June 18th

It’s just a way to shape love –
white knights riding straight red &
endless eyes writing their own prayers.
It’s just a face composed by symmetry,
by the sweet taste of heartache
seasoned with Francoise Hardy screaming “Voila!”
He’s neither here nor there –
only paper keeps him crowned –
in the meditative state of
a constant lie, accompanied by
bittersweet violins –
imaginary nostalgia.



The first time, his eyes glanced at a heroine
covered in blood of men he spilt on her pale skin.
She swore allegiance, swore with a sword
and the word of what love once promised her.

The second look was made of mercy,
she was glass shattered on too many bodies
and she swore to stay, swore with a shiver
and a winter washing the red of from her cheeks.

The third she gave back in fear, in care –
defeat threatened it would be the last
and he swore it shouldn’t be, swore with a name,
a claim of a feeling taming the wild one in him

The fourth lasted a whole night.
He glanced at his heroine, yearning,
thinking of spilling sweat on her skin
and washing the night off the future

He wasn’t sure a fifth would come,
the conqueror now made king – without her –
the wind carried both, eyes and ears,
but only time kept the secret of sweet death
to itself


A sigh – blue lava covering the air
with a sweet taste of cushioned names –
and the restless tongues – a sigh –
body finally meets the mind –
symmetrical – the heart can lick
the moment if it wants to last- a sigh –
pining for an instant response –
innevitable reflex of weakened knees –
and the fingers – a sigh

The Bartender

Calm, collected, crowded by lip-bloated fans;
He’ll get what he wants even if his eyes drop
on the bashful enjoying fried pleasures.
Nights of hard work tipped by the body
and mornings paved by tired hours.
While Bob Dylan is singing about tangled Blues
he’ll weave his web – rugged looks
and enough drinks to boost charisma;
he’ll get what he wants even if his words
don’t run smoothly down her throat.
Calm, collected, crowded by lip-floated fans,
the bartender is king & only the night is his

Chocolate & Flowers

I must have overslept when
the message was delivered;
when eyes met & hands were held;
when one awaited another’s phone call –
passion’s own tension with matters of patience.
I must have woke up too late, after
they said how one could find it;
what to say between trembling lips;
what to do in between sweetened sips of silence –
passion’s own frictions with matters of tension.
I must have waited too long in line
for screen tests & awkward auctions;
no intellect could bid high enough;
no attention for brown eyes & hair;
just sold-out sex, painful, bloody –
passion’s own joke on those lacking direction


Flight and fight,
trains deliver the body in their usual pace.
Usual – when silence hits the air with clarity,
and the horizon aligns with a single color –
boring, dangerous, optimal.
Success leaves its oily marks on my fingers,
there’s still an aftertaste
when the tongue licks the salt off the tips –
privileged labor in the 24/7 era,
flight, fight and that frail fright,
give me a sip of that wine, I’ll be fine.

Media Massacre

So simple is the disregard,
the righteous’ addiction to flat claims –
angry, easy on the target.
When the masses shoot idols
they never miss. Crosses made of flesh,
bones left for the dogs right after.
His blood like wine in the throats
of the wrong people;
they’ll forget her body
no matter how hard it stinks.
It’s never a matter of principle,
but a contest where losers
always win the attention