There's this something,
something hidden,
behind the showcase
of which can only be whispered
or shouted out.
Those who whispered it
weren't really given a hoot
and those who shouted it
weren't really appreciated
for their bravery.
Me?
I dove right
into the showcase
and pulled it off
onto the shining surface.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
This
This --
the silence of the things
that are bound to happen.
the motionless barrel of a gun
the scared eyes of the kid
- of which lets it beauty
fade away with every tear -
the vase that is just
about to hit the floor
the heart
that stops everything
at the instant
her eyes meet
mine
This --
the silence of things
that are shouting out
carry on
making sounds.
the silence of the things
that are bound to happen.
the motionless barrel of a gun
the scared eyes of the kid
- of which lets it beauty
fade away with every tear -
the vase that is just
about to hit the floor
the heart
that stops everything
at the instant
her eyes meet
mine
This --
the silence of things
that are shouting out
carry on
making sounds.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Fruto Prohibido
He let the deep breath he took out, out into the silence of the night.
There was a smell and there was a vision, but what he really felt had nothing to do with his regular senses. He never really understood how something unheard and unseen, even unknown, would have such a sensual pleasure. He concluded that one never really is obliged to understand the source of this very supernatural gift of the nature; just like good poetry, good sex only remained wonderful when its complicated being was not disturbed by over-thinking.
He didn't really need to beat a confession out of it, things were beautiful as they stood, and he agreed to appreciate them from the point he was at. He knew nothing, and probably wouldn't want to learn anything at all.
He could almost taste the saltiness of his sweat. A little piece of her hair was strangling over her ears now, and as she looked at him from above, he felt crushed by her omniscient dominance. He especially liked it when she turned into almost a beastly creature during these heated nights: her perennial soft smile replaced by an evil grin, her lovely laughter replaced by angry and passionate grunting sounds, and her simplest motions, regularly adorned by absolute elegance, transformed into demanding action.
He could feel the potential in her, and that was the potential of an eagle in flight, with her prey in her sight, ready to hunt him down, yet waiting for the perfect moment to make the dive.
He didn't know when she'd hit him, but there was an extremely natural feeling to it -- and Lord, this bitter moment had the sweetness of heavens.
They were swaying together, almost as one organism, waiting for the Earthly reality to cut into their pleasure.
There was a smell and there was a vision, but what he really felt had nothing to do with his regular senses. He never really understood how something unheard and unseen, even unknown, would have such a sensual pleasure. He concluded that one never really is obliged to understand the source of this very supernatural gift of the nature; just like good poetry, good sex only remained wonderful when its complicated being was not disturbed by over-thinking.
He didn't really need to beat a confession out of it, things were beautiful as they stood, and he agreed to appreciate them from the point he was at. He knew nothing, and probably wouldn't want to learn anything at all.
He could almost taste the saltiness of his sweat. A little piece of her hair was strangling over her ears now, and as she looked at him from above, he felt crushed by her omniscient dominance. He especially liked it when she turned into almost a beastly creature during these heated nights: her perennial soft smile replaced by an evil grin, her lovely laughter replaced by angry and passionate grunting sounds, and her simplest motions, regularly adorned by absolute elegance, transformed into demanding action.
He could feel the potential in her, and that was the potential of an eagle in flight, with her prey in her sight, ready to hunt him down, yet waiting for the perfect moment to make the dive.
He didn't know when she'd hit him, but there was an extremely natural feeling to it -- and Lord, this bitter moment had the sweetness of heavens.
They were swaying together, almost as one organism, waiting for the Earthly reality to cut into their pleasure.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
pulchritudinem momentum
you lie there
beautifully
your head in an oven.
your death,
an image so majestic,
more blissful than any other
image of your creating.
your head in an oven,
and your beauty on the floor
amongst wet towels
wet dreams
wet disappointments
and parquet floors
and rugs smudged with
orange juice
in a happy suburban neighbourhood.
your most precious gift,
your beauty,
and I'd lie there
my head
in the oven
only if
that beauty could be mine.
beautifully
your head in an oven.
your death,
an image so majestic,
more blissful than any other
image of your creating.
your head in an oven,
and your beauty on the floor
amongst wet towels
wet dreams
wet disappointments
and parquet floors
and rugs smudged with
orange juice
in a happy suburban neighbourhood.
your most precious gift,
your beauty,
and I'd lie there
my head
in the oven
only if
that beauty could be mine.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
A Flower Among The Greens
...In her dreams, they were doing the Polka. Above everyone's heads, in front of the clear skies and the blinding sun, they were dancing -- two silhouettes clung together. Their bodies complemented each other as they moved; their curves fit so magically that they almost seemed to be created for each other. As the lovely tune of piano tinkled in her ears, and the dress she wore felt as light as feather, they swayed higher and higher -- making their moment of glory last. There wasn't anything else at that moment: no people, no ideas, no feelings, no clothes. Just them, dancing and dancing away...
