Haunted Lovers # excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

Anything can be said about that city, but one can never say that it does not have a distinct identity.

During the humid autumn evenings the city looks like a wounded being, nursing her own lacerations. On the sidewalks her dust is freely flowing, its smell overpowering the stench of cigarettes, and alcohol coming from her tiny, obscure pubs.

Clandestine risings to power, luxury cars zipping by, casinos filled with shady characters, rats zig-zagging in the basements of old buildings. Plenty of frustrations, running through the city’s blood like thousands of white blood cells through the veins of an infected patient.

A sea of beggars at every street corner: amputated hands, deep lesions, winkled faces painted in the colors of dirt. Pain exposed in plain view, like art objects in museums: the only difference being that pain is free; the entry in most museums is not.

The city’s decrepit buildings are haunted, and ghoulish masks are worn during its carnivals.


In that city our story began: a story in which we created and destroyed loves, trusted and betrayed friendships, invented beauty only to quickly eradicate it at the first sign of dawn. We tried to satisfy our egos.  We ended up satisfying the city’s need to devour us.


“We are the children of our landscape; it dictates behaviour and even thought in the measure to which we are responsive to it. I can think of no better identification.”

Lawrence Durrell,  Justine


Astral Mandolins



Play in your room the mandolin tonight

Painting the air with aurora borealis’ verses

When arabesque designs awake my soul

The shining sound the time reverses.


Play in the streets your mandolin tonight

Into the touching of the cords your love for me

The beatings of my heart will choreograph the scenes

Making the aurora australis never flee.


When you are done, come to my room

We can unmake the bed, and lie in silence still

Immersed into the sounds of astral mandolins

Watching hermetic lovers dancing the quadrille.



Hellenistic reverie


Caressed together by the waters of Corinth

Into the darkest forests chasing statuary nymphs

The decadence of Hellenistic love

Blissfully raining tears from above.


“The condo of the virgin” sitting empty

The goddess long dissolved into the néant

You softly reading Hebrew texts in Greek

The painful comedy of life on sale this week.



“The condo of the virgin” refers to the Parthenon, temple dedicated to Athena who was a virgin goddess.


Vlad the Impaler (Dracula)

The echoes of my footsteps living

Into the silence of the corridors in which Vlad walked.

Caresses of my hands impressing

The church’s door which the Impaler blocked.


The touching of my lips embellished in the icons

In front of which Vlad often murmured prayers.

Into the orthodox exhilarating morning’s noises

Vlad’s enemies were killed and piled in layers.


And no more tales in this archaic night, my prince

The oath which I have taken in the Balkans is a bond

Vlad’s story is more terrifying than you think

No changes can be made by any magic wand.


That said, my darling Western prince, this night

Let’s live in the imagination of an Irish writer!

Bring costumes, lanterns, castles, and vampires,

Don’t be afraid, come to my room, I’m not a biter!


 Or, am I?


Midnight Prayer


Give me the power to endure

The wind that’s blowing from the oceans

Its colors mixing earth and sky

With magical, erotic potions.


Give me the power to surrender

To violent, burning rain of kisses

Under forgotten constellations

To understand what your soul misses.


finally now when I’m leaving,


Give me the power to survive

The pain of Mary Magdalene

In the three days of agony

Before the playing of last scene.



Kaleidoscope of Trees


Watch the breezy silence of the tree of wisdom

In all its richness rising from your soul.


Sit down and think together with the tree of knowledge

Read good and evil from an ancient, dusty scroll.


Then close your eyes and visualize the tree of life

The splendor of the universe for you to mathematize.


And stop!


Don’t touch the lavishly elaborated tree of pain

Your blood and humid lips perpetually will stain.

Stay still, don’t blink, don’t let its scheming roots

To penetrate your body, grow there, and bear fruits.


A slightly modified version of this poem appeared in The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch.


Mediterranean Play


Come with me to the Mediterranean

The highway of ancient world

For in the silence of its eye

Still lives the infinite of number Pi.


Climb with me the Mount Parnassus

In fall when Dionysus’ priestess will arrive

Their souls immersed in subterranean desires

Into the burgundy of wine, let’s dive.


Metamorphose me into Cleopatra

The tragic queen of pyramids and lust

Just for one night,

And when the dawn will break

The innocence of our love recast.



Bedroom Tales (I)

Come, red carnations stain the sheets

And candles flicker in the heavy silver

Red wine is breathing in the crystal glasses

Fine lace is flowing in the alcoves like a river.


Come, watch the shadows playing on the wall

When aromatic air is resting on the pillows

The Siamese is pouring in her basket

And bowls are filled with reddish tamarillo.


Now, please, don’t move, the cat is sleeping

And dreams of guarding pharaoh’s tomb.

Don’t talk, you’re here just to listen

The jacaranda’s magic bloom!