Night Poem XX

I afflict you with a mutinous night,
I brand you with it’s terrible star.

You, so well put together and kept like a tower,
see how what you were recoils in terror
from your face of besieged pleasures.

I give you my primitive loam.
You shed your name, your eyes.

I reveal my swift skin
that loves the continents of your young body.
You sense a loss of homeland.

I want you to realize, my darling,
what this mutinous night is for,
exhaust this blue wick of sadness.

I want you to cherish
the extent of our desolation,

while you and I are nothing more than
forehead, breast and nape,
entwined in a void of love.

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Night Poem XVIII

Beautiful mama,
you’re burning up.
What terrible fever have
I put in you?

All night,
the fever burns you
in and out of love.
Damn it baby, I want your fever too.

Your skin hot on my tongue,
your breasts like flame,
your violent whimpers
scratch like thorns.

The louder you get,
the closer I come to a star of agony.
Beautiful mama, I’m burning up.
What terrible fever have you put in me?

I want your disdain,
I want your coy hips,
I want your blood’s exhaustion,
I want the anarchy of your dark sheets.