Microwaved Rhymes

I put love in the microwave,
where it was safe,
recycled and good.

There was no place for
thoughts, no room for
food.

I stood there and waited
for the minutes to pass,
another moment,
another lapse...
in judgement,
time was wasted
and tears were shed.

I felt hungry, stomach
grumbling, my heart
was starving as I lay
in bed searching for
my head.

Dirty Laundry

Dirty laundry in the street,
on a cement rug, blue
legs walking, feet stumping,
as sweaty palms slide against
the poverty of her jeans,
she tumbles through
mosquitos, ashamed
of her skin. They are
stinging her anyway;
her arms and legs,
mindless creatures
nibbling, sucking.

Swaddled in polyester
thoughts, convulsed
in cottony memories,
a jungle of voices
traps her in the wilderness
of dirty laundry in the
corner of the room.
Pants, torn t-shirts,
and stockings engage
in intercourse, as she
presses her fists against
her eyes.

A sphere of laundry
hisses whispers of
gossip as she leans on
the window ceil.
Pressing her cheeks against
the glass, she suffocates
inside her box of dirty
laundry. Her breath
crinkles like a stale sock
that can no longer stand
on its feet.

Tumbling

Tumbling through silence,
exasperated breaths
trapped in the new
moon.
A stranger hooked
on a stranger,
like a vampire on
fresh blood.
Captivated by
passion, undressed
in the jungle
of lies.
Shadows dressing
shadows, observing
the banality of life,
convulsed in emotion.
Gesture: a craft unknown
to men.
Perception: a learned gift.
Everything: contaminated
by the music in the
background. Like a dancing
rodent in the corridor.

Morning After

She curls into a ball like a cat,
lips hook into a smile.
Corners of her mouth are
deserts from dancing with his lips
all night. Ah, all that sunshine,
administered at once...

Cracks in the ceiling
watch as she tries to
peel the sky, the layers
of lust: the simulation of...
love, to wrap herself
in its clouds bursting
with appetite.

Her eyes blink,
he is sleeping still,
traveling through a tunnel
of love equations
protesting. She tickles his heart
and he smiles, like a refugee
on a new pillow.

He is clever.
He drilled through walls
and broke into her
heart: a hotel for convicts.
He unbuttoned her skin,
and crawled under it.

Her eyelashes flap
through expired
moments, a warehouse
of thoughts dances
in muddy puddles.

Braids of Music Spells

Revive the conductor,
he is sleeping,
spellbound by
the composer's
voice in his head.
Like a prisoner,
captured
by his lovers,
he hides
in an elusive dream,
under the parapet
of his thoughts.
A desperate sigh,
all the instruments are
anxious to play.
They are waiting,
they are shaking
as the moon and
stars parade
illuminates the stage.
Violin strings
unexplored tremble,
seeking fingers
with hands,
and a bow to
caress them into
a tune.
Piano keys tempted
to be rediscovered
are frolicking through
an imaginary
prelude to a dialogue
of music, still naked.
Abandoned cellos,
screech like
moving scissors as
they twirl on their
legs.
Spellbound, trapped
in an abstract nap, in a
bed chiseled of
fear, the conductor
awaits ressurection
of desire.

Pixels and Daffodils

Dancing under
mechanical trees,
upon plastic leaves
a girl daydreams
about daffodils
painted on a lake.
The cold water
tickles her feet,
as she wavers
through
motorized wind
programmed by
the computer.
Double click, and
willow trees appear
on the island,
blankets and picnic
baskets equipped
with families are
pasted.
A pretend lucid dream:
it is real. Wet eyes
blink, close and
reopen again to a
defrosted
memory between
green grass and
cotton candy.
Magic, a taste of a
child misplaced
on the winding
staircase of time,
grasping a synthetic
hand. Fingers
shawl fingers, voices
dive into ears.
A flash of yellow
flowers, a whistle
now in the distance,
backspacing into
frozen breath.
Time is up,
the screen goes
black until she
moves the mouse
again.

Incense of Memory

On a train of thought,
a traveler,
head against the
pillow, with hair tangled
into a garden of
strawberries retraces
steps through the
incense of memory.
Eyes immersed in
the map of your skin,
gazing through
the streets and avenues
along your back,
crossing the bridge
of your spine like
a hungry vagabond,
observing
particles of you,
resting upon freckles
of imaginary sands
on a desert of silk.
Traveling along a
panorama of
pink sunsets, eyes
stop by the
theater of reflection to
paint a
kaleidoscope of
moments born
from a glass
of red wine.