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
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.
you’re burning up.
What terrible fever have
I put in you?
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.
She could cure me with those black eyes.
Or she could be tonight’s infinite hair,
let down for me to drift in,
exhausted by a sexual shore.
She destroys the dawn at its edges,
she corners the world in a room.
With a smile, she torments it
until the confessions flow like blue honey.
In a room the size of a pin
I hold her gaze,
to delay catastrophes.
I discover expanses of desolation and love.
A warm wind of copulation
disrobes itself in the trees.
Days of the frenzied sun
show me a shadow of guitars.
A silent blood
courses through the streets,
filling the flanks of the men
and the breasts of the dead,
with a scent of watermelons.
To taste this overflow of flesh,
reminds me of the death of insects.
A cloud of copulation parts the valley,
where a wounded town lies,
soaked in a music of vagrants.
The pines there are an unreachable breath,
a loosening of spring,
a sadness in our necessary seed.
Midday strokes the thighs
of all the girls,
and brings a memory of thirst.
You boast that weakness is my virtue,
and lay my skin to waste with a stone of lust.
But the hard body knows nothing
of ecstasy’s tragic bells.
Whose blood is it that you spill?
I have seen the arrogance of patriarchs
wail between my breasts,
and murderers have become wine
in the infinite bowl of my waist.
You wield me like a sword of remorse,
but I will have my music.
See, my hands deftly find
the octaves beneath the skin,
the way they also coax dark gardens
from my frenzied mandolin.
Then, your strength comes over to me,
where it grows supple and defeats you.
You tell yourself you won’t give up.
Burdened with a lust and a fear
and the entirety of this moment.
Has it come too soon?
Why is it now
that a weight like a lead eye
descends into your stomach’s depths?
And you must become
her thousand scented fires,
you must pilot both these loaded souls
to the shrouded tower.
Ill-starred, you’ve set out
with things you don’t need,
reasons, images, language,
plummeting sadness invades,
and you tighten the reigns
of your equine body.
But you are not yet animal
to her responding roar.
You plunge your paths into her,
straight and familiar,
See how suddenly the undulating pain,
the breaking joy unravels them,
beneath a billowing undergrowth.
See the strange cats that
weave in and out of realization,
that come devouring children.
How at last you have
journeyed into no territory,
and are no conqueror.
trembling, the hurt
song in you.
Why has it wavered
in the infinite openings
of these sheets,
in this new wakefulness,
alert to the silent thrust
of his stone?
Did you know it would be this way?
This strange solitude
threatens to become you.
And what you give
over, in the tearful exchange,
where will he take it,
in the fretful journeys of his sleep,
how will it become him?
Courage fails through crimson sighs.
But have you ever been this unguarded,
this immense, without towers?
See how the young animals flow
so freely from you now,
through the undulating pain,
through the breaking joy.