Intensity

I need the intensity

of going all the way

giggling like a teenager

I do not think I ever grew up

I may look mature

but I told you I feel seventeen forever.

I speak French too much

lose out on the English tone of your voice.

You have all the adjectives I admire in a man

and all the selves that blend so well with mine

we could be like a fine wine

but

do I have to be more precise?

I will not tell you exactly

what you do to me.

let us just say that what I say

is only a mere quarter

of the pull you have

on me, it may be magnetic

kinetic, aesthetic,

diabolic, angelic,

it may get deeper

or not.

Who cares to analyze anymore?

This is just a poem

about layers and layers

of clothes

being removed.

Clothes that turn into words

in a magic world of make believe.

 

Take out the checklist

do I match?

Probably not,

too quirky, too neurotic,

too poetic, too real.

Praise nothing about me

I am vile

disgusting

worthless

useless

I have my period

I hate men

Women treat me horribly

out to stake me

waiting for my breakdown.

You can see how this poem turns out

who seduced who in the end?

who really has the power?

Chrissy, what the fuck, I say to myself

get a grip of yourself

I realize my head is stuck in books

and I never saw a tiny ketchup bottle,

I may be sheltered

but you have no idea

how much protection

I need from the real world.

I just live

by my own heart

and I will die by it

only, this time,

I will have

no regrets

only wishes.

How I want

only you

to grant it

to me.

But sadly, no one can.

 

 

 

Underwater Builder

My love is not gone

it is the way

the sides are blurry

edgy, with your wisdom

of sassy words.

I inspired some kind of unrequited

love

I never deserved. I will disappoint you

so many times

you already  moved on

to younger models. I feel

like a rusty old lock

jammed up

with numbers

forgotten combinations. Take the lock

burn it along with my poems

or attach it

to the Brooklyn Bridge

with all

the other lost loves.

That is the kind of man

you are. The one that

keeps on getting away

from my key.

Subterfuge

Every time I read The Great Gatsby
The flaws appear like claws.
The false hope (the buried seeds)
The reality (the burnt lights)
The illusion (the masked truth)
Living in the moment (dying for it)
The deceit (the diversity of love).
Hence, the walls rise
To reflect upon the mortar
And perhaps I could be the woman you need
But do you even need me?
You are thriving on your own
Free
Alive
Much better than I fare
I’d rather wear my jeans
Than put on the fake fancy air. I will not write for you.
She is far from who I could ever be
and he is not you.

None of it is real
plays with my head
as I stare at the moon
during the day before I open my bed.
I mean nothing of what I say
do not care about the splash
I suppose Daisy and I would share a drink and some hash
and Tom would sweep me off my feet again (like he always does)
and the poems would lay
at the bottom of the pool
as the blinding light
seizes to blink
love’s selfishness
and how it can all sink.

Full moon in Virgo

It could have started and ended the same way

but I keep on telling him

(as he holds me close and 

I smell his skin)

you don’t have to read my poems

or my book

to get into my head

so he reads the first ten pages

and brings the air

between us closer.

I see you in there

yet I don’t.

Forget the bloody moon

but what are the chances of it being my full moon

Isn’t that the title of your poetry book

I never published it

oh, I thought that’s what you do

just kiss me and don’t think too much

that’s my domain

forget the questions

remember only the answers.

The air is so thin now.

I can’t read you anymore.

The light followed me for days

to guide me to an empty place

to all parts of this town

as books fell out of my purse

to land on your thighs

it’s sexy to write a poem

when everyone thinks you’re not.

It’s sexy to kiss you

in front of strangers

when everyone thinks otherwise.

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.

Rug

I am a small rug in front of your entrance

you rub your dirty shoes on me

and watch my thread unravel

you aim to wash me one day

make me look brand new

but days turn into weeks, months

then years go by

and my plastic edges start to rip

so you wonder if you should

replace me with a spanking new rug

but you cannot

for I am too familiar

you like the way I never move nor disappear

you enjoy my faded color and rigid form

you want to keep me like a stone

still somehow I look different to you every day

my letters are no longer legible

the key is no longer hidden under my perfect rectangle

dead leaves get caught in my space

so you lift me and shake me

bang me up against the brick wall

and I look revived

bright again

for more footsteps and dirt

to get trapped within my core

and I sleep till the cold and snow buries me

and you no longer notice anything

as I feel the metal shovel

tear away at my essence

and the sun hits me

fools me into believing I am protected again

but I know the truth about the weather

it is unpredictable

while I remain constant.