Generous fantasy emerges from
the dark corner where my moon hides.
Shy dancer of my secret desires
Passer by that waived my heart.
Hedonist mirror of my soul,
intruder of my haunted will.
Aware of my thirst for sin,
I am now possessed by your ghost.
I thought I could touch you like the wind,
without leaving victims by my side.
I was wandering the wrong night,
at the wrong time, in the wrong dream.
Arrogant lion, I rather only play
with the simple sounds of your name.
Platonic delight, I only want to lie
like Sor Juana, the poetess’ way.
Home Dreams
for Stan
1.
In your dream
my home was surrounded by thick woods
Incomplete yet cozy
You felt the warmth
(Later on you’d say you really were inside me
the home being my vagina)
You walked through it
My unfinished home: the idea I live in, or rather
your idea I live in
In your dream
I am sort of half finished and vulnerable
Pure imperfection
and told me
that, once awake, you saw the sign: Take Care
Now I find myself setting that sign firmly
at the entrance
at the entrance
with soft floors and open windows
I do not want to build a fort nor do I wish to be
left out in the open
with no walls to call my own
You’ve made echoes and my echoes glow
Seem to be repeating and yet
the tone is earthlier
the hope is merrier
the word is alien
and the home is me
The house might not even be mine
maybe you were never inside
After all, it was your dream.
2.
In my dream
we coincided
as it only happens in dreams
When I felt your hand on my back
under my shirt
your voice, which was mine
(after all, it was my dream)
said you couldn’t have
sex no more
without feelings
In my dream I found myself
as in so many of my dreams
in a house where I had never been
So many times I find myself
in my dreams
in large, stuffed houses
Always dark
Maybe in spite of it
my dreams are
my dreams are
which way to find
a house of light
without confusions.
without confusions.
These 2 dreams were in different languages, in 2 different countries: my dream in Spanish, his, in English. The Spanish version at http://poemasdella-anarca.blogspot.com/
Mean Streak
There is a mean streak in me, a vernacular extravaganza
A witch-like look and act, tempered as bubbling lava
A bitch-like tone of voice and knife-like words of choice
A lioness stating her grounds with a silence framed by grunts
There is a time where manners are forgotten, flown-away banners
Calmness is really nowhere nor in body nor in soul nor in a poem
The air, thick with resentment; imprinted in my breathing
A present hurting like incrusted mine-shell fragments
There is no ritual in my ways that can help me heal this rail
No prayers that could be said, no letter that should be mailed
No truths exchanged face to face, no lies defaced through shame
No reward in time, no simple acceptance, only a fraudulent promise
Saving no route for the roaring fire, the streak of my meanness rises
Burning by old time hired ghosts taking form, pushing away soul
Without contention, violently blown by my child-like insurrection
Inherited madness thrown onto the world, like an invisible infection
A Sad Night Song
The night isn’t young anymore and I have dropped my native language
My native skin and my native soul
Some men are danger: they are holding fibs and knives
They talk in sweet amber because they are so sad tonight
Even more than we, females, are
They drop women like they drop a candy wrapper
As long as they can have another one
The old night is getting light and turning white just like my hair
I dyed it once or twice but dropped that too
Some men kill women younger than my daughter
They do horrible things I would rather not mention or echo
Hoping they didn’t exist
They even deny it and protect their kin, their gender
As long as they feel young and dandy
The night is never ending and I have forgotten to bring a lantern
I have forgotten my real name and gotten lost
Some men seem to be aliens incapable of sorrow
They have many names and only worry among themselves
I do pity them
They are not my brother or my son but they think like my father
Have betrayed me like he
The night continues to age and I keep leaving behind
My native roots filled with mud and shame
Some men are shadows invading our shattered childhoods
They hide and lie and protect their own making up laws
Written in blood and dead matter
They throw those lies like they throw our bodies after chewing on them
As long as it's theirs, that last bite
The night isn’t young anymore but I want to take her back as if she were I
My native land and my native sky
Some men are also victims even if they don’t know why
They snort in shallow fields as whiteness has forsaken them
Even farther from their fathers than we are
They can only hate themselves and blame our femaleness
Just because they cannot feel her inside
The night is me I want her back my native darkness I will take it
Bare Flight
Thousands of miles above the Earth, and that’s what occupies my mind: a long, wet, deep (imagined) kiss. My skin longing to be naked, so as to touch and feel another (bare) skin.
Deep breathing. I close my tired eyes, being thousands of miles up in the sky. I imagine myself without clothes. My lips are dry, waiting to drink from a generous mouth.
Two, four, maybe six hands begin to explore and touch my nipples, my thighs, my toes.
I begin to feel so wet and ready, opening the long depths of my desire to the most beautiful (imagined) cock, the softest, not too thick, but long.
Now, my mouth is salivating, wishing to satiate my lust. I imagine one finger has found one way, another has found yet another.