She was lying on her breasts. The bedsheets had a peculiar coolness to them, absorbing all the heat in her body. The breath she gave into her pillow dissolved into her face, and she almost felt as if she'd choke to death right there; happily, between her tangled hair of the colour of a rye field and the pillow which welcomed her with cotton sincerity.
Before she felt breathless in her own breath, she turned. The sunlight was shining through wooden window shutters.
She didn't really remember, and she didn't really want to.
There was an alluring smell of butter and cinnamon in the air, and she was suddenly amazed by how a good dessert was quite resembling to good sex -- salty and sweet.
She got up; not that she wanted to, but that she almost knew she had to.
Standing saplessly on the parquet floor, she could smell mahogany trees in the furniture. She was naked, but this time it had a confidence to it, rather than the usual vulnerability.
If anything was beautiful in her life, this was it.
Then he came in, almost knowingly try to claim that things were about to get even more blissful. He didn't seem to mind that she was naked, and with a natural smile, greeted her:
"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up--"
"I feel consumed," she said "-- consumed with every beautiful night and every beautiful morning."
The cup of coffee in his hand was just bits and pieces of glass and a brownish liquid running down the floor now. A teardrop from her cheeks joined the rush of the liquid, changing the colours of a small, old, dusty rug that never really served any purpose whatsoever.
"I, I mean -- is it my?"
"No, no. No. I mean, yes, but no."
"H-h-how?"
She sighed. She didn't really know how or why or when.
"The sex, the life, the emotions; my life has never been this beautiful before, and I doubt it ever will," she wondered, as she talked, if speaking was making things any easier "not even once, in my life, I haven't felt my soul was nourished so well."
"I don't understand," he cried out, which wasn't really his fault.
"You don't have to. I'm not really sure if I do as well--"
"What you're doing is you're giving me bullshit right now and I really cannot take your bullshit and you know I especially cannot take such bullshit at the moment," he was talking as he was in a rush now, as his looks started to be focused on the sunlight through the wooden shutters than the girl's sparkling eyes. He never felt his eyebrows swindling as he talked.
"I am being consumed and can't help but fade away. I'm sorry, I can't let this happen, even if it means hurting you--"
"You know what? I don't really care. You can try and hurt me as much as you want because I do not freaking care!"
She walked off, not even bothering to take her clothes. There, on the table, was lying a delicious looking cinnamon pie -- and God, she'd die for a cinnamon pie right now.
He then crushed to his knees.
... In his dreams, they were sitting on a wickerwork swing. There was a cool breeze licking their faces as they went back and forth, and in front of them lied the green sea -- with all its might. He could feel the soft land crumbling in between his toes. He turned his head to look at her. She seemed no less excited by each swing, and each time they went back, a new sense of enthusiasm appeared on her featureless face. He decided to jump into the sea, almost knowing she'd dive right in with him. When he glanced back, there lied she, on the grass, with her hands in her thighs -- a flower among the greens...
She was lying on her breasts. The bedsheets had a peculiar coolness to them, absorbing all the heat in her body. The breath she gave into her pillow dissolved into her face, and she almost felt as if she'd choke to death right there; happily, between her tangled hair of the colour of a rye field and the pillow which welcomed her with cotton sincerity.
Before she felt breathless in her own breath, she turned. The sunlight was shining through wooden window shutters.
She didn't really remember, and she didn't really want to.
There was an alluring smell of butter and cinnamon in the air, and she was suddenly amazed by how a good dessert was quite resembling to good sex -- salty and sweet.
She got up; not that she wanted to, but that she almost knew she had to.
Standing saplessly on the parquet floor, she could smell mahogany trees in the furniture. She was naked, but this time it had a confidence to it, rather than the usual vulnerability.
If anything was beautiful in her life, this was it.
Then he came in, almost knowingly try to claim that things were about to get even more blissful. He didn't seem to mind that she was naked, and with a natural smile, greeted her:
"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up--"
"I feel consumed," she said "-- consumed with every beautiful night and every beautiful morning."
