Just A Pool, Maury

it’s just a pool, Maury.
i’m still the very much miserable me that you used to love.

i just like wine and cuddles,
endless nights of sex
and drama.
you talk that sweet talk of yours,
and everything seems fine:
the years apart, the lies.

you want luck,
and I’ve plenty.
I’m all a rainbow with a pot at my feet.

like a lizard
under the sun,
i gently fry my blood.

you draw spyrals
with coal on my back
to leave a sign for when you’ll be gone.

it’s just the same old you,
i know,
but i like the taste of disappointment and chlorine
on my lips.

i like to touch the bottom
of the pool, and resurface
to no one.

honeyyyy.

honeyyyy.
honeyyyy.

she calls me at the bar,
holding a Pink Pony
in her right hand.

long fingers,
stiletto nails,
she sips her cranberry juice
that tastes like brandy.

she lured me in the club
with her moves:
saw her when walking by
her window,
she was dancing
some calypso.

here drinks cost me a fortune,
so I think:
better go easy on that
gin tonic.
I nervously play with my hair,
I could literally braid
my arteries and my veins.

so when she calls me,
I feel a sense of relief;

her voice is like honey
when she tells me
her stories
of when she traveled
to Tulum
and she lost
all her bags for the show.

her make up, her pads,
her dresses and her wigs:
that night she couldn’t perform,
so she got drunk and woke up poolside
half naked, with a pair of trunks
as a necklace.

she says Brian
is worst than Frida.
Brian is a useless prick,

and Frida is a talented artist.
Brian spends the money
and wacks on gay porn,
while Frida does cartwheels and
splits to pay the rent.
they do share the same body,
but it’s like Frida is a bee that produces honey,
and Brian is a fucking fly
trying to eat it.

out of the blue,
she tells me:
you’ve got a yellow aura
and you smell good,
wanna dance?

we lock Brian in the attic,
and I know it’s pretty unfair
to him,
but nobody really cares.
let him do paper planes
with Playboy zines
and roses with used tissues.

in the end,
it’s just Frida and I,
and we move
like lazy snakes in the sun,
and the sun is a strobe light.

Picnic at Hanging Rock and How to Narrate (Conventional) Beauty – Part I

[…] What we see and what we seem are but a dream – a dream within a dream.

1975’s ‘Picnic at Hanging Rock’ has been a great inspiration for my writing.
Yes, it’s a movie; yes, there’s also a book worth reading.

However, when your inspiration as a writer comes from more visual perspectives, you yourself tend to become a better narrator, rather than ‘just’ a good writer.

Indeed, your writing flourishes with adjectives and actions: it becomes more and more factual, real.
Even when it plays with fantasy, it brings your imagination back to something more tangible and easier to understand.

I see myself writing with tones of pale pink, white and dark orange; I see myself writing on lace and fresh linen gently touched by a breeze on a rather sunny and chilly day in February.

I see a smartly hidden gore in the eyes of a voluptuous Venus.

All my writing is an illuminating dream of dark textures and crude feelings behind an ivory façade.

– more to come.

Drink Her Like A Fine Bellini.

drink her
like a
fine bellini.

hair is dancing,
and like seafoam,
she comes and goes.

slowly lick
the tears
from her rosy cheeks.

they told me
she outta taste like peach
and salt.

they weren’t wrong.

I hate rhetorical questions.

fly?
you say she flies.
how high does she fly, though?

high.
she is high.
smoking pot from the rooftops
of the city.
big lights, no fun,
everything shimmers
like a sequined dress
of a Vegas soubrette.

higher.
she is higher than the clouds.
one’s a lamb,
one’s a dog,
one’s a cock.
one’s just smoke,
but it looks like an albino snake.
The highest.
she is The highest of them all.

them?
‘them all’. who is ‘them’ anyway?

them, who are knocked out
after a long night at the docks.
it was just two beers,
four shots
and three or five
Deaths In The Afternoon.
them, who are busy busy,
they cannot talk.
they stroll around town
with their cellphones
in their purse,
in their jacket,
in their arse.

arse?
why would you say that? …
and so on.