Eyes Of A Man

I fish out from your eyes of dark sea 

the rising new moon

and paint it into a golden sun.

For when you look at me, for a second, 

my body unfurls like a dahlia in the late August.

Your touch will bring fruition,

Yes, your touch— 


I write you into my poems but a poet is a liar.

For I’m just a stranger in a cafe falling into your stories, where

no spring will come and no winter’s ceremony 

will grace a silent character like me, while 

your eyes flow and dwell at no places.


My somber heart searches for you nonetheless,

and my body, like a dahlia…

I Must Praise Your Body

I must praise your body; 

It’s like the earth’s dark soil

spoiled by the tropical sun, redolent of harvest,

I bury my eager hands into your fertility,

and bring out the rich greenery.


I drink from your lips the nectar of life; spring

is in your saffron-colored perianth.

My body is burning,

from my loins to my eyes,

the battlefield of virtue and sin.


I’m a proud man, broken by you.

The vengeance of love bends me;

The pain of love crushes me;

And forgetfulness saves me.



His body shimmered like an ancient sword that kept the darkness at bay.

Out there the war was imminent, Trojans had their ships ready,

But here in this room, he sat forlorn, hair unkempt,

face turned into the shadow that trembled and swayed.

The muscle on his back ridged, the muscle that had the gentle caress

Of Achilles, HIS Achilles, who were looking at him then,

desiring his body, while Eros played in the eyes that followed the curve

of his legs;

The red velvet that he rested on flowed like virgin blood; he must have been in pain.

If he could turn around and look at his eromenos, the world would stand still,

awed by his phosphorescent nakedness.

He knew the fate that awaited out there, tomorrow, as a warrior;

A golden urn would receive him, and his lover too, in a myth.


I’m looking at his body now with eyes of Achilles

and marvel at the flesh that sets my blood racing.

This divine flesh of a man would perish then, stabbed by a spear,

and will also perish now, if he still lives on as I and you and he,

labelled as an erotic crime that once united us all in Greece.


But of course, it was perhaps twenty centuries ago.

Red Lips

I’ve always yearned for those red lips,

those lips with the color of a ripe cherry,

ready to burst, ready to fall,

and the breath of harvest enthralls me.


So I’ve been looking everywhere in this town,

in every cafe, in every store,

in every place where men meet for pleasure,

Eros is with me and he has lips of fire.


But I’ve never found them…never…

until one sad afternoon when the daffodil

prolongs its shadow against the setting sun,

I see them half hidden inside my rhymes…

Five Summers Ago


It’s such a long time ago …a Brussels boy…

How funny memory speaks to me now…about him…

We were together only half a year, maybe even less,

Summer was unkind to the likes of us , and he departed 

when winter came.


…one of the oldest themes in literature…the summer fling…

Eternity was condensed in one short season and released 

all the sad-saccharine of a life time

upon his twenty-one years old body…


And I thought it was…almost love…