The cup of coffee in his hand was just bits and pieces of glass and a brownish liquid running down the floor now. A teardrop from her cheeks joined the rush of the liquid, changing the colours of a small, old, dusty rug that never really served any purpose whatsoever.
"I, I mean -- is it my?"
"No, no. No. I mean, yes, but no."
"H-h-how?"
She sighed. She didn't really know how or why or when.
"The sex, the life, the emotions; my life has never been this beautiful before, and I doubt it ever will," she wondered, as she talked, if speaking was making things any easier "not even once, in my life, I haven't felt my soul was nourished so well."
"I don't understand," he cried out, which wasn't really his fault.
"You don't have to. I'm not really sure if I do as well--"
"What you're doing is you're giving me bullshit right now and I really cannot take your bullshit and you know I especially cannot take such bullshit at the moment," he was talking as he was in a rush now, as his looks started to be focused on the sunlight through the wooden shutters than the girl's sparkling eyes. He never felt his eyebrows swindling as he talked.
"I am being consumed and can't help but fade away. I'm sorry, I can't let this happen, even if it means hurting you--"
"You know what? I don't really care. You can try and hurt me as much as you want because I do not freaking care!"
She walked off, not even bothering to take her clothes. There, on the table, was lying a delicious looking cinnamon pie -- and God, she'd die for a cinnamon pie right now.
He then crushed to his knees.
... In his dreams, they were sitting on a wickerwork swing. There was a cool breeze licking their faces as they went back and forth, and in front of them lied the green sea -- with all its might. He could feel the soft land crumbling in between his toes. He turned his head to look at her. She seemed no less excited by each swing, and each time they went back, a new sense of enthusiasm appeared on her featureless face. He decided to jump into the sea, almost knowing she'd dive right in with him. When he glanced back, there lied she, on the grass, with her hands in her thighs -- a flower among the greens...
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Scenes From the Road
Now they were standing at a bridge. Below them were cars, passing one by one; and before the whizzing sound one makes could ever really hurt her ears, another one broke in. She just tried to imagine they were on a pleasant beach, listening to the gentle slaps of water soaking the sand.
And then another car passed by, making a sound which exclaimed the end of the world, and before she knew it, the image was gone.
"Why would he take me here?" was what she was thinking, and he almost knew it by the smirk she had.
The girl just kept questioning. The cars kept on coming. He never really expected something to come.
"Oh honey," he whispered "you're so easy."
"What's that?"
There was an awkward silence for a minute, followed by even more cars passing by -- horning and buzzing.
She looked at him, demanding a word, and he almost knew it even before she could say or do anything.
"I so badly wanna get into your life," he was talking now; and the murmurs in his head became the words at his mouth, "screw it and leave."
"Oh well."
"Oh well? Is this what you have to say? Oh well?" He was thankful.
"I mean, I can't really force you into anything. And I really wasn't expecting...--"
He raised an eyebrow. She put on a quirky smile.
"-- I wasn't expecting it to last any longer."
He did not expect that.
Another car passed by.
And then another car passed by, making a sound which exclaimed the end of the world, and before she knew it, the image was gone.
"Why would he take me here?" was what she was thinking, and he almost knew it by the smirk she had.
The girl just kept questioning. The cars kept on coming. He never really expected something to come.
"Oh honey," he whispered "you're so easy."
"What's that?"
There was an awkward silence for a minute, followed by even more cars passing by -- horning and buzzing.
She looked at him, demanding a word, and he almost knew it even before she could say or do anything.
"I so badly wanna get into your life," he was talking now; and the murmurs in his head became the words at his mouth, "screw it and leave."
"Oh well."
"Oh well? Is this what you have to say? Oh well?" He was thankful.
"I mean, I can't really force you into anything. And I really wasn't expecting...--"
He raised an eyebrow. She put on a quirky smile.
"-- I wasn't expecting it to last any longer."
He did not expect that.
Another car passed by.
Into
Again, I want it --
to be born
to feel
to hurt.
I just want it --
the pain,
the rusty bottoms of
pudding pans,
free bed sheets,
the taste of
sunshine
after a long night.
I want to be born again
into Jasmines
into Angelicas
into Daisies
-and yet even sometimes,
Daffodils, too-
to live again
with them
in them
out of them.
Rinse and repeat.
to be born
to feel
to hurt.
I just want it --
the pain,
the rusty bottoms of
pudding pans,
free bed sheets,
the taste of
sunshine
after a long night.
I want to be born again
into Jasmines
into Angelicas
into Daisies
-and yet even sometimes,
Daffodils, too-
to live again
with them
in them
out of them.
Rinse and repeat.
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