I had a poem to say

I had a poem to say

just before swallowing my own tongue

it slithered down my throat

and nested in the left lung

now a snake sleeps there

holding my heart in its mouth

unaware of time

unspoken

undreamt of

down Alice's hole

 down Alice’s hole the rhythm

and the poem ascended entwined

like a pair of cold snakes in heat

slithering around her thighs

and the meaning of the words thus became

the meaning of the music as well

as Alice kept singing - herself a chorus -

“I shan’t... I shan’t... I shan’t... I shall"

so Alice gave birth to a rabbit

while her body tenfolded size

and the rabbit gave birth to Alice

both heralds of my mind’s demise

?

it’s always raining in this dark alley of me

lightdrops heavenwards starseeds

the poem is a strange deranged idea

like a riddle or a fire or a storm

an ancient ? never to be answered

I am not here to decipher it

nor am I the holder of any keys

for I runincircles writeincircles flyincircles

mouth wideopen to the nightsky

chewing the moon whole in

gentlemadlittle bites of lust

steeple my way in

I want to steeple my way into you

parting your thighs as if the red sea

lay my head down

my nose sunken into your groin

the sweet miasma of primeval littoral sands

overpopulated by crabshells and

skeletons of fish and mermaids

from unknown seacountries of yore

and the hot tide coming from deep inside you

wetting my thumbs and you know the best

I'll lick them I promise I'll lick them

twice and once more

but first I want to steeple my way into you

and seek exile in your wombstone

and forget about all the rest

Bukowski

 I like

crazy expensive womenand cheap bad wine

that's what I'd write

if I were Bukowski

but I'm not

Bukowski

I´m not wrapped in

a torn white piece of paper

stained by fresh ink and dry blood

and sour red wine

sleeping half naked and drunk

under a dark blue starry sky

I'm not the poet of freedom

I'm not the god of LA

I'm not the whore

he saw in every corner

and in every poem

I'm not Bukowski

and yet here I am

talking about you

Charles ol' chap and your

crazy expensive women

and my cheap bad wine

Amongst fallen leaves

Amongst fallen leaves of living stone

where the ancient gods have once cried -

here I sit on the floor as if it were a throne,

gazing at her pale memory by my side.

I dream a sea of joy where the rain falls

and the sound of her voice a gentle tide -

words imagined are boats sailing across old walls,

and every ceasing laughter the moment she died.

And as the raindrops become tears of my own

my eyes gape like the gates of hell - open wide -

amongst fallen leaves of dying stone

where the ancient gods have once sighed.

Warriston Cemetery

the midwintry breeze

chanting above the Water of Leith

slowly dancing with the windswept trees

at the Warriston Cemetery

brings me back the memories

of unlived past lives

as I rove and drive my chariot of death

through a lane of gloomy flames

from this tombstone bridge I look

down to the black river

and open my bleak bare chest

allowing my gothic soul to escape

and to plunge deep into the water:

dim dreams swimming away

with the spirits of the dead

to their land of decay

34 Broughton Rd

The day awakes from sleep to the morrow,

lukewarm morning rising as it unfurls.

The neighbours come to visit - there's a crow

and a dog and a whole bunch of lil' squirrels.

Three fat cats roam around feeding off the sun

and a pigeon circles above my head -

but now they start to fly away and run,

because there comes a fox – hungry and red.

Its yellowish eyes are looking for preys,

but instead they will come to meet my own

and we shall stare down before parting ways -

the beast and I, both silent and alone.

Now all the animals can drop their guard,

in the peace of our edenic backyard.

bosoms souls navels

bitter wine dripping from sweet lips

will taint bosoms souls navels

as it travels down south crossing our bodies

revolving around cold naked ankles

like the cosmos obeying to order

pinned to chaos

I am begging you to kiss my sharp razor

and follow the not so yellow brick road

this trail of unbegotten love that leads

to nowhere

death perched on my naked shoulders

a hibernating loneliness

put to sleep by warm hands by warm voices awakes from slumber into a new existence one without fear nor hope

a green poem breaks out of its shell made of time staining a holystoned tongue yet to be unbearably spoken 

and death perched  on my naked shoulders just like a blackbird wouldn't clawing mortal flesh until it bled

a desert within a man

I guess a man could die out here

on the brink of a poem a desert is but a place within oneself where the sun burns the eyes and the rhythm of the words and the consonants and the bowels a desert within a man

I guess a poem would burn in here if only we had the guts to write it out loud in blood and crucify it the guts to wear the lamb’s decaying cadaver as our best sunday garment and go to church and read the poem

and the poem would read I guess a man has died here

she holds skulls

 she holds skulls in her bare hands

as birds and screams ensnared

by her hair

as words and dreams

leaving their lair

she licks my flesh with her bare tongue

and sings all the songs that remain 

unspoken and unsung

and man is she fair

she undresses the rags that adorn

her white skin

and puts to sleep all the monsters

I keep within

a blood drop

a blood drop

fallen from the ceiling

drew a wingless angel on your face

and I smiled in derision

but after

devouring your little feet

reddish like wild poppies

the chest started to burn

bringing my heart down to ashes

in “Voices of Contemporary World Poetry” (New York, 2013)

the swirling sky

 the sky swirls above my head

heavy grey clouds revolve around

a flock of birds pinned to 

the dark background

soaring suspended

and lying on the grass

I smell the earth and the rain to come

and listen to the spirits of the trees

whose voices unsung

set the child within me free

Judas

 hanging from the figtree

a dying body in 

convulsion

pours sour wine and 

sweet piss

at his feet no sign of

blood stained silver coins

a total amount of thirty they say

but on his face

a thirsty expression resembling

a smile

of eternal bliss

mornlight

 the thick and deep silence 

slowly turns pale blue 

and mornlight is 

reflected on

city buildings and 

window-like curious eyes

and also the gulls bring 

this new morning

mirrored under their wide wings

mirror mirror

 mirror mirror on the fall

I’ve searched for sanctuary in

your womb but all I found 

was broken glasses

and red leaves raining down 

from twisted dead branches

mirror mirror on the fall

who is the saddest of all the gods?