The Curvaceous Ss of Yourself & Its Remedy

Why, hasn't this been told time and time again, in different words, with similar dispositions?

Let's recount it once more to vent this seasonally appropriate desire!

Spring, solitude, and suppressed sensuality are the curves of the winding path that leads to memories of you.

This sibilant sequential line of Ss seems to allude to the lost garden of Eden in a slightly twisted way.

The biblical story and its harden believers see in the snake the source of shame and tragedy, while I comically see it as the classic scene of a smooth talker, and as the embodiment of those subsequent sensual touches that would get all of us shamelessly laid.

Snake-like are my fingers that slowly map your shape, and when that picture is fully revealed in my mind, lo, the garden of Eden! 

Once found, we lose ourselves in the garden exquisite scent: Is it of flowers? Of forest? Or is it of sea? 

Have we became liquid and merged temporarily?   

In such a confused state inseminated by a profusion of sensations, we lose sight of the garden afresh.

And, once found and then lost, we are strongly pulled to map it all anew.

* * *

Remedy

Two morning droplets of News each day during the whole Spring. 

A pill of Politics to aggravate that Climate Change induced headache.

Inhale the return of Tax Returns. 

Send Family Problems to the Hospital.

Sterilized Sex

Hear me as if I were Sherlock’s Hound
barking at noises the uncertain wind brings
from the moors of this Era.

Customization, loath of the human body,
virtual worlds, brittle egos, robots,
and porn, all mixed in a pot
will produce a new sexual soup
in which all will be perfect.

Lovers will have no scent,
no encumbering hair,
will not laugh at the size
or colour of our pleasure parts;
every request will be satisfied.

And here I must remind you
that Holmes never had a pet
if we discount his faithful Watson.

Slow Breakfast

for Jennifer


Fish and coffee in the morning,
fried the day before, the coffee fresh,
favourite day start of mine,
from mother's culture to son passed.

And stories and news in the morning
are not so hard to take in and absorb
as the day is yet to be unfold
against the ending of the world.

Her skin from dreams lightly salted,
her wild mane flowing perfectly,
hiding her face from me as she
heads to the bathroom to holy pee.

That white noise once extinguished 
tells of her return to warmth,
those air-cooled body ends all
touching and soft awakening me.

Bed linen a seascape of stormy seas
bettered by relation-ships: vessels
brimming with coffee and fantasy,
bound from her brain to our bed.

'Stay the course!' the captain
shouts to whomever's the first mate, 
soon to be promoted by sheer  
sharing of raw fish being fried.  

Under Maintenance

M  A  I  N  T  E  N  A  N  C  E

Maintenance of the brain, a muscle, which thus needs to be exercised. Of the limbs, of imagination. Of the herd, or the garden. Of peace, of the weapon. Of friendships, of each ship. Maintenance everywhere, all around us. 

Maintenance is the humdrum of life, and without it there would be no life not even in a cell. Even in a monk's cell.

I have been not very good at maintenance, and I don't know if I ever possessed such skill. To realize the dimension of my ineptitude, all I need is to examine my home which has lately been maintained by me alone. It cries out for maintenance. I'm either deaf or enjoy the melody of its wailing walls.   

What if my brain is likewise in need of fresh paint, plaster to cover its cracks? 

Could I just disguise decrepitude with classic statues of missing limbs? Keep foreign music playing so that the visitor's brain is too distracted to notice the ruin? Glue newspaper clips onto the walls distracting the visitor even further? Leave poems on the rafters or boards that need to be replaced? Place olive oil scented candles in every room? And the sex scented candle, should I put it out?  

All I know is that this was written under maintenance.

The New Pantheon - The Goddess of Sex

Recently I started playing a game called Words With Friends. That’s an app version of Scrabble, more addictive probably because your opponents can play with you any time, without the constraints of presence and... well... time. 

Quite an innocent thing, isn't it? 

