Posts Tagged ‘series’

senses #5 – sight


when the night heats up
in the city,
the water from days,
from puddles,
from cups,
from the air
and sticks to the bodies,
a condensed humidity,
to a salty sweat
that never goes away.

it makes bodies shine
under neon lights
of  damp alleys
and stuffy dance clubs;
it’s so pretty.

it’s in a heat wave
that cuts through my body
and lights up my nerves
like thunder,
that my skin tingles,
inside out,
and everything
flares up:

goosebumps are a photo
of desire
when my thighs
touches your thighs
as we cross each other’s steps
in the ballroom,
my pupils dilate
as a chopped-up picture of you
flashes, on and off,
under stroboscopic lights,
and fingers glide
through arms
in barely-there touches.


senses #4 – taste


don’t tell me what I like
or dislike.

it’s my tongue:
i’ll put it
wherever I want.

senses #3 – touch


when I was a child, I collected the strangest things. a million objects, from the normal to the unimaginable, with a health dose of improbable. I collected fragments and trinkets, everything delightful to the touch, rugged and smooth, what I could have and hold, grab, feel the edges dig into the palms… pretty much all that could be carried all over town inside my pockets.

my selection was more physically selective than emotional. I didn’t carry a photo locket on a necklace, nor a memorabilia keychain… i’d prefer weight over sentiment, and carried things that would remind me constantly that they were solid, heavy and there. I carried with me shards and shrapnel of the world: screws, sleek river rocks, sticks. at the age of 13, a bullet i’ve found in the gutter. emotionless things, but not meaningless (nor, to me, useless). I curated a simple misfit collection of broken things nobody wanted, but that had, once in the past, had their own importance.

nowadays, i must confess I’ve emptied my pockets. adult practicality goes against carrying heavy garbage among the lint of pockets. age also seems to have killed the pleasure of touch in favor of the imagetic delight of a memory. so I carry other things, images, immemorial touches:

I collect the breath in my neck,
the coffee foam in the cup,
the salt of the sea on my hands,
laugh lines and crow’s feet,
some abandonment issues, here and there.

in a way, everything that appeases not to the skin, but to eye of the mind.

senses #2 – hearing


it’s in the loudest part
of the day-
that the demons come out of their boxes
in my mind to play,
and the plagues destroy,
as an old psalm 91 sheet
that hanged from my nana’s wall
used to say.

I get a moment of stress, and quiet
when the clock strikes
the exact 12th hour,
when suits from offices rush out to lunch,
that I have this moment of silence
amidst this wall of sound.

it’s too much,
it’s so much that
I go deaf:

all I hear is
my own blood rushing in my ears,
trudging through, thick like syrup,
my skull’s bones
in the chaos
of an hour that passes me by.

in the contemplative angst
of the rush that passes me by,
of the hustle and bustle of people,
of the buzzing of legs of people,
of this drowning in a sea of people
stepping hard
that pass me by,
that time,
goes by at the speed of sound.

senses #1 – smell


i remember you
distinctively by your smell:
and your earthly sweat,
the tangy cleanness
of generic white soap
on your neck
and clove cigarette smoke
mixed with aftershave
below your mouth.



“new beginnings”

maybe what we need is practicality.

the pragmatism of a physical clean-up,
the visual satisfaction
of a well-made bed.

maybe we need a hands-on,
real-world approach:
to unclutter a desk, a drawer,
throw away an old shelf,
clear space in a wall for a painting
(something bright and beautiful and hopeful).

open up space,
make room
(maybe also metaphorically!)
in our lives
for a new person.

even if this new person
is just like the same old you.




for being despicable enough to make me fall out of love with you.



“winner of me”

french, spanish, italian
a master’s degree,
and after other languages, later, a PHD.
so many accolades
so little time,
so eager to please
parents, peers, others!
such a need for praise
and papers, like a kink.

awarded, laureate poet:
a prize for best choice of words
but not a single feeling
on paper
(apart from emptiness).

projecting a childish need
to win,
to be as special as you were told you were,
to have a movie-like life
as you were promised…

except life isn’t like this!
you don’t always need to win.
sometimes, you just need to be,
to wander, to question,
without the pressure
to fill a house with cold
to fill up the hours
so there is no idle time
for loneliness.



“I refuse to drown”

say all captains of all ships when the hull touches the stone, when the helm spirals out of control, and there are no lighthouses marking the way to safety, when they capsize and drown, drawn to the bottom by the sirens, meeting their ultimate fate;

“sink or swim” is no good for any sailor when they reach their final destination: the feasting place among the fish and the whales and the eels that nibble on their hands and their lifeless eyes (and pretty much all the flesh that they can reach). there is no last breath, no saving prayer, no god, no queen when their earthly treasures are spread around the ocean floor – shiny coins that reefs and algae have no use for – a floating grave on the water for sharks that will not mourn.



“say you love me to my face”

it doesn’t always
need to be like this.

this life.

doesn’t need to be
like an eternal Monday morning,
with a job that we hate,
gastritis from too much coffee
and not (never!) enough sleep.

doesn’t need to be
a bellicose declaration at every corner,
a war that is started every night:
with belligerent blood
and dead bodies scattered along the way…

why must we make
so though
and so rough,
abrasive like sandpaper?

why choose to live a life
with sharp, jagged edges,
that cut through dreams?
why pick on scabs that never heal?

everything can be shiny
and smooth, believe me!
we can go on a good swirl
inside our love and affection,
go down a good path
if we learn to see one another.

it can be good
and breezy, I assure you!

no need for sacrifices,
pain, absolution and redemption
of fallen heroes.
all I need is for you to be you,
and accept me for being me.

there is no space for miracle saviors:
our torturous books
lied to us!