I am naked and this plane is empty. It’s only me, and the octopus-like image I have created under my closed eyes. It’s only pure desire born naturally, my body is not tired. Only my eyes are closed.
I am all skin, wet where I should be, baring a deep longing. To be touched, maybe not a thousand miles above, but rather, in the depths of my bare soul. With a long kiss (and more) wetting it all.
This plane with no seats or noise. The air like water, thick as thought. Me, and many hands, and mouths, and cocks. Eyes closed.
Still, flying above.
October 2nd, 2009
The neighbour
for the painter
We were like mirrors
Both
artists
planning: waiting
to move: to leave
Each on their own terms
Large windows
Mine facing South
His facing North
-disconcerting to watch, to be watched
To watch became to desire
Surely that was not
reflecting love
Both
having moved
from relationships
for a long time cultivated
controlled: continued
-disconcerting motions
His work turned out
to be
a circle
in the middle of moving
images
My moving
images
turned out
to be
a returning circle
A mirror that was
there
to reflect
Surely that was sex
It worked
both ways
Now
the apartment across mine
has no more meaning
Both
are empty
-disconcerting darkness
Her heart stopped
Siddhartha knew how to think, wait and fast
1.
The train lulled him into the news
after having cut communication
literally
His home being across the ocean
seven hours later
On a train where one couldn’t stop
and go back
there was no point but to continue
to ride along
the river of the souls
The train lulled and framed the passage
of presence without time
past and future, desire and promise
all mingled and floating
inside
while their bodies were conduced
away from the tunnel of maybe
and into the writhing of the river
He had to think his way through, sober
Open to what his sole (soul) being was telling him
He had to wait (he had to)
just be an optimist
just be
And fast-
fast wasn’t the tempo of the ride
The beauty and the sameness
Their humble place before it all
Colors, and a magnitude of life
which they could never encompass
in all of their creations together
Their significance and their insignificance
all at once
except they couldn’t apprehend it all
We only let in some (atisbos)
All at once we would explode
so we master the art of leaving
like the river
2.
It was their loneness
which brought them together
two rivers diluting in each other
It wasn’t loneliness
it was only that they were alone
(tan solo estaban solos)
There are never answers
only tunnels and possibilities
There are cycles and repetitions-
Opportunities to return-
Opportunities sometimes lost
Yet a hand, an embrace, should never be denied
-clouds and trees and a clacking hill
energy travels in an eliptical way
that is why the return is eternal
back to the train-
sounds of violent times
savage
the echo of death and loss
the echo that touched them
Death, sex, fear and the impossibilities
- the darkness - of love
3.
A heart stopped on the other side of the ocean
(cut communication left only echoes)
Mesa Verde was Silence
Reality was now
Through the speed of an engine
they would be back to reality
reality that was and is
except
it would never be the same
He made things happen
(He was blessed and damned
like all the rest)
4.
Then, all that was left
was the lulling
the passage of the train
the water
the return
Floating like the river
with its source and its power
Floating, waiting
becoming
liquid
(fasting)
till the end of it all
ANOTHER HEALING POEM
You trespassed the limits of my trust.
You were the father, I, the daughter.
For each, we were one and the other.
You were the one who broke the universe
existent between me & my mother.
With fear and shame
and anger
I told her you were really the other.
You told her I was a liar
and forced her to believe you
by threatening with departing.
After that I even thought,
maybe I just imagined
You telling me, "Let me touch
you there." There, where
it hurt. The blossoming
of my being mujer-
After that I never quite
trusted
my memories.
And I buried my feelings
deep in silence.
Beating myself.
Marrying someone who
would do the ego-beating/
soul-pecking for me.
Reinforce the hate I felt
towards my own self.
My molested self, my
invaded self, my denied
self.
I wasn't one or the other.
I had been left out
by my father & my mother.
I must have been evil.
I must have been ugly.
I must have been full
of errores
-¡horrores!
I wake up today
with a child within my belly.
And try to find the forgiveness,
the love I'm supposed to feel.
After all, you are my father.
Now, I am one.
Not any more, you, the other.
At some time you must have found
a place to hide your hunger.
A space to fly away
from your thunder
of memories you denied
but welled up from yonder.
No tears are left shining.
No pity, no ponder.
There once was a man,
there once was his daughter.
Sadness is left to wander.
He lost and might not even know it.
She told. And told. And told.
And continues to tell.
The cleaning
/healing clatter of words.
Pain fading away
like an echo.
You were the father, I, the daughter.
For each, we were one and the other.
You were the one who broke the universe
existent between me & my mother.
With fear and shame
and anger
I told her you were really the other.
You told her I was a liar
and forced her to believe you
by threatening with departing.
After that I even thought,
maybe I just imagined
You telling me, "Let me touch
you there." There, where
it hurt. The blossoming
of my being mujer-
After that I never quite
trusted
my memories.
And I buried my feelings
deep in silence.
Beating myself.
Marrying someone who
would do the ego-beating/
soul-pecking for me.
Reinforce the hate I felt
towards my own self.
