Streams

I do not know
if there is a truth
to words astray
how the stream flows
we stare at time
wonder
how motives, ambition,
passion, and sex can drive us
into killing
deeply
like a blade of words
a sword of our love
as we swing
slash
in the downpour
walk to the chirps
of the cardinal bird
then I look to my left
1977
signs everywhere
of you and I
in heaven.
Dead Kennedys speak up
your crowd is dwindling
mine has forgotten the path
searching for the latest trends
while I relive the old wrath
trekking to Mont Royal
taking the gravel road
to the Cross.
Again
the same initials
scream out at me
and Of course I wonder
you would too.
What else am I left to do?


Η βιτρίνα

You can see me typing
New England landscape
awaiting fireworks
cottages
Hotels with wifi
running up tracks
sand between my lies
I can see you upset
at everything I write
Let me love you
the only way I can
I feel the pureness
in us
it is not concrete
let us never
Make it real
as touch
Keep it behind the window
Vitrine
never shatter the glass
But
shine it every day.
Polish until the next streak.


Focus

Do not look at me
or pretend to see me in the night
do not want to hold my hand
or squeeze my waist tight
do not slide your hands
underneath my thin pale blouse
for I am on the run
from my own private house
from locked diaries
burned up souls
enter the hash-tag whores
with perfect tits and scores
better to never know my skin’s moon
I am off tune
a giggling fool
always misinterpreting the rule
red carpets, free drinks, flowers,
stepping stones
falling between the lines
landing in ditches
as you slide your hand up my thigh
losing control of the wheel
on a furtive high
my desire on your tongue
as you let yourself finally feel
every part of me I hung.
Do not look at me
let me explode in my own dust
let me wallow
about my lack of trust
let me imagine your dark eyes
full of lust
as I run,
run,
hair flowing
not in a bun
up to the lookout at Mont Royal
examining other people’s initials
recreating love stories
up all night tapping with the furies
to forget how you
gave me chills
I run down the hills
as the sun sets
and still
your name
turns out to be
the poem of my life.

I run
to be free of you
and realize
I am
for I never had you
at all.


Here you go

Open road
Don’t Stop playing
Go Your Own Way
the pedal on the gas
faster and faster
hear me?
It is always the
ones you know
are coming
that hurt the most
the needle on the album
from beginning to end
without any interruption
or masturbation
upcoming drama
wind in the hair
arms bare
music in the veins
thinking only of you
and how you can reign
over my thoughts
say all the right
passages
and now there are
only memories
I take time and play
with them like a guitar
make them only mine
flip open the pages
and read the moments
I will travel
through countries
and space
only to see you smile
from above
in another
dimension
where we sit across
from each other
and debate
discuss
argue
make up
trivial needs
desires
and never see eye to eye.


Marie

I wear a fishu
regard words with judgement
eat fresh croissants
close to Palais-Royal
and watch you arrrive
with hope and ideals
about the future of France
amongst my wax sculptures
poking their head at you
and embarking on the journey
that is destined for free thinkers
such as us.
I will marry you one day
handsome genius
of air balloons
but first my audience
awaits.
The struggle continues
on blvd du Temple
but you support
the artistry
the passion
you can only wait
for so long
to make me your woman.

I have my own path.

When you hold me
I forget how hard my hands work
or the royalty
there is only you and me
as it should be
but your art comes first, you plead
for all my denial
you know me well
and next year
perhaps you will not know me
at all.


Wavy

All insipidly  wavy inside of me

like the texture of my hair 

yet you reach for it.

Some songs can bring me 

to the edge of the sea

ready to plunge, 

others suck my soul bare

Pain pulling each string

piece by piece.

 

Most women love to gas up, pile in the bags

pretend they are content

and read Fifty Shades as if it’s a masterpiece. 

I do roll my eyes, and admit I am

a literary snob. Don’t hug

me unless you are ready for the

studded belt. Don’t kiss me 

either, my lipstick stains. Don’t emoji 

me, I’m not sold on it. But thank you

for the laughter,

as much as you take

away me essence

you give it back in abundance

I am so topsy-turvy in love

regardless of what I write

or how clever you think I am

you never need to read it. Pretend

I do not write. Let me smoke and 

drink wine discussing art and all 

I look forward to, nothing I’ve left

unscathed. Rumors unfurled,

denying everything but the way the 

smoke exhales

I love it when you love me

for myself and nothing else

you hate me so passionately

it is what I need. Both in one 

day, in one sentence. You only 

know. 

it has kept me invincible

to men who try to sneak in

between my monologues.

