Englishified by Jared Demick

Myth

Myth

my myth

moon-tuned with piyamas

although you wound your psychical thorns

woman-fish little before death

I inspiresip until delirious your calefactioned magnolias

honoring so much your lavish skeleton

all the accidents of your topography

while I decline in whatever time

your secretest titillations

precipitating you

between you

between lightning-bolts

in the test tubes of my veins.

She

Is an intense current

a lair-born lightning-bolt

a morbid woman wave

a humming reflux of anesthesia

a surge being fluorescent

a voracious contractile prehensile corolla half-opened

and its aphrodisiac dew

and its carnalescense

natal

lethal

drunk alveole violated

is the thirst of she she and her slow watersheds half-dead that

shine and disperse

although God will be her belly

but also is the chrysalis of an inhaled larva of Nothing

a libellula of medulla

a slippery caterpillar alone full of frictions

a succubus mollusk baby’s bottle

that drop by drop drains mouth to mouth

the great great joy

the very total suffocation

the total “shock” beyond “shock”

the integral collapse

is a handsome, holed fainting-fit

a “cross” of panther love to the tropical plexus

a happy, technical “knock out”

if not an terrestrial complex of libido eden hell

the agglutinating sediment of a precipitate of lips

the obsessive residue of an insoluble solution

a radioactive mechanism

a triad biped bubbling

a electroerotic female “robot” with her emission of delirium

and lyrical-dramatic spasms

although sometime she can be a mirage

a paradigm

an eroticmyth

an apparition of the absence

an inexistent entelechy

the water-nymph braid of Ophelia

or alone an ultraporous piece of indubitable reality

a despotic matter

a paradise made flesh

a cosmetic partridge

Sketch in the Sand

The morning takes a walk in the beach powdered with sun.

Arms.

Amputated legs.

Bodies that are restored. Floating heads of India-rubber.

Turning the bodies to the bathers, the waves stretch their chips upon the sawdust of the beach.

All is gold and blue!

The shadow of the awnings. The eyes of the girls that inject novels and horizons. My joy,

of shoes of rubber, that make me rebound on the sand.

For eighty cents, the photographers sell the bodies of the women that bathe.

There are kiosks that exploit the dramaticity of the surf. Broody maids. Irascible

siphons, with extract of sea. Cliffs with weedy seaman-chests and mottled fencer-hearts.

Flocks of sea-gulls, that feign the destroyed flight of a white piece of paper.

And before all this is the sea!

The sea!...rhythm of wanderings. The sea! with its spittle and with its epilepsy.

The sea!...till screaming

                                      enough!

                                                like in the circus.