in the season of my sorrow
barren branches cry like birds
scrolls verse desperately something
who cares about verses anyway?
the hands of an old city clock just stopped
violet hills are raped by bullets
children are not told bedtime stories
hungry eyes aimed at my dress
you say i’m not the one
i’ve always been
i cannot see new moons
which bathe my skin in gold and coriander
you’re right, my love
for in the season of my sorrow
something’s old
and something’s borrowed
@short-prose-fiction
my love,
dawns are breaking in your eyes
virgins with unplaited hair
climb the mountains to the cave
where your songs
the fortunes tell
ah,
how your fingers touch the chords
how my heart swells at your sight
how your kisses burn my neck
how the mountain splits
the sky
walk the roads with your guitar
spread your fingers on my skin
i’m the part you’ve never played
i’m the one you’ve never had
find me
in the solstice of the lovers
in the breaking of the bread
lock me
deep into your body’s scent
melt me
in your tears of despair
and our love will never end
@short-prose-fiction
Our destinies caught in the deep lines of my left palm.
*
With my right index finger, I trace those lines again and again, until I cannot breathe anymore, until my left palm bleeds.
*
None of us can be judged outside endless flights between continents, outside of our tears and of our love for art, outside of the slippery slope that runs from amitié amoureuse to deep impassioned love.
*
One day all of us will have to understand that the past should stay in the past. That day is inscribed in my left palm together with our pain, and our tendencies toward the kind of love that transcends any earthly boundaries.
*
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers (draft)
@short-prose-fiction
you love me
like dolphins love to swim in warm and shallow waters
luscious humid silhouettes of the aquatic world
your fingers touch the texture of my silky skin
like priests in darkness the new testament
solemnly touch
you love me
says the royal palm tree in the garden
which every morning waves to me
i lost my golden earrings and i found them
among the crushed carnations spread on our bed
the night in which Mendoza wine fermented our destinies
into its scent
you know
i’ve never understood why you love me
the Howard Miller mahogany grandfather’s clock has stopped
somewhere it’s winter on the mappemonde
lost paradises hide in stones of silver bracelets
why did you come?
and if you came
why did you leave?
@short-prose-fiction
in the city made of stones
winds play chords of violins
thighs made of Carrara marble
yearn the flesh of the young girls
tired lizards climb a wall
the forgetfulness of time
your hands bury in a rock
my warm body
my bright eyes
i go down with a long moan
in the marble’s ebb and flow
in the city made of stones
the next morning
grass has grown
@short-prose-fiction
rolling like waves on white marble sands
roaring like tigers looking for prey
howling like winds in gray towns of ghosts
resting on sofas like courtesans
praying like nuns married to Christ
tormenting my dreams
your raspy deep voice
dying for love
@short-prose-fiction
your eyes are young
my breath is heavy
sunflowers vanish in the frost
the tea is boiling
and the cat is purring
it’s autumn in the northern hemisphere
while summer comes on Rio de la Plata
i knew a poet who once said
i want to die unknown on Rio de la Plata
his eyes were old
his arms were strong
i ran to you deep in the northern hemisphere
and autumn came
to bury me into its neuroses’ mold
your body’s hot
my body’s cold
the room is quiet like a tomb
a nun is kneeling in the street
it’s autumn in the northern hemisphere
while summer comes on Rio de la Plata
draft
@short-prose-fiction
i’m coming after you
my nails will scratch your shoulders
when sunsets fall over the Taj Mahal
that’s when you first will feel my soul
that’s when
the goddess once dethroned from our earth
will make you feel the pain
of those whose dreams were planted
in an empty bowl
i’m barging into memories of your past loves
my breast heaves under my silver armor
my lips shiver on your naked skin
my eyes bite from your blue veins
poems which you wrote in other lives
lined up like soldiers ready for the battle
against the Hellenistic decadence
which creeps into my laughter
there are no stars to help you
the moon is turning blue
you think you’ve ever loved?
i’m coming after you
@short-prose-fiction
recite my eyes,
in the glimmer of your eyes
recite my hands
in the tremble of your hands
recite my love
in the abyss of your love
recite me
and i will recite you forever
@short-prose-fiction
First, one’s mind catered to the other.
Then, they started praying upon each other’s art: one’s imagination crawling on and playing with the other’s like two lion cubs frolicking on Africa’s grasslands.
By the time physical love came into play, they were already burning like two pieces of glass in a Murano furnace.
In the end, a lonely man found a mound of shattered glass on a back alley.
It would have been much easier if they would have kept their art separate.
Yet they didn’t.
@short-prose-fiction