Checking out the various menus of my new app I came across one named Community Match... And it turns out that the community is populated by photos, many of young women's selfies, some in bikini, some in underwear, and that you can search "community members" who are near you, and also based on their gender. So there you go: Tinder for Scrabblers.  

Gods won't disappear as long as there's a human being alive... who has the belief genes in him. So I want new gods. The old ones smell rotten no matter how you try to perfume them. And too many times the rottenness is that of human flesh.

Those apps prove once again the existence of probably the most important god for us: sex. Besides being one of the most pleasurable things you can do on earth, we all are the byproduct of sex, or of sexual fluids, for those who were conceived in vitro. Most of the things we deal with in everyday life can be traced back to the goddess of sex.

The second most difficult task after identifying a deity is naming it. In the western world tradition, we've the Greek (and Roman) Eros (Cupid), and Venus (Aphrodite). But they too smell of rotten flesh from having been gravely wounded by psychology or commerce, while Reproduction is too sterile a name for a god, no matter how new that god might be.

So here's my best shot for the time being: Penina.

Okay, okay! Vagenis then.

As if it mattered which came first.

Bone and Marrow

I should have explained my love for bones sooner:
How can we not love a bone? 
The last vestige of us and ours to be gone,
or as vulgar as a bloody boner?

Before we lie under a barrow,
there's only one thing here to be sorrow:
to be gone and all but bone tomorrow
without tasting some marrow.

Untitled

X & Y Rated

for Jennifer


Perhaps our love making is not a creation.
Recreation? A frolic fuck, for a while, 
Then waves of otherness roll us over;
Another's on top yet not to subjugate,
Undercurrents tell us to surrender,
“Wave a white flag!” how can we?
Shades of white, our shivering skin, 
Our inner colours Pink and Punk,
Contiguous walls--buildings in Lisbon--
Our furnace rages on,
Levers are pulled, manipulated;
Is it too soon, too late, is it now?
Hair embroidering hands, needles
And needs met; all moist, all wet;
Over we roll, ensemble;
Synchronous dancers, swimmers
Of the deep, surfaced creatures,
Lazy lizards, trees, and ripe fruit;
Coffee in the morning,
And cock and tails later on;
Faces full of lips, nipples full, 
Food sources that more hunger fuel,
The ultimate richness of the poor, 
White trash meets Avalon;
A ghetto behind a neck and back, 
The privacy of chest on chest,
Teeth and tongue, so to speak;
Books shout from the bookshelves,
Dust and words fill in the air,
Pleasure shouts from within us,
And love garnished by lust.

A Matter of Personal Taste

for Jennifer


In my darkest night, / when the moon was covered / and I roamed through
wreckage, / a nimbus-clouded voice / directed me: / “Live in the layers, / 
not on the litter.”
--in Stanley Kunitz’s poem “The Layers”


She loves cheese.
Cheeky, I love her.
So I like cheese.
I lick it through her.

I lick deeper and salivate.
I taste salt and freckles.
Lemony tones.
Stolen orange from a tree.
A relaxed Spring in Sicily.

And deeper.
And deeper. 
My tongue turned sandpaper.
Her layers wet picked away.

She tastes of warmth.
Warmth tastes like Yellow Stone.
A thin layer of crust.
Skin.
And a mega volcano within.

My tongue is aching now. 
So I bite her bit by bit.
Hunger triggered by taste.
My appetite increases.
And I rip her ribs apart.
I can’t help myself.

But that’s never enough.
I want her whole again.
To repeat my feat, my feast.
So I need a desperate trick.
I swallow her.

And I stop here to confess.
I’ve been lying the whole time.
Taste's nothing without sight and smell.
A sense that needs some help.

Well, the whole truth too is one.
My digestion’s in French. 
Soupe a l'oignon au fromage.

