Writings / Poetry: Luca Xifona

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Maltese Memory

The snowy boiling of Maltese froth—
The rippling rain, all night, whipping street dirt
Into sewers—sets me imagining
Water-transparent clothes, you, naked.
How I like to see you, so innocent,
In bra and panties—and then without em.
And next to me, so our sleep is sick
With restlessness, for we joust, join, and jam.
Here the wind’s never as cool as water.
Indoors, our rooms feel stuffy as coffins—
A cockroach-ridden, saturnine Limbo.
We need gulp easy wine—glossy bottles—
Uncoiled flutes of mead—to refresh our mouths
And limbs, already liquid, as we melt.

Pent-Up

Your camera caught me penning fresh lines:
You shot me—in Paris—in a bistro,
A carafe of red wine sunning my words
As the flash sparked, catching on my dark ink.
We’d breakfasted, and kissed, but were sedate—
Not the fornicating stallion and mare—
Two extravagant horses—we’d proven,
Making our brute fucking our blunt breakfast.
(You were feeling your oats; mine, I sowed, wild.)
Next, we sat to fork quiche and quaff wine.
Then, you left me to my pages and ink,
But, first, framed me looking civil.  Voila!
Soon, we toured Musee de l’Erotisme,
Amused that feast and orgy can be penned.

Touching

When we are near, what is dear, is touching.
Precarious is Solitude, too close
To Loneliness, when one can’t dare to touch,
For no one is near, and no one is close.
No clothing is carnal—not wool, not silk—
Unless it’s touching you, and you’re clutching
Onto me, and I’m touching carnal silk—
Coveting your milk breasts, so worth clutching.
Alone, far, I’m a monument of tears,
For you are distant, and your touch remote.
Potent magma, searing are my hot tears:
My heart’s a volcanic island, remote.
A fire blazes in my ribcage, my heart,
Tears can’t extinguish—lest yours touch my heart.

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