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 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 […]
He comes back only when the Angel of God makes blue and yellow rings fall asleep on my fingers. One night he swore his oaths upon our unmade bed and the river Styx. His guitar swore its oaths upon a red rose. This is not the time of year when his tears – chariots of fire – fall from the sky. Neither that day of spring when I lie in bed covered by wedding veils. Those are the only times when his soul plays guitar behind the Japanese screen in my bedroom. You couldn’t hear him playing in the library. So, what did you really hear? Do you believe that his ghost hides inside his portrait hanging on the wall? Oh, no! This is not a Harry Potter fantasy. His soul is not inside any portrait. Now, I think it’s time for you to leave. Why? Are you asking me why? You saw the inscription below his portrait: granted just a quote he loved.
There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.
Here’s your answer. You can’t do any of those things. So, you better leave. No, his soul wasn’t here tonight. Tonight, it is I who speaks, not him.
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/