Saturday, November 5, 2016


  nie zasługujesz by wiedzieć

he told me she was like a cat, she loved cats but he was not a cat person 
he said she never cried or showed signs of weakness; maybe deep down
he wanted to become like her _ and maybe he did _ maybe he did 

he'd say one thing and I'd hear
the moon shudder, my bones whistled
and shrunk. 
I imagine his laughter
stunning a bird, tilting a window frame, locking
a hundred mouth-sized doors.

I think it was David Blaine, the magician, 
who told Harrison Ford to pick a card 
that ended up being inside a fresh pear 
in Ford’s own bowl of fruit in his own kitchen, 
cut out by his own hands with his own knife, 
that made Harrison say, 
“Get the fuck out of my house.” 

It’s not that I could find and touch 
places on his skin he tried to hide, 
places he most wanted touched… 
places that drove him wild and black, 
it’s that I reached inside an ordinary place, 
a place he had never considered erogenous, 
and pulled his heart out, still beating… 

the irony

I am tied and taken 
by the touch of his hands, 
by the slap in the sky that his eyes strike. 

Tongue. Boneless, yet it can break one’s bones.
Greek proverb

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