete my process,
of becoming whole!

I heard a shout,
and then one more.

I heard a shout and then one more
and those who were blind
stopped, and turned towards the voice.

I heard a shout,
and then one more.

I heard a shout and then one more
and those who were blind-
afraid, picked their sticks and stones.

I heard a shout,
and then one more.

I heard a shout and then one more
and the blinded ones were throwing sticks
towards the voice, throwing stones.

I heard a shout,
and then one more.

I heard a shout and then one more
and when I came close to opening my eyes,
the voice died; Silence, finally, no more noise.

Her!
She is the landing of moon-
On earth,
The tune-
Of an unheard instrument,
The taste-
Of what I can never hope to eat,
The sound of a blooming flower
And the touch, the sting
Of the most beautiful word.

Her!
She is the definition of poetry–
My destruction, my demise,
The echo-
Of a picture I can’t recall!
Her!
The silhouette-
Of someone I can’t remember,
The avatar-
Of my wildest dreams.

Her!
The reason why my harsh words
So easily– come out!
Her!
The perfect form of my taste.
Her!
The grandiose meaning of my love.
Her…
The shape of my fire,
The embodiment of my flames.

“A piece of meat.”
His eyes searched her body
From her head to toe
Starting from her hair
Down to her eyes
Her lips, her nose.
Looking at her neck
He bit his own lip
For he was too far
To feast on her,
To take a bite of her lips.

“Her ******* are perfect”
That’s what he thought.
I have to eat,
To quench my hunger
I need to eat,
I need to have those.
Looking at her belly
He pictured his own self
Touching her body, his body
Like a butcher;
That’s when he lost himself.

But she walked away,
And all he could see
Was meat.
A piece of meat
And nothing more.
His eyes saw everything
But not what she hid
And she had hidden more,
Way more…
More than he could ever chew,
Way more…

Tonight,
I won’t write about love.
No, not tonight.
Tonight I will write
about the silent sky
and the moon,
that on his chest he holds.
I will write about this fog
that got my city strangled
just like a tight rope.
Tonight,
I will write about my garden
and the frozen flowers there
that show me that death
is a sight to behold.
Tonight,
I will write about life
and death
and how fast this fleeting life goes.

But, when I looked down
just like on every other night
tonight, I again,
on the spread page
“I miss you” wrote.*

Inspired by the great Pablo Neruda – “Tonight I can write the saddest lines”