i had to go through your soul
so i can get to mine
once in mine
i would have stayed in yours
silky sheets blushed the entire night
at dawn no space
between our souls
a black lace glove, and a red rose
silhouetted against the floor.
who are you?
which gale winds have blown you here?
which fallen saint showed you the way?
besieged by you, old loves abandoned in dark cemeteries
lament like choirs in my Hellenistic Greece
virgin thighs ferment inside your blood
scared azaleas tremble on my pillows
step in my room
and know no fear
unravel poems from your battered heart
scent the roses with my fantasies’ Levant
weave lies into the brocade of my sofas
make those satyrs with horse ears to shut up
let’s dwell in silence for a minute…
then tell me how you landed here
and who are you
my darling sonneteer?
“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
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 the smell of dust overpowers 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.
In that city our story began: a story in which we created and destroyed loves, trusted and betrayed friendships, invented beauty only to 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.
Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” (draft)
i miss you
like a little poor child
misses his home destroyed by war
like giant wounded albatrosses
miss their flights above blue oceans
like thirsty Bedouins miss water
like ancient swords miss their masters
like in the days before the resurrection
his followers missed Him
i miss your eyes
i’ve never seen
FIND ME! POETRY AND MUSIC
My Dear Readers,
I am delighted to let you know that my unbelievably talented friend Ankit Thapa and I just finished our second online collaboration: poetry and music (vblog)
lyrics and recitation: short-prose-fiction (me)
“moons illuminate your skin…”
He looked for life in the long, ecstatic nights of our love.
I thought he did not understand that the frenzy of flesh always ends in death; that my body stood between him and heaven.
On the other hand, he argued that my body was his gate to heaven, his branch to eternity.
Ironically, it was the juxtaposing of our thoughts that made love so intense, so rapturous that we could not distinguish anymore between reality and fantasy.
Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers”
sugar skulls sigh at my feet
lonely candles shed wax tears
Aztec winds cry on my body
swollen lips hide in the shadows
covered by the smell of pines
he was here
and you know it
your body craves my touches
your love branches over me
gold marigolds are turning red
pianos scream notes of desires
till priests will say the mass
and Día de los Muertos will pass
My Dear Readers,
I am delighted that my poem “i am the one” was featured in the STRAW zine, a London based magazine, which launched its website today.
Thank you for the love and support you’ve shown me since I began blogging!
i am the voice of your past loves
resounding in your wildest fantasies
dressed in roses at the altar of your dreams
i am the one you’ve never had
my soul flows from the tears of the Nile
from the hands of children who still beg
through ruins, darkness, and deep pain
through wars which they will never understand
i am the last who will be saved
for i have sinned under the shadow of your cross
when Spanish fountains cry in the sunset
i am the Desdemona who you’ve never met
today Granada’s just the place
in which Garcia Lorca once was killed
i am the feather of a gold macaw bird…
continue reading here
i am looking over your love letters
my hands are shaking
winds are trying
to take them away from me
into the depths of the roiling ocean
i am fighting the winds
i am back with you in that place
palm trees born from violet skies
white drapes covering adrenalized lovers
i am laughing
follies of love
your teeth leave painful marks
on my shoulder
winds funneled through my heart
push me into the ocean
salty waters corrode my nostrils
stingrays puncture my arteries
a church bell tolls
where are they?