Bedroom Tales – Published in Vita Brevis


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 purring in her basket
And bowls are filled with reddish tamarillo.

Read the entire poem here


Aléxandros ho Mégas (Alexander the Great)

My body roped

In chains of memory

My soul all clad

In gray resounding pain

I feel like Aléxandros ho Mégas

Before he died at thirty-three

Regretting that he created

His own astounding legacy.


Grayish phantoms of past lovers

Lost centuries ago in heavy battles

Are whispering the same unnecessary story.

Oh, how I need my long forgotten sonneteer

To tell me how not to succumb

To the old pain of earthly glory.


Photo Credit:, image labeled for reuse



Venetian Kiss


Let’s kiss into the shadows of the Pala D’Oro

Full moons are bathing Venice into gold

The door of the Basilica was opened

The tale of the Byzantine’s refinement told.


Let’s kiss into the sound of Adriatic waters

And ride Venetian horses built in stone

Let’s change the end of Thomas Mann’s novella

Erasing Death in Venice with our kiss’ cyclone.


Let our kisses be transformed in sparkling chandeliers

Made of Murano glass suspended on the ceilings

Of all the souls who cried in Venice

Unknown, rejected, wounded in their feelings.


Most of you will recognize the work of Gustav Klimt: “The Kiss”. However, the image here is a picture of a copy of his painting made entirely of Murano glass on the Island of Murano, Venice.


Hellenistic Reverie — Vita Brevis

Submitted by short-prose-fiction


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.




via Hellenistic Reverie — Vita Brevis


….and Edgar Allan Poe is laughing

It’s night

And Edgar Allan Poe is laughing

Sarcastically, morbid,

With no mercy, as he always did.

Don’t sing my praises in your poems

You know I’m not the courtesan

Who whispers crafted loving words

And pantomimes the innocence

To gain the favors of the bruised admirers

Disoriented flying like black birds.


Just come in bed with me tonight

And let’s make love

The love we’ve always made

In an attempt to leave this universe

Devouring each other bit by bit

Like in a painting signed by Salvador Dali

Going beyond the fear of a terrifying death

Each time we knew a hurricane will hit.


Prompt: mercy 


Aphrodite of Knidos

Her words’ perfume inflame the air

Taffeta’s vanished from her skin

Watch Knidos Aphrodite comes again

Sinking the world into delicious sin.


Carnal pleasures burning gods and mortals

The minds engulfed into abiding rattles

While Plato’s watching horrified

Intriguing love affairs ending in battles.


Indifference mirrored in your eyes

While watching Aphrodite’s waving body

My darling, you and Plato are the only ones

Who see her charms as nothing else but gaudy.



Clara: The Power of Water #Glass Lovers

A velvety evening sky was settling over us. Angelo and I sat in beach chairs overlooking the water. Miguel was lying at my feet, sand in his hair, his face still, glistening in the dusk.  A shy breeze was coming from the south.

Angelo turned his piercing eyes toward me, and broke the silence:

“Here is where you went wrong, Clara.”

Oh no! What sense was there in going again and again over the past? Didn’t the three of us talk ten thousand times about what happened? Didn’t we resurrect ghosts night after night, only to bury them, deep down in our memories, at the first sign of dawn?

Angelo did not stop.

“Clara, you have always mistaken reality for your imagination. Funny, when one thinks that most people mistake their imagination for reality. But not you, Clara, not you!”

I recoiled. It sounded like a judgment, and Angelo was never judgmental to me. My muscles tensed, my sight blurred. I said nothing.

Angelo continued:

“First, it was that small shop on Rue de Vaugirard: the marionette shop. It was there where Jacques first touched your thigh covered by that black silky skirt of yours, Clara. I know you think that that never happened. Yet, at a certain level, you must have known that Jacques was falling in love with you, but you decided that it was just your imagination. You convinced yourself that you imagined everything.”

In one second I was on my feet trembling. Was I screaming?

“You two, I have no idea what you are talking about! That touch never happened! I said it ten thousand times. Jacques never touched me. Jacques never wrote to me the letter that you got, god knows from where. I have no idea who wrote it! It wasn’t him. Jacques and I were never in that hotel room! I’ve never seen that hotel room! That night Jacques was not coming to see me! I never called him! It’s not me that I am imagining things, it’s you! And you Miguel, if you believed that Jacques….”

I stopped. For a second, all of us remained still. Slowly Miguel rose from the sand. He open his arms to embrace me.

It was too late. I was already thrown into my memories, chained again to my past, tortured by its unbearable painful voices.

I ran toward the ocean. The salty water glued my dress to my body, caressed my burning thighs, wiped my century-old tears.  In the dark, I went deeper and deeper looking for the bottom. Few seconds, and I felt Miguel’s body wrapping around mine. His arms were pulling me up.

I started coughing. The night air was penetrating my burning lungs.  I was back on the beach: Miguel’s hands caressing my wet hair, Angelo’s distraught face above me.

Miguel whispered: “It never happened Clara, it never happened, my love.”

And yet something terrible must have happened, before Jacques left Paris, something that was deeply buried in my memory, something that I was refusing to acknowledge. Was Jacques coming to see me that ghastly night? Was he?

A horrifying thought came to me. I started shivering. Miguel, Angelo, and I would not be put in different heavens or hells. We were going to the same place, so we can continue to obsess over and over about Jacques’ imagined love for me, and that dreadful fated night that changed our lives forever!

Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers.”



autumn reverie

Dead leaves are flowing from your eyes

Van Gogh’s sunflowers vanished in the frost

The trees are sighing symbolist(ic) poetry

It’s autumn in the Northern Hemisphere

It’s spring in Rio de la Plata.


Your heart ferments in reddish spicy rhythms

The glassy luscious skin of grapes is broken

Rejected lovers sunk in neuroses

It’s autumn in the Northern Hemisphere

It’s spring in Rio de la Plata.


I met a poet who once said

I want to die unknown in Rio de la Plata

I thought I’d give my heart to him

When estuary thunders vetoed me

The night we drunk the wine in Rio de la Plata.