Tiny tawny girl next door,
Watch you scrub your kitchen floor.
Doggie down there, on all four:
I can’t wait ‘til you spill some more.

Laundry day, your fragrance drifts
Through my screen: My spirit lifts.
Subtle scents, your careless gifts,
And through each one, my keen nose sifts.

Singing, humming, filled with glee:
You wash your dishes, dutifully.
I hear you, though I cannot see,
How drippy-wet and wonderfully?

Accomp’nied by Spanish guitar,
This summer day, you wash your car.
Flamenco skirt, my jaw ajar,
On tippy-toes, you’ve stretched too far!

Then one day, from the box you came,
Bearing junk mail with my name.
I quickly turned to hide my shame.
You’d caught me staring, just the same.

My name, without lifting her head,
From that misguided missive, read.
Upset?  Not yet.  She smiled, instead,
Then took me by my arm, and said,

“I must confide, my next-door boy,
I play with you: my sweetest toy.
All parts and parcels of my ploy,
I mean to share what you enjoy.

“I scrub the floor where you can see.
I perfume all of my laundry.
I softly sing each melody,
And even dress indecently.

“…But spiders cause me grievous fright!
I have a burned-out ceiling light.
So, if you can and think you might,
Come help me with my chores, tonight.”

©2Dec2017 @DracoTalpus

i still can’t say your name.
not because, the sound makes me sad,
but rather because
the way the letters sit on my tongue and,
the way the syllables leave my lips
simply don’t feel as comfortable as they used to.
i wonder if you can’t hear my name.
the way you told me to add an accent to the end.
the way I made it sound like the ending to a love note,
a love note my diction could fold into a paper crane
that could fly to your heart.
i remember how you recorded me saying my own name,
because, you loved the way the vowels
dripped off my lips one by one,
the way I could curl the four letter nickname so gently
it sounded like a cursive word,
wrapped and tucked behind your ear.
i hope you can’t listen to those recordings,
because I can’t listen to my favorite songs.
i hope one day your mouth opens to say her name
and closes knowing it said my own,
because any time I type another man’s name on my phone,
it somehow autocorrects to yours.
i hope my paper crane name has made a nest in the back of your mind,
laying eggs that will hatch whenever you touch her,
so when you hold her hand,
the little crane in your skull says that only word it knows infinitely well:
táti.

These letters
placed onto this keyboard
are able to make art so beautiful
and novels so imaginative!
And this metal piece with keys on top,
can also make
h

I write to you often, I have multiple goodbye letters
Expressing the the things I was never able to say
How I actually started falling for you
Saw a future with you, I regret not letting you know that you meant something to me.
I also write letters of hate towards you, asking why you chose me, was I a joke to you, did you just want me for lust, was it all a lie.
I write you letters on how much I miss you, even though you hurt me I still miss you.

I write to you with no intention of ever showing you

No, I'm not a poet.
I'm just an interpreter of tales in which tears are drops of longing ...
Tales, in which I hear through my ears
echoes of an invisible and indivisible world ...
I sometimes like to pour myself a little red
and sweet wine of the silence cup,
the inner silence is erupting from me,
which seems to me to be a deaf-mute dispute between heart and reason ...

No, I'm not a poet.
Only words are fighting against me,
but still, I feel my heart is lifting in their arms,
with the same intensity as at the beginning...
The letters in my words do not need arguments,
they just want to free themselves,
to touch souls more and more, joining in verses,
their destinies being knotted with rhymes ...


No, I'm not a poet.
I'm just a human beeing who, for a few moments,
has a breath of inspiration,
swallowing with greed the air from the room
where I lay down my silence, my love, my longing,
trying to transform words into a vibrant power, almost tangible.
Sometimes I use words with a killing flesh of attraction,
like a masterful crowning of the letters that take hold of my pen...
and sometimes with a gentle, sweet glance,
whispering voluptuously, making my rhymes fall on their knees ...


No, I'm not a poet.
I just measure the universe with a hungry, critically eye-catching curiosity,
while the aroma of my coffee is flowing in the air,
escaping from the espresso,
mysteriously and dazzling...
I just caress the words on the pavements of the lyrics
peeled by the rains of the heart where the letters are sad and lonely...

Now I retire with a slight bow,
as an unspoken satisfaction, in front of all those who read me,
in front of the ones you know me...
A delusive lust to write a few lyrics has taken me by surprise...
maybe about truth, maybe about numb dreams,
maybe about the cure of lost hearts... which is love!