Strychnine on the rocks
Add a dash of coke and garnish with poetry
The rim of the bottle
reminds me of those lips,
which were never mine,
just borrowed,
and the prescription slides off it,
in a transparent mimicry
of burnt caramel.
And it all fits in a few seconds,
your eyes fixed on mine fit in,
and so does your banter and abuse,
and there is time for me to watch the flow,
slow, uninterrupted,
and there is time for me to shiver,
as I know your playing with my infatuation.
Your hips turn back and deny me,
once more,
and the dew of your hand toils to
moisturize the vapidity of your melancholy.
We get back to the harbor that punishes my presbyopia,
to the lethargic and lazy light,
to the chaste and complicit companions,
to the excuse we pretend to be of use for us,
which makes us confront each other again
with a thread of eyesights.
And you forget your dwarf victory,
which perhaps has represented
a vengeance to you,
and which has starched your shirt
thus straightening your back.
And I disguise as a translator
of my own doubt,
which turns into sweat
trapped among my limbs,
with my shoulders sniffing
my tired knees,
and my hand looking for the same doss,
because they tremble
with the lymph of desire.
