the rhythm of castanets awakens the moon
on opal rings your kisses spin
a cricket’s hitting a crescendo
waves tattoo dark shadows on your skin
sonority, you who vibrates the souls
of those who haunt at night the Port of Cartagena
I toss in smells of apricots and plumes
the Hand of Fatima takes off my veils
your forehead sinks into the sweat of lovers
who sever their veins
oh, dream of the unknowns,
you, latency,
the sigh of blood which flows
in spring both mud and flowers grow
didn’t you know
that when you said I love you
you stepped on roads of fables and folk tales?
you glued your heart onto a purple sunset
smells of lilac and of roses, impregnated strolls,
seduction,
it wasn’t me
it was you who stole his soul
@short-prose-fiction
image: Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock; [link]
it rained in Nicaragua
last night
inside a cage with fraying ties
a little girl
sat barefoot on the ground
and while you wrote
your poetry in Florence
her tears were flowing
from my eyes
@short-prose-fiction
image: Suriyawut Suriya/ Shutterstock
Maria is a little girl
who walks barefoot
across the desert
coyotes howl under the moon
Maria walks
her heart is small
her dreams are big
a cactus waves at her
and blooms
one day Maria will grow up
and she will buy herself
some shoes
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image: thi/Shuterstock
you
cradle filled with lava
eating from veined skies
voice which breaks through trees
rocking birds of night
dangling long earrings
ferment in your blood
yesterday
tomorrow
coins which make no sense
you
who marked your name
in silence
on my chest
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image: KireevArt/Shutterstock
A whole week.
Seven agonizing nights; seven suffocating nights rushing over me, parching my soul with their torrid breezes.
Myriads of mosquitoes murmuring in the dark, looking for prey: my own flesh, my own blood.
Nights extending their heavy tentacles over the city, strangling it as a venomous octopus; abandoning it at sunrise lacking vigor, emptied of hopes, filled with trash.
Glued to my heated body, lace and silk soaked in perspiration. I am looking out of the window. I can’t see you.
In this city clocks have no hands, years have no months, months have no days. Outside of time, the city is innocent, perverse, philosophical, suicidal.
Shadows of your eyes; fragments of your voice hidden inside me.
Dark.
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
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trap me
in the rhythms of the Flamenco
whose sounds invade the nights of Southern Spain
to breathe the notes of the guitars which play
and fill the lustrous eyes with burning pain
trap me
in the Florence of my dreams
to walk with Leonardo in its streets
to cry with the Madonna and to verse in Greek
when the last word of Christ forever speaks
trap me
in a Hindu monastery
in splendid nights my sufferings unpacked
and in the shadow of Mandala
give me the power never to come back
@short-prose-fiction
image: Everett-Art; Shutterstock; [link]
My Dear Readers,
My poem “Forgotten in the Port of Naples” is up at Spillwords Press.
Thanks you for your support. Love and hugs to everyone.
this summer
meet me in the Port of Naples
in humid nights inside the Palace of Capodimonte…
please continue reading here:
@short-prose-fiction
image: S-F; Shutterstock; [link]
