Not That Man

Not That Man

After digging squares of alien existence, simulating a mechanical journey, driven between green meadows, cattle and orange concrete juice, he realized the place
simply
was not fit for his dying.

Delicious, forbidden hours
were left
neglected behind practical, functional, time framed issues.
Every insignificant detail was taken care of, smoothly, planned in advance, beyond a rising midnight sun or a technical orgy. But for him, only one thing mattered:
No place is good for a living if it ain't  worth to die in.

The air needs space! blue and green space need real earth, the sort you get your hands dirty with, to
breathe and die all year round.

I found one such place                    but I am not that man.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Dream Buds

Dream Buds

Before joining me in

bed,

she sent her gustatory

buds,

to check me out.

I recognized her

smell;

she visited me only

at night

while dreaming.

A recurrent transplant

of alien nature,

there she was

flourishing.

We endured in a

long, obscure

conversation

from which I remember

nothing!

But her lips

moving,

fondling.

Outside

fig trees defoliated

under a cold

moonlight;

chicken perched on

their branches

watched,

amazed.

No sound perceptible

disturbed

while I asked her

“are you still in love with that guy?”

She nodded

but her taste was already mine.

© 2013, JC