ogun
it will always be the winds of the north sea
and your lips pronouncing your name
it will always be your body under his body
surprised
it will always be to love in a foreign tongue
suffering the storm
friezing words with pain
three nights written in the present
an always of the instant
your slow saliva gulped in anguish
walls filtered by desire
always the signal
always misfortune
and a trembling in thirsty lips
+++
sunday 8 a.m.
soaked by morning rain
clement in its scarcity
you return with the sound of the violent woman
in her lean body with the grease of the days’
filth
her desire to kill that man
so much violence you’ve learned during the long
week
you pine for the calming of this anguish
quickly buying bread
the newspapers
the walk in the rain
moving away from the scream of a woman demanding
her money
this threat of the displaced madmen
these women with cut bodies
furious furious
on another street
two men not far from each other
sleep on the sidewalk under signs of misery
violent hangover sleep
and not too far away
(you know it you feel it)
a woman brandishes the tip of a broken bottle
on a corner she drinks
the cheapest bottle of alcohol
while her standing body convulses
while you write and the rain worsens
+++
fires over the stones and in the abysses
a fog of sand
the mist over a city
sunk in fear
history returns in violence
mortar dissolves in words
i encase myself in the silence of your eyes
steeds have no pity
something about their name terrifies me
the threat of being without my tongue
this lightning bolt
breathing breaks my night
+++
contrary wind
you implore the trees
to take on the ailments that have befallen you
slow leaves
barely the rain’s tribute
your sibilant breathing unleashes
the story that murders your days
the emptiness your viscera enclose
amid foliage
the flight of birds
urged on by serenity
you stop to write this poem
a captive
in shredded tendons
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