Real Life Mathematical Problems and Solutions

Emma wishes to buy a new sexy pair of pants that costs 80 € and six new books that equally cost 80 € in total. She counts all her money and finds out that she’s 81,27 € rich. How can Emma fulfil her wishes? Choose only one of the following options:

a) Emma buys a new sexy pair of pants and increases her chances of getting laid.

b) Emma opts for buying the books, reads them and increases the chances of being loved.

c) Emma browses through an expensive clothing store and steals a pair of pants, then goes to the bookshop and buys those six books, reads them, puts the pants on, and increases the chances of being loved and getting laid. 

d) Emma equates the morals of option c) and comes to the conclusion that stealing from a clothing store linked to the slave-like exploitation of Latin American workers is unlikely to perturb her views on global social issues as much as stealing from a bookshop would, and thus proceeds and executes option c).

e) Emma is ecstatic at how much lower clothes prices are since the economy went global and thinks that books can always be read for free in a library where she went twice in her lifetime to try and seduce George but he was never there, and so she embraces option a). 

f) Emma is the ideal catholic, buys a sandwich for 3,50 € and gives the rest to charity, in the total of, err, well, 81,27 minus 3,50. 

g) Emma uses her credit card to buy the items she wishes for but cannot afford.

i) Emma cannot make her mind up and sits on a park bench lost in thought.

j) Emma, sitting on a park bench, wonders if this listing of options will ever end. 

Spooning

for Jennifer


We are spoons, you and I.
Face to face, staring at each other’s concavity.
Reflexes reaching out from our deepest ends.
Distorted? 
Upside down images in each reflected upright?
And then when you turn around we fit in perfectly. 
Puzzle pieces.
Puzzled in a way that makes sense.

And our spooning soon progresses.  
One of our favourite sex positions.
Your leg on top flexes.
It opens the middle gate.
The common country where we'll unite.
One of my arms holds the weight of your thoughts.
That hand freed for touch.
The other hand fully free to touch you bounteously—
a fisherman's wife's dreamed octopus but in a decimus form.
And then we feel.
Spoons holding our liquids.
Drops us.
Flow.

*   *   *

The other days, most of those days, we were lying down.
Our convex back on various pillows.
Our minds flying above us.
Scooping for organic food.
Lost in translation, in complexity found.

The Universe

for Jennifer


The Universe was born out of a singularity and
is composed of but one lonely verse. 
It is expanding in search of another Universe.
Then, as a Multiverse, they might merge one day. 

In the Universe we also find stars and planets all alone. 
Even those that have the company of debris or moons
cannot touch them or by those be touched.
This is a scenario of a certain gravity.

Comets and meteors provide orgasms
when they crash into a celestial body.
The larger the crashing object the greater the spasm.
Material spread out in circles of pain, later pleasure. Or even life.

We too are a by-product of this truly divine sex.

Planets ova; comets sperm.    




___________

Photo by the astrophotographer Miguel Claro
(The Milky Way above Lake Alqueva, Portugal)

The Milky Way

     That immense polished gemstone of a sky, the lazy flux of a breeze. The contrasting moist of the green green lawn, the warm breath of the earth. The sleepy shade of the pinetrees, the rustling of eucalypt leaves. The birds’ chirping, the mechanical business of insects, the odour of flowers having sex. Her early adolescence slow moving time. All this moved her into action, to appease a new itchy world of sensations, of which she was both a pioneer and a native.

     Two younger cousins were playing on the sunlit porch. She brought an old bedsheet out of her aunt’s thick wooden trunk, rolled herself in it, and got rid of her one-piece summer dress. ‘Come here, you two,’ she lured them in.

    They went in vivaciously, just as innocence goes everywhere. It was a new kind of play. They were told to kiss her slopped ground, twin promontories covered in sunburnt grass that swayed by force of electrical winds. The summits were suddenly rugged, as if to guide blind babies to the wells. It was enjoyable even for the cousins's asexual lips, like recovering a lost pleasure, like an old family’s portrait.

     The afternoon trickled down the horizon. Grandmother’s voice called from afar.