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

Robb Stark ( a d r e a m)

Our silence is an Arik Einstein record,
our rhythm – a fusion of a swing set & the wind.
For us every piece of freedom is ceremonial,
white shiny linen pressed upon one little moment,
our bodies placed perfectly like silverware,
cleaned out before the world feasts
on rusty routine & wretched clocks.
Our silence is a holiday on a big porch,
overlooking the inviting grass
we’re celebrating underneath a long blanket
and a hug that warms parts left barren.
It’s still just us and Arik,
nostalgia that may have been forgotten,
may not have even existed, but takes a few
fantastic breaths – we’re in love.
With my head on your rugged skin, my nose
rubs against the idea of entering our home
and you – so beautiful – write melodies
with unconscious eyes, another music
I’m hoping to sing with you tonight

Paul Banks

He makes his own while machines are typing
lonely sounds & romantic incentives –
they navigate through lengths of heart-strings.
His blood masturbates as he laments
cadaverous goddesses mimicking reason;
his love melts under summer heats, awake,
alive when he finds the perfect disguise.
Layers upon layers of colored canvases
splashing scrambled sex screams,
shackled under limited night skies.

Take him —

Run, arches under / winds over –
and laugh – enjoy the lightness of brighter minutes –
shadows can be funny too, you know.
Take him to gardens of celebrated symmetry /
precious hands through peeled alleyways.
Stream the Mediterranean heat in beds & on windows;
spell kind whispers inside his ear;
take him, run, arches under and winds over.

Loving Vincent

They have been painting you,
dearest Vincent,
drowning you in canvases –
One layer beneath another –
just to keep us warm.
Us – blank cubes of ice
over red wine;
Eyes over all when
no one else wants to see;
us who hold our drinks
to cut sounds of a buried story.
They’ll keep painting the untold
and we’ll devour.