Writing comes not in the form of essays, but also in the form of poetry.

Here’s another poem, inspired by the city of Venice where I stayed when I was young in a hotel in Venice by the Rialto bridge.  This poem has no titled.  I could never think one up, but I just wrote and wrote.

What’s the source of poetry?  I have no idea.  Well, actually, I do.  It’s a little voice that whispers in my head.  So I just write down the words.  This does not happen often.  It is for this reason, I never became a poet.  I would have been very very poor, had I decided to become a poet.

You may wonder after reading this poem if I actually ate the meal.  The answer is, unfortunately, NO.

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I dreamt through the night
I had made love
to a man
with blond hair and blue eyes
of gentle spirit.

But first we had eaten
the feast
in a great hall
of cold tiled floors
heavenly ceilings of
gold stars
against a muted blue sky.

And from the walls
of peeling paint
Hung tapestries
of silken threads
of dulled colors
withered and thin
with age
Of Medievel paintings
of the great knight Mattheus
surrounded by saints
maidens and hounds
Chandeliers drooped heavily
and spun a thousand prisms
of refracted crystal light
against decayed walls.

We were naked.

It was twilight
the time between
sleep
and awakening.
A room of shadows
and lights
thoughts
and silence.

We had eaten
with our fingers
with our teeth
with our tongues
We had ripped
the flesh of mangoes
with savage teeth
Like wild dogs we were.

The succulent juice of which
had streamed
from our tongues
our mouths
Over our chins
and seeped and found
the end of a journey
Upon our breasts.

We had eaten
with our hands
and torn the flesh of meat
from the bones of
Pig, duck
and sacred cow.

The juice of the meat
had followed
the trickles
of silk
of the orange mangoes
down our breasts
our bellies
and lay rested
in the creases
of the tops
of our thighs
and our sexes.

Upon a table lay
a straw basket
of breads
of dark and light grains
woven and round and plain
long and short
Bread of life
feed the masses
And with our meat we ate
the wholesome loaves
with our fingers
Shred and ripped
the loaves.

We had scooped
in the cups of our palms
from dishes of grapes
Strawberries
Melons, pineapples
Cherries
Soaked in wine.
The juice of fruit
and wine
had followed the paths
of meat
and the shreds of silky mangoes
down the skins
of the two
who ate.

And we dragged our fingers
through icy silver buckets
of lemon sorbet
Which cleansed our palates
but left cold trickles
of sweet water
on our skins.

And when we had feasted
we made love
with stick sweet flesh
and we had licked
with our tongues
to taste and clean
the flesh.

I his
and he mine.

But still at times
our flesh would
stick
and click
and pull when separated
as if we had been moulded
at birth
together
as Siamese twins who are
joined by flesh
on flesh
bone to bone
sharing of
the same heart.

We were mute
and I was his
and he
was mine.

His sex was long
and slender
and dark
as he plunged into
darkness.
He tried, though failed
to cling
to salty sweet flesh
His hands would lose their grasp
and slip along the lines
of bony shoulders
slender arms
delicate finger tips
a rounded moon breast
a soft thigh.

And I would try
and fail
to reach for the sinews of muscles
of his back
and buttocks
and I, too, would find my hands
slide upon
The grease
The sweat
the juice on his flesh
as I tried to grasp
his strong body
to mine.

The tiles of the floors
Left our skins like marble
smooth and cold
and everywhere we rolled
and tumbled
and thrust into eachother
we left traces
of food
of sex
upon white tiles
of cold stone.

And our skins
were icey
like death
like the marble
of the lovers of Rodin

Within
our bellies were full
and our sexes were
soft
and wet.

And we were full
of sex
and food
and eachother.

Such magnificent love
and food
had given us thirst
and to quench our thirst
we drank from wines
in large silver cups
which lay before us
upon a great table.

Blood crimson wines
pale white wines with bouquets
of honey
and fruit
sweet and bitter
to the tongue.

We drank gently
through open mouths
of soft lips
and gentle tongues lapping
against the edges
of fine silver cups.

And when we had filled
ourselves of wine
and food,
we joined hands
and walked
silently
through the halls of the great house
naked and joined
by food
and sex
and wine
and shamelessness
the fingers entwined together
like lace.

Without words
we began to dance
silently
and slowly
though no music came to
our ears
Our internal rhythm was
our own
invented in the silence
of death.