déjà-vu

I have been there before:

.

I have let people ride

all over me, breaking

a smile – how could you know

possibly, that this hurts?

.

I’d repeat in my head:

.

I’d rather be, always,

a tormented friend than

a rejected lover.

I choose seeing things twice

.

over never again.

brittle

I approach you

the same way

I approach

a rusk dissolving

in my mouth.

once broken

into pieces,

bit by bit,

you are easier

to take in.

pushed slightly

to my palate,

I wait patiently

for you to go

soft and delicate.

right then, I’ll push

a little harder

with my tongue:

firmly determined

I remain like this.

as your brittleness

is mellowed;

I can taste

you everywhere –

and swallow.

runaway

I have squeezed out my city

for its mellow sweet waters at dawn

and bitter fluorescent juices at dusk.

I drank from ever-interrupted flows,

took in the whole load: gagged, swallowed.

I have squeezed out my city

for rivers to entrench themselves

for rivers not to feed, but to become the sea.

I liked to call its waves coincidence,

although I, the moon, had summoned the tide.

I have squeezed out my city,

over and over with my bare hands.

that means: wrung out, pressed, extracted

until the last drop died;

cried, as I myself ran dry – and away. 

flattering effects

don’t you dare flatter yourself for the reciprocity

I am a Schrödinger’s conundrum

I want you and do not, both at the same time 

.

don’t you dare flatter yourself for any of my moves 

when I’m telling you that it takes two to Tango

I might know the steps, yet you sure took the lead 

.

don’t you dare flatter yourself for the fire that I start

I was just about to light another cigarette

to blow some smoke into your face

.

don’t you dare flatter yourself for the grasp 

by the low-fenced window side

it was wide open and I was close to fall

.

don’t you dare flatter yourself for the song we sing 

as close as we were that night, you’re not the one 

running in my head, nor breaking my chest 

.

don’t you dare flatter yourself for my boldness and my courage 

they’re my possessive claims’ only disguise 

washing off beneath your tongue 

.

and don’t you dare try me again –

instead, pretend as if this never was

and we, in fact, did not exist.

where they tore down the house

at the Southern corner of the station

(where red steel blends into the tracks,

below the blurred graffiti creations):

try to not get stuck in the cracks,

Keep right until on fresh tar,

turn left, avoid the crosswalk,

ride on and mind the parked cars,

stop beside the grey block.

here, before and after town,

they’ve recently torn down

the house where we first kissed.

in a room with no doors,

nothing but us on wooden floors,

It must have caused a lot of dust.

as king

as king, do you ever knock?

as king, do you enter her tower

before she has even let her hair down,

or let it grow long enough at all?

as king, is all that ripens, blooms and flourishes,

just for you to pick,

hanging from the tree,

rooted in the paradise you claim to own?

as king, do you treat her like

the medium rare deer on your plate,

like something to be covered in sauce,

to be devoured, like prey?

as king, do you ever mistake

greed for lust,

boorishness for decency,

and bluntness for sincerity?

as king, does your keen eye drift

in boredom as I write,

onto another soft-curved creature,

hedged in the wilderness you roam?

as king, do you ever call out for the queen,

just to hear her voice, hear what she has to say?

and when she answers back,

will you listen, too?

as king, can you sit tight, tighter?

as king can you pull yourself together?

as king, can you begin by

asking?

ventilator effects

there is pressure on my diaphragm

like right before a free fall,

before I cry, throw up,

or laugh hysterically.

my head hums to flickering eye lids

as there’s a sparkly liquid

running down my spine and stomach wall.

it is coming from my head, I think.

 

these sure are just the side effects

of your new ventilator.

It must have been,

the rhythmed blasts of air

towards our locked hands,

heavy breathing,

and our beating hearts,

that cause me so much pain today.

formication

a chain of people holding hands in Lebanon

–dozens of kilometers, I heard–

the book vendor’s voice as she elaborates on some Norwegian novel

–I never read it in the end–

his pink shirt smelling of a wooden wardrobe and Chanel

–it used to intensify toward his wrist–

people singing well on casting shows

–although I really do not care–

Snow Patrol on gravel-grounded morning walks

–sound and pulse and volume–

breathing in snow-pregnant winter air

–I could taste it when I was a kid–

the morning we began this list, high on caffeine and in love

–unlike you, the formication did return–

Shakespeare’s vanishing anagram

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

All damp, I tease you. Shame’s tremor

hums ahead. I act a role, so play me

as you create hell’s metaphor.

I am a sad muse, teach me hope.

Come, I’m all yours, Master

My spasms harm as I rot.

Still, you are there

to hear my praise.

I compare thee

to a red rose,

I presume.

Please,

dare

me.

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