My molested self, my
invaded self, my denied
self.
I wasn't one or the other.
I had been left out
by my father & my mother.
I must have been evil.
I must have been ugly.
I must have been full
of errores
-¡horrores!
I wake up today
with a child within my belly.
And try to find the forgiveness,
the love I'm supposed to feel.
After all, you are my father.
Now, I am one.
Not any more, you, the other.
At some time you must have found
a place to hide your hunger.
A space to fly away
from your thunder
of memories you denied
but welled up from yonder.
No tears are left shining.
No pity, no ponder.
There once was a man,
there once was his daughter.
Sadness is left to wander.
He lost and might not even know it.
She told. And told. And told.
And continues to tell.
The cleaning
/healing clatter of words.
Pain fading away
like an echo.
MR GOODBAR ON TV
I.
All so seducing
touch is limited
Body in need
Diane Keaton with a pillow
Between the legs
explore solitude
Not in other people's asses
Wine silences it all
We pray Dio Nisius
Dios Nuestro
Anaesthesia
lust provocation
safe game
dance played
ritual thrown
Can't get enough, eh?
Waiting, Keaton opens
the bottle
a virgin again and again
afraid of black
possessive
horny
cocaine for insatisfaction
lustful
for unpredictability
Attractive destruction
II.
Is sexuality our weakness?
Is it our source or is it our sin?
Silence all around
The telephone
instrument of torture
interrupting the construction
of illusion
Sour notes
Death in the family
totally unfeeling
resentful
untrustful
My anger is his power
He promises air
offers air
gives air
(and so do I)
love me
so we can make it
don't lie to me
don't give me painkillers
My world is yours
this heart will break
III.
the telephone rings
I jump
empty all
a little...
provocation
our borders
undefined
my cunt
hurts
uncontrollable
imagination
deep into dreaming
a lighter in the dark
you heard your dad,
you're a whore,
a freak
libre para ser puta
I'm curious
exploring deep
into the self
and its coat
sweeping away
the night
(Out of sight
an ovule is dying)
IV.
Your voice has drifted away
Slow death, loneliness
A knife
a Cross
Her Heart
Left her dead.
All so seducing
touch is limited
Body in need
Diane Keaton with a pillow
Between the legs
explore solitude
Not in other people's asses
Wine silences it all
We pray Dio Nisius
Dios Nuestro
Anaesthesia
lust provocation
safe game
dance played
ritual thrown
Can't get enough, eh?
Waiting, Keaton opens
the bottle
a virgin again and again
afraid of black
possessive
horny
cocaine for insatisfaction
lustful
for unpredictability
Attractive destruction
II.
Is sexuality our weakness?
Is it our source or is it our sin?
Silence all around
The telephone
instrument of torture
interrupting the construction
of illusion
Sour notes
Death in the family
totally unfeeling
resentful
untrustful
My anger is his power
He promises air
offers air
gives air
(and so do I)
love me
so we can make it
don't lie to me
don't give me painkillers
My world is yours
this heart will break
III.
the telephone rings
I jump
empty all
a little...
provocation
our borders
undefined
my cunt
hurts
uncontrollable
imagination
deep into dreaming
a lighter in the dark
you heard your dad,
you're a whore,
a freak
libre para ser puta
I'm curious
exploring deep
into the self
and its coat
sweeping away
the night
(Out of sight
an ovule is dying)
IV.
Your voice has drifted away
Slow death, loneliness
A knife
a Cross
Her Heart
Left her dead.
CLEANING OUT THE ATTIC I FOUND MYSELF TALKING TO BOTH OF YOU
1.
You wanted to have me
Without holding me
I was supposed to ensure
for you
the security of a future
built to your convenience
You were supposed to ensure
for me
a compensation in the present
for the sake of my solitude
I wanted to have you
without letting you be
2.
You wanted to hold me
so I would hold you
You didn't know who I was
It didn't matter, I was there
I never knew you either
It didn't matter, you were there
Maybe it was only a need,
or rather, two?
3.
We thought we were looking at the future
when we were only looking at ourselves
Mirrored passions
Mirrored sensuality
Mirrored egos
4.
The game was
promise what it could be
promise the infinite promise
But after the promise
the present remains
heavy with words
The lightest thing on Earth
is Faith
You wanted to have me
Without holding me
I was supposed to ensure
for you
the security of a future
built to your convenience
You were supposed to ensure
for me
a compensation in the present
for the sake of my solitude
I wanted to have you
without letting you be
2.
You wanted to hold me
so I would hold you
You didn't know who I was
It didn't matter, I was there
I never knew you either
It didn't matter, you were there
Maybe it was only a need,
or rather, two?
3.
We thought we were looking at the future
when we were only looking at ourselves
Mirrored passions
Mirrored sensuality
Mirrored egos
4.
The game was
promise what it could be
promise the infinite promise
But after the promise
the present remains
heavy with words
The lightest thing on Earth
is Faith
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
