Flat to let

Once more I meet the calendar of my life with its dates (autopsies of one being already dead)   every time your petals open up.  

I attend to acts of impotence and check over their cold eyes: time's tit for tat in this uneven struggle of a man's refusal to turn the last page of this diary. The killer's steps know no mercy, just as none has my time, the executioner in your flight down unknown streets in this nameless city. And you admitted that others knocked on your door: through the peep hole, one night, you fancied the eyes of the killer, and wanted to open the door. He kissed your breasts {you said} and your hands and your toenails, he told you that in his childhood he played the battery in his school band, (from the age of eleven to fifteen. The gleam of his razor slit your throat like a smile smeared with lipstick: he laid you in bed, put make-up on you, undressed you, and made love to you with what warmth was left in your body, then an unbearable coldness filled the room. He turned up the lapels of his jacket and whispered: “It's only sex, baby, yours I shall cover in blood and earth, every-thing returns to its origin”. Raising his arms towards the ceiling, and once more the razor tasted the fresh blood, “of your solar plexus”; meanwhile your last words locked your mouth forever. ¨Why don't you return to your native country? ¨. That's why you are still walking in this sheet and carry the semen of who travels with the packet of Gillette in the pocket. That's why I kissed your throat in order not to harm you. I shut the door behind me and disappeared {wearing a department-store suit}, into the brothels, into the alleys. I removed the ad: Flat to Let.