Englishified by Jared Demick
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
in the test tubes of my veins.
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
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
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.
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
like in the circus.