The loneliness that won't hurt you

its a quiet night stuffed with wolves that howl
and drink bourbon
until 6 am
I sleep in this bed so quiet
it must be my sound of
enjoyment and pleasure
hm-hm's for good and tired
shhh,
I say to myself who tries to sleep
this is a large bed
its like a mirror divided in two
only that this one has sheets
a pilow
a feather duvet
pearl like
sometimes a cat at our feet
shh, I say to myself
I want to sleep
but the wolves keep howling outside
inside
this bedroom
such a fury of animals
with the heat
the fever
the infirmity that governs my(ours) body
shh, I try to tell her, but she keeps pushing it
a bed that should be so quiet
I give up
light a cigarette or two
think about the sliced tomatoes
the full moon
the yogurts
the piece of shit that persists in fucking my shoe
this and that
the pelage and the sweat
a bunch of teeth
then I stand up
take a few steps on the room
look around, crawl a bit more into this darkness
of a full moon summer night
its not always about company
but loneliness
loneliness is a bitch
I take control over the motion
pick up a pair of panties
and feel the notion
that this scent has been smelled before
the moon plunges into my room at night
shh, let me sleep,
I tell myself
there's only room for one
but reality is a bitch too
and if loneliness won't be so arduous
sleeping would be easy for you
too

I got a lot of work to do tonight

And its driving me nuts
finding a spot or a line
to start with
and drive the line or the spot
into a reasonable end
that will lead me to where I'm supposed to be leaded

the skin that covers my finger bones
starts crashing and revealing the flesh
that slashes
into three or four cuts
that probate me only
to stick with this willing of determination

I got a lot of work to do tonight, I tell him
we both know about what I'm talking about
there's not really many optinions if we considered it
scrtach
mone
a stone,
in both pockets,
that is not a stone
but a concentration of dilemmas
and games and flirtation
with parables, metaphors, figurations, false ideas
that unclear the battlefield
and allocates it in two converging poles
in an unreliable end, and ruthless, cruel
how much greed
ours,
we
who are nobody
even less those that represent us by the
name, form, voice, smell,
it's a figure so awry formed
a conquest
that leads us here
with stones deeply hidden in pockets
that don't rip

so much to do tonight!
clean the shit that commes glued to the hands
that travel inside pockets
a bit confortably

start to learn this story
that has always been learnt
so far
so bad
incorrectly
its getting us there, I tell him
what, he asks
the time we die
we'll be all
pretty buried and death
its getting us there
nothing else flushes away
we'll have nothing to
complete or combine
but tonight
we got a lot of work to
do tonight

Yap, things

that thing you've been calling a soul
doesn't belong to anyone
not even myself
when it's right there holded on the arms
of two irreverent kids
who will only put them in
amusing danger
the thing - soaked wet warm -
you've been calling a consciousness
has no longer place between
the flacid stretched skin and flesh
of crossed bodies
the thing you've been calling myself
has no longer a meaning here
at this earth, solid space
commonly called for social integration
coherency
lucidity
human stupidity
it's time for the landing place
to prepare itself
and shot a plane
up to the sky
to get things where they are called right
without misspellings
no wrong soles, no guilty unpleasured consciousness, no identidies or names or cruel independency
and particularization
there'll be a bunch new unity up there
the thing you've been calling liberty
you've been saying it all wrong, pour kid
its only nostalgia and melancholia

Delirium at a toilet's door

The skin releases
This hazelnut kind of smell
Which pinches the air
appearing hot and melted
like Sweat
that drips
and warms

Rips a ephemeral scrape
Of member banality
And this second pulses
In a lewd way
On the chests
Where then dwells
tepid
damp
petted
forever.


Pulsions like these you don’t erode
An orgasmic deliverance of the idea
And of what is the figuration of desire
Exteriorized by the curl of four arms
And two necks
The bosom that breathes upon the bosom
With hearts that pump upon each others
Arrhythmitized
In roars and howls
Grunts of two wild species
Febrile
And we only holded hands
And we passed them by the bristle hair on our arms
With closed eyes
Without exciding the ephemeral delectation
The groans turn into hiccups
And we pull our fingers deep down to our bones
Sunken on the honeyed skin
But it doesn’t hurt
He is a gentle boy
I fear that this will languish at this point
And it truly languishes
Maybe I’ll embrace it
Two scorching orbits
That wamble in climax
Lonely at a toilet’s door
So then
My biological body forces me
To act humanly
And I leave
to do what you best do
in toilets.

Painting Nails

we rely on this
bedtime delusion
unspecifically pretending to be
getting something from this
limitation of love nesting
which is so limitless
that actually
becomes hard to take
it on this easily
since I've had always heard that
love is a pain in the ass,
ironically,
there's no itching in the butt
and we both feel awight
...don't we?
we play
this painted nails fest
down under the sheets
shading the hue
of this crazy rapture
and I never really enjoyed nails
releasing this high concentration of tones
'cause
it leaves all the room
pretty in red
drunk by a rainbow
that encolours our love
and mental fusion
so much that we become ONE
big developed body
with ramifications
and fingers
with nails
skin-coloured regular fingernails
"paint your nails",
I try to require
with the colour you
want them to be painted with
but don't come and ask me
to paint them for you
I wouldn't even lift a finger
or a toe
to make them red
white
or pale pink
or blue -
- not regular nail colours -
man what an orgy...!
there's a lunch of fingers
having breakfast in the bed
every friday's happy hour
of consumption
in what little nasty fingers
do best
sometimes even when
they're in rest
all digged up
in a nest
rolling over
my chest
CHRIST, I yell,
IT'S SUCH A BLEST!


(only those satisfied ten little fingers will stay,
at last)

it all disappears here

why does it get,
sometimes,
such a hard time to find yourself
in the core of everything else that fills you?
why does it seem as if you're trapped
into somebody else
that doesn't please you
getting so sticky
in walls of unidentified mesure
that would only break
in undetermined pleasure
being such an individual of
concerning clever
that undergoes by
critical endeavor
mid tenacious periods
that will only bribe
the idea and action to
imbibe
all the load of the world
through small round nostrils
that form
a face
and sometimes a bosom of
depersonalized identity
that puts the one
bury
dead
and
gone.
and it only rests you,
the other one
who gets so stiffy
and narrowly
iffy
since it belongs to
something else
sniffy

a complete affair

persons walk along in the street
in a pretty delightful picture of insanity
I run to meet them so I can
ask and explore the idea of
why is it so hard to don't be
crazy when you're already crazy
and you kind of like it
there's no concrete response
nobody knows how to answer this
I think I know why that is.
     because they're already crazy.
                  they are already mad.
and we're all pretty delightful
things moving clowdly in this picture
of deadly eternal delusion
-what a brutal amazing scene!,
I tell him as we roll
our legs upon each other
begining to share hot
fluids of love
-It's never going to feel enough, you know?
the stupidity of single madness.
but we're not single, are we?