… and this is love
a vacant lot in springtime
wild grass as high as your cheekbones,
wet stray cats,
wild poppies with red-paper-like petals
a photo kept in the closet, looking down,
under a heavy cowboy belt,
a photo taken just now
watered down by your eyes
and by mine
I was a dead man in Montmartre
I was sick to the bones
I saw my reflection on the shop window
And got scared
Life was scarce in these badlands
and I was so thirsty
I did not have a face,
I had a mask
and the pain was so sharp that it was
almost beautiful
And I loved you so much
That I was dying for you
Quite probably I did
Love is a lone plastic flower in the window
of a small white bathroom,
orange peels that have just been cut,
olive trees,
the tenderness of sex
made silently
breathing mouth to mouth
that will stick forever to your eyelids and
to your bare chest
even though it happened a lifetime ago
love is wanting to crash your skull on the
asphalt,
it’s a headache
a wound in your hand that never heals
a tiny necklace
kept in the little white nightstand by your
bed
… someone cooking spaghetti just for you
somebody undressing
very quietly and slowly
in the light flooded room
while you stare in silence
and concentrate on the blaze
Love is
dozens of satellites falling one by one
over this earth
love is writing these lines while working
in a fucking bar
And wanting to stay in bed for hours with
you
Just sweating in the summer sun and feeling
your hips brushing against mine
drops of blood on the kitchen floor
your meal burned out in the oven
it’s exactly 45 people speaking way too
loud
above the music while Evans plays for
Debbie
at 3:30 am
such sadness in those keys
such solitude
such delicacy
the sun already shinning outside
something that you will never witness again
Love is living apart
not knowing the name of a single star
no seeing
no hearing
no touching
no smelling
no feeling
not talking anymore
the bottle is halfway down
and you are sleeping naked on the beach
small blue flames burning in your fingers
and your tongue
an egg shell
a letter
an old love note you find while you are
reading a book
along with a small dried flower
that takes away all the oxygen from your
body
like an immense vacuuming machine connected
to the void:
“I love you”
a feral lake,
small yellow butterflies flying through the
wild grass,
thinking about you in that pale pink dress
jumping over a fence to get into your
grandmother’s tiny garden
thousands of miles from my home
Love is like dressing up after leaving work
And drinking too much coffee
a pale distant need
a hunger
a heat
a joyous heart turned blue
a jacket without that very particular button
Love is writing under a traffic light:
“I am kind of drunk
and this sheet of paper is torn apart in
half
and it smells like beer,
cheap perfume,
and northern weed.
I miss you so much that I would forgive you
if I could right now and die”
love is howling
love is craving
love is being hungry
and trembling with the morning dew
it’s a two year old girl with curly hair
laughing at you
while you don’t have a clue as to why
it is looking at the city
from your window
trying to make sense of the night,
it’s homeless gatherings under the tunnels,
those mirrors trapped in elevators,
& eternal piano ballads
Love is watching her portrait on your
screen,
a smoke in her right hand,
that mouth and that skin that were a part
of you
and that melting core
still
radiating waves of warmth
dissolving every fucking cell in your body
like a car crash at the speed of light
love is looking at her face now
and wondering who the fuck is she
Love is staring at two people punching each
other
or
kissing one another
it is like watching a glass dry for two full
minutes
love is not hearing the indications
properly
burning some papers on the rooftop above
the bridge
throwing them out there but never leaving
the place
it’s wanting something with all your guts
and watching it leave
it’s running away with someone in middle of
the night
it’s brewing coffee for one at breakfast
love is a phone call
by a marketing operator
when you are about to kill yourself
and lemons from Iran in a small grey fabric
bag
“hey, come back here and give me a kiss
before you leave”
Love is crying alone in the middle of a
demonstration
Erasing junk email
Doing it all over again
No need for more rehearsals
It will be crazy anyway
Love is sitting in the back of a taxi in
Edinburgh, Scotland
And feeling like an island of dust floating
in the infinite empty space
a virus
a leach
a dying horse waiting for you to shoot him
It’s the smell of birth
And sweat
And every little bit of despair and sorrow
on this whole damn earth
Coming to you like an echo crawling through
the desert
love
if anything
is just shutting the fuck up
and just listening
Love is a memory so thin that flies away
with the breeze of the morning
A road in silence
A ray of light
A disappearing mist in the hills
A cold early November day
A stag lost in the woods
His damp white hair shining through the
trees
and wolves gathering under the moon
that glows at your window
Love is a distant storm
a dying hummingbird
Exhaustion
Fate
Faith
It’s a train travelling at night
a small lottery price
an unexpected kiss so warm that almost
makes you cry
so you slip your right hand under her skirt
love is looking through the window on a
plane,
only clouds in sight,
forgetting your keys at her place,
a perpetual longing,
it’s the flood and the hail
and the oceanic pain to see you go
love stays with you
like a sickness,
or a blessing,
or an omen
half a year has gone by
and I still have your heart buried deep
within me
I am watching time go by like a warrior in
his tomb
Rotten swords, broken earthenware, dead
flowers
Around my skull
Hold on, she says, from the frozen city,
But I know the count is getting close to
ten
The referee is a small kind man
And my coach just wants to get home.
Don’t worry about me
The last blow has been fruitful
Like a pomegranate seed
It landed just in the right place
I am not going to stand up again
I will see my fate
Your face, my dear Persephone, glows like a
candle on the other side
I just want to see it again,
I am done
