the rhythm of castanets awakens the moon on opal rings your kisses spin a cricket’s hitting a crescendo waves tattoo dark shadows on your skin sonority, you who vibrates the souls of those who haunt at night the Port of Cartagena
I toss in smells of apricots and plumes the Hand of Fatima takes off my veils your forehead sinks into the sweat of lovers who sever their veins oh, dream of the unknowns, you, latency, the sigh of blood which flows in spring both mud and flowers grow
didn’t you know that when you said I love you you stepped on roads of fables and folk tales? you glued your heart onto a purple sunset smells of lilac and of roses, impregnated strolls, seduction, it wasn’t me it was you who stole his soul
Published by Spillwords on June, 4 2019; included in my upcoming poetry book Passion: Love Poems and Other Writings. Passion: Love Poems and Other Writings also includes several poems translated in Italian by Flavio Almerighi. I am most grateful to Flavio for his magnificent translations. For more poetry in Italian please visit Flavio’s site here
I strolled along that large corridor whose walls were decorated with portraits: trophies of your love games. You fed on those loves, didn’t you? You overextended. Overextension kills empires. I bet you didn’t think that it could kill real love too.
Every night the fleshless arms of your love games crawl on you like fire ants.
I know misfortune when I see it.
I know it because I am not a saint.
Hope? If there is any left it must be on another corridor.
read her 2019 Spillwords Author of the Year interview here @short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)
I eat macaroons in the same coffee shop Roberto’s guitar sells cheap dreams by the sea young girls are ready for harvest like flowers of lust I laugh… I scratch poetry on a glass I say the first love is French you ask how’s the last it smells raspberries, vanilla, and grass you touch my left wrist I play a few cards red flowers bloom on your cheeks your teeth peel the skin of my gloves you walk into darkness I seal you on in wax how’s the last love? pray.. you shouldn’t have asked
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)
I eat macaroons in the same coffee shop Roberto’s guitar sells cheap dreams by the sea […]
“Oh, no, but I would love to live here for an entire winter.”
“And what would you do?”
“Every night I will walk in Piazza San Marco, at that moment when the silence becomes so permeable that my steps can be heard from the moon. In the heated, mysterious, thrilling nights of the carnival I will change mask after mask, dress after dress, smile after smile, pain after pain, lover after lover. Every morning I will mix essences of perfumes, seeking for the very one that can revive the mystique of my body, intoxicate my soul, empower my mind. Every twilight I will dive in the coolness of the Adriatic Sea; my body shivering, my soul revived; my memory of him forever gone. In the night I will go to consult astrologer after astrologer in the less known quarters of the city.”
The sound of a church bell tears apart the moist air.
He looks at me: blue eyes, dark hair; powerful voice.
“Tonight there is party at the Doge’s Palace. Would you like to come with me?”
“I am not going to parties anymore.”
“I died long time ago, by mistake. Now I am just a Venetian mask.”
For a moment he looks flabbergasted. ….
excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers @short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)
Our destinies caught inside the lines of my left palm. With my right index finger, I trace those lines again and again, until I cannot breathe anymore, until my left palm bleeds. None of us can be judged outside endless flights between continents, outside of our tears and of our love for art, outside of…
Our destinies caught inside the lines of my left palm.
With my right index finger, I trace those lines again and again, until I cannot breathe anymore, until my left palm bleeds.
None of us can be judged outside endless flights between continents, outside of our tears and of our love for art, outside of the slippery slope that runs from amitié amoureuse to deep impassioned love.
One day all of us will have to understand that the past should stay in the past.
That day is inscribed in my left palm together with our pain, and our tendencies toward the kind of love that transcends earthly boundaries.
I fed my tree of love with water from my blood, dried lizards, and pieces of broken hearts. My tree will bloom during the Banquet of the Moon. The broken hearts? You see I had no choice. I am the defender of love. I do not trade in half measures. @short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.) image: Bruce Rolff; […]
I lurked in the shadows of those streets the entire night: solitaries, madmen, prostitutes, somnambulists. After a while I couldn’t distinguish among them. My steps were meaningless. My senses were tranquilized by that vision of him scribbling his last letter to me under a pale winter moon. The child was probably happy, playing at his […]
TheCertifiablyTRUERavingsOfASectionedPhilosopher: Don't be afraid to think you might be a little 'crazy'. Who isn't? Check out some of my visualized poems here: https://www.instagram.com/maxismaddened/