Posts Tagged With: aging


for the sake of tradition
the real queen of hearts is the one who lives in wonderland
the guillotine is still functional if another snow white appears
or by chance a cinderella or the worst of evils a hybrid
curie dickinson saint cecilia
exactly like i was sometimes when it was sunday in my life
and all the burners of my kitchen stove were occupied
and i was singing like betty boop or like maria from the sound of music
sewing roses on a white fabric casting away the clouds
because of pure innocence

but in the big world only big game cards count
the real women know how to imitate the rain the orgasm and the tears
things that the other ones don’t even understand
the world calls the latter lost women and oblige them to pay interests
for every penny given as charity
the more their smile is closer to the virgin’s smile
and their children surely brought by giant white storks
the more the men say that all women are ****s and them the same

therefore all real women stand firmly on the ground
burning off their wings since babyhood
and their men learn to fly because the women deserve to be free
and them not

Categories: My Poems in 2015, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

imperfect (self)portrait

maybe the years are to blame
the age when withered women keep telling her
she is still young

she has a kitchen and a pantry stuffed with spices
a wardrobe with lavender and soap between bed sheets
even a manicure case for rainy days
in her house the flowers she received as a gift
lose their perfume in about an hour

loneliness nibbles with sharp teeth
pain strikes her head at once
like a rake upon which she stepped by mistake
but she can’t cry out
she stays upright with the front touching the wall counting

how many times she got drunk from bubble dreams
like champagne kept cold under a powerful cork
how many nightmares passed by like quicksilver
in the nights with hidden stars
enclosed afterwards in thermometers
kept in her bosom when she was feverish

she’s counting how many times the present
barks or bites like an old pug
with its tongue out
she travels her fingers upon past prints
covered with a pink watercolor film
she thinks about the future as if it were a collection
of tasteless candies pulling out teeth

she is the lady with a soft colored umbrella in summer
and a raven black one at funerals

Categories: My Poems in 2012 | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

Autumn Crocus

each night I’m running
through a nightmare transgressing
into pink and purple
since springtime until fall

from my lost body
drifting in the labyrinth
between suns
my viscera are good enough
only for the sacrificial knife
predicting a future
like a nebulous placenta
from leaves skeletons

my chest is full of stars
empty of pain and blood
a moon plaster squeezes
my hardened heart
when I will fall in the dust
a crater will be left above
and not a single thistle below

my God please dress me up
in silvery voices of angels
I’ll be a capsized bell
with its brim towards the sky

Categories: My Poems in 2012 | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment


I’m turning in a slow motion
a photographic film losing its color.
From my house bricks
it rains with memories,
spread like sea salt on the shore.

Colors gather between clouds
floating over trees,
white cherry flowers sway,
their shadow on grandma’s window.

The roof is covered with old snow
and lost letters ashes,
walls are whitewashed
with pale butterfly wings.

I’m shaking in silence my white hair,
it falls in the dust without footprints,
my arms, my head, my smile drop down,
washed away in the moonlight.

The last white morning stars
brought back into my life
yesterday’s light.

Categories: My Poems in 2010 | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Game Stake

Birds of prey gather round my navel,
their sharp beaks push upwards between ribs.
I’m like a sparrow with torn wings:
a kite seized my heart and threw it away.
Neighbors’ children cry out
names of the games from my infancy –
head or tails –
my heart swirls like a spintop,
it can’t stay still recto or verso.

I remember how it was in the beginning:
stretching thin paper over the coin,
rubbing colored crayons onto it,
until the head appeared,
taking copper pieces, moistening them with spit,
sticking them to my forehead,
placing a coin on my notebook,
drawing circles around it,
rolling coins like wheels until they spun down…
raising small towers until they collapsed.
All these games cost less than a dime.

My chest is cold,
a round stethoscope presses over my heart,
beneath it a wing struggles to fly –
head or tails –
I wonder what’s the price this time.


Categories: My Poems in 2011 | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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