***

sometimes I feel you like the wind feels the sun
I hear your steps like sand
experiencing you like a mustang riding my heart

aooo aaaooooo

seductress I am
twisting my words and our actions

spending the evenings alone
at night when I sleep I feel how they pass me like a whore
like a willing lonely woman
they trample me and ply with wine
that during the day I have to return to my notes
and in memories discover the similarities of
literary tropes
metaphors
old and new sighs

aooo aaaa aaaaoooo

then I rise again to you
I plead I beg I pray
I picture you as a tiger or a wise monk
as a source of a reborn spring
I imagine that you love me without profit
I imagine you without a contract as a king
who cares about every single figure
and they call me a whore again
when I imagine everything else with you
and a stream of bitterness runs through my body

I throw myself into a dance
as if I stepped on the edge of a cliff
I jump into the rhythm

and when I reach the end
she is gently holding me in her arms

my black ballerina

***

I expect you as the enthronement of St. Mary
I expect like an immaculate conception
in her belly
torrents roar down the slope of my hairy skin
vagina is opening like a lily flower
I am blossoming
I am blossoming
but I am in love with poetry

forgive me
forgive me even more one last time tonight
we will not make love

I feel you could lean me against the table easily
take me to the stars
leave me in sin –
what I could do nicer with you
than hover among the clouds and the moon of my pleasure
what you could do nicer with me
than charge your instincts and forge yourself into a man

forgive
but I am in love with poetry
like a slave with his queen

I feel – with every verse I stab you deeper
and you still want me your witch of pleasure
and you do not understand when you warm my bed
like I could pour God himself into your palms
that I must tell the world
that I must give poetry
that I must avoid your pleading hands
which love me as if you sow the unity in me

they carry a false sense
that I cheat myself with poetry

***

I was brutally honest with him
again I could give him only a poem
I laughed like a wind trapped in the sails of a yacht
and spread arms like a bushy beech branch
surrendered myself to summer even though it was winter
warmed by the sun in the midst of January
my face became as red as the coat I wore

I said a few words and then I gave him time
we could make love again
as we have often done if only I prettied myself
we never hugged or held hands
but satiated ourselves without that

brutal honesty was more intimate than kisses
even though I spent the whole night in his arms
he suspected why I was rushing so happily to Vienna
but he knew I was not seeking love just adventure
he suspected my time was running out
so he decided
to give me everything I wanted
and I wanted sophisticated erotica
such
as was written in postulates of Euclidean geometry

“given any straight line segment
a circle can be drawn having the segment as radius
and one endpoint as centre”

we laughed
loudly chortling in the sun
as if we had just conceived a child
we drew a circle

***

I desire your hugs
when you touch me under the blossoming cheery
and we spread pink into the swan song’s harbour
on the grass next to Central Park’s lake

I yearn for our sun like the New York’s ski scrapers for the ski
I yearn for your river like Mississippi monkeys
I do not want to go home
I do not want to abandon us in the park of your day

I will stuff myself into your mouth and run between your fingers
I will stuff myself into your stomach like a sandwich
you had for breakfast and take you home
I do not want to leave the harbour without you
you broke my knee when you whispered you would marry me
and despite that you were tied deep to the bottom of my sea
like the moon to the earth
without I cannot spin

your lips are fecundated wild orchids
dark red and slightly yellow at the corners
temptation is the tower of the softest sounds
your calls
your pleases
signposts that guided me to life
you gently tickle me below my belly above the rose stem
where the home of my beginning is
my happiness
my wounded dancer
my love
where the beaten expectations will heal
yearnings gentler than the skin of the morning
shier than the jump of a beautiful young doe
for more
for more of your touch
for more of your hug
for more of your kiss
for more something that runs through me
that moves me inside like an electric ray of light
when I am with you
my dear

I see you in my future as well

***

you open my heart like a window
through which the blue sky smiles
while you natter intelligently about magic
and compare it to the taste of a juice with cream

you open my heart like a window
through which the blue sky smiles
and I know that the book of poems is being printed today
and before noon I board the Vienna express

simplicity folded calmly
these were no crumbs of sugar
they would take too long for this morning’s pastry
they were the pieces I folded into my soles

I made myself look good on a train
swapped coffee with tea and now
I expect the fullness of a different flavor

when I saw him last he said
he hates Irwins they annoy him
but in the meantime I ponder
that it’s time to read das Kapital
that it’s time to listen to das Kapital
that it’s time to watch das Kapital
that it’s time for neo-NSK
that it’s time to renovate the spaces and renovate the looks
that it’s time for folk art
for living in the village
for village customs and joys
for brandy and rye
for art that opens hears and clears the veins
because the institution is too often as a hard mother
that combs too hard or too painfully

in the meantime I check if he wrote
he who is afraid of emptiness
because nina is in emptiness
will I mess it up again, I wonder, or he will this time
because then a meeting is only a hindrance
like blundering in the desert of the puzzling mind
I have you under my skin
he wrote
I admire the phrase it was his gift
we play with words
you form the sentences of my superego
I replied

you open my heart like a window
through which the blue sky smiles
because the magic is homed in a relation
because my book of poems is being printed
but reading erotic poetry may not be for men
I conclude
not even for him who wrote me

and with a blue in my step
I enter
Vienna

where the sense of Love and Kapital is different