memento #15

That day you’ve entered my solitude
with your predisposition to transgress
I was trying to complete a jigsaw puzzle
of the “The Bridal Pair With the Eiffel Tower”
between some scattered urges to repent.

You asked me for a glass of wine
and to be romantic as you remembered me.

I told you to get the butter…

(afterwards I was with you)

on top of that unfinished puzzle
on top of that dusty floor
on top of those broken memories,

between some scattered urges
to repent.


Sudden awareness of the reality, —
a pain of remorse.
Of an unconventional amorality, —
for better or worse.

In the night I’ll crawl into your kitchen
and drink all your wine and absinthe.
afterwards I’ll whisper my poems
into the keyhole of your boudoir.

I will posses your body,–
while your psyche is counting sheep.
hushaby, mon amour, don’t resist,–
this morning, an agony will become real.

You heard about pleasures of Heaven
or a suffering in Hell,
but for the soul without body
that doesn’t mean anything…

a murmuration

enough said.

there is no need to hold my hands in yours, —
they don’t radiate any heat anymore;
and love of your fingers has leaked to the soil
while love of your heart denied the toil.

enough said.

time to reattach the wings.
the attic of your memories is full of eggshells
and dry feces,
nevertheless the nest was always empty.

enough said.

our words have turned into the countless birds.
countless birds into the chaotic flocks.
flocks, — heading North.
they don’t care about those who have fallen asleep.

I’m not your fire-bird,
not even a singing canary,
you’re not my golden cage,
not any longer.

time to reattach the wings.
the Big Flood is coming.

enough said.

​Tres Hermanicas Eran *

Three sisters lived in town, —
two got married;
one had another plans.

I knew her,
she was weaving dandelion circlets
at the dawn
and playing with the orphans in the narrow streets of our town.

She ended up locked inside
in the high tower in the middle of sea,
by her beloved father.

Many tried to had her flesh
or her heart…

They all dead now, but who counts.

Fish food, fish food…

A fish doesn’t discriminate by the bloodline.

Tres hermanicas eran.
a premonition of a war.

a woman is sitting next to me,
she’s preaching about the upcoming Apocalypse.

She turns to the river,
to the clouds to the dormant in this summer heat Brooklyn with her presentment;

I am drinking my beer, —
watching gliding seagulls.

Tres hermanicas eran.

I know their blood is running in my veins,
so as the salt of the sea
and sweat on their skin
under the Mediterranean sun.

They all dead by now,
by a sword or by fire,
by a firing squad
or by the gas.

I know, because I saw
the dandelion crown washed to the beach.

Tres hermanicas eran.

  • A medieval sephardic love song.