 

 


Hot night

Pack of Benson & Hedges
slim
bitch sticks
they say in Greece
some Cosmo
and the conversation flowed
on the terrace of rue-St. Paul
where I used to bartend
sambucca shots on fire
mini-skirts full of desire
one hand on my thigh
the need to be high
horse rides along rue de la Commune
heat, summer, fire works
Montreal in constant tune
these are the perks
yet running south is bravery
only found in dreams
no matter how it seems
I’m always loving you
the one witness to my
internal blues
let’s discuss art, impressionism,
Cubism, abstract love
undress with our eyes
drink each other up
with good-byes
and start all over again
never ready to drop my pen.

The hot nights make me weak
uneasy
please me
deny me
all is wrong in this light
for the dark squeezes my waist tight.


Full Bloom

Crumpled up two pages

a rarity in my hands

most times I do not come up for air

as long as it takes a song

to start and end

as long as I make this pen bend

to my right and wrong.

I can detox my body

add ginger to my green tea

bring back my mind

with Rumi, silence and obscure poets I find.

I can revive my soul

writing until my notebooks are full

and the cardboard back cover will do

any blank space filled through and through

page after page of nonsense, raging like a bull

(you can come in and out of my room

I won’t see you, I’m in full bloom)

creating an inner world

with hotel rooms on fire

sex acts, food, conversation, attire

vivid characters’ desire

as she spreads her legs

feeds her need

with his vibrant seed.

I know the joke’s on me

of how could she write

such pornography?

Erotica from the Greek eros, I recount

and my real name

my real picture

forget it, it’s a bloody game

deconstruct me

the nature of literature

serendipity

carpe diem

in vino veritas

deux ex machina

professors’ voices reminding me

of tragedies, endings, motivations

mere words

to stop the critics, the academia, the vultures

the turds

you know who you are

and you might think you’re a star

but no one here gets out alive

and if you haven’t heard Jim say

it then get back to the past

listen without judging

take that fucking dive. 

Tell him a tale

wipe a tear

off I sail

do not leave any tracks

hard to tell the lies from the facts.

All I know is that I’m in full bloom. 


Captain

You dive right into me
as if I was the ocean
yet you have no fear
certain I will catch you
then you know
throughout
how I would take your hand
without a doubt
even if your words are quiet
or loud
It is your voice
I hear
even when my ocean is frozen
you find the passage to my soul
sail right into my very core
no other man has before
so I name you
the Captain of my heart
the sailor of my soul
the navigator of my body
the answer to my morning
afternoon
and night
questions.

You must know the lies
the made up truths
merely gaze into my eyes
know that I would travel
water, land or time
for you.


Anniversary

Burgundy velvet interior
Godfather scenes
we held smooth hands
bonded with devoted plans
some underground
visible, and invisible.
We giggled, yes, you held my heart with your devious blue eyes

Coffee cup on Anne
bite marks on my neck
well hidden
dancing to the sounds
no one else could hear
first there was the downpour
then all became clear
judging my love with the weather
looking for signs in a dead feather
then we pressed our fresh faces
in the back of the limousine
for a snapshot
in black and white film.
Red roses, white flowers in my dark hair
Pablo Neruda quotes
hand painted angels with hand written tiny
notes.

The artist in me made you swell
you made that? Hand painted each note? You chose red?

Yet, my love, by the time you said
I love your ways
I blocked my ears
and ran for a while.
The moment came and went
lightning and thunder
entered me
I care too much about timing
reading to you in bed
Tropic of Cancer
and then you loved him too
you said don’t ever stop
and Now I do.

What are you doing? I don’t even reply.
My pen is on fire
burning ashes
on the lines
no one can reach me
in that place where I belong
no one can stop me at Second Cup
and ask me what went wrong.

This day is sealed within us
we flew to London, Greece
and slept where Gods slept
as your Spartan shield
protected me
as it did from the start
when you tiptoed into my broken heart.


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