Dinner at Minski´s.
She put her hand under the table on my thigh,
still looking in front of her, talking to someone opposite,
I didn't know him.
the burnt meat of an Ethiopian tiger on plates,
we both observe ourselves in the attitude of Aphrodite,
We watch the sweet asses are presented to the golden rain
I will use seven or eight tablespoons
servants bring on polished trays swallowing in Italian.
She put her hand under the top floor narrowing it down,
it was a penguin's claw slowly sliding it inside,
a salivating search inside the chest pressed against the lungs
She ran over the ribs, the grooves of her spine
it vibrated between a fan of air bubbles
there was nothing
suddenly, buch buch buch
not mine came up in the sky,
emerged from a hole in the moon from the veins of blood spewing blood,
stripes of earth in shades of steamed sweater
the clay grave is an indifferent time around
it just fails,
pieces of green flag torn in the morning
walled together in a narrow dream of exorcising the devil
Minski is coming.
Opens his mouth bites pieces of torso ,
asks what it is time ?
impersonal connection caress leaning against the metal wall of the toilet
She withdrew her soaked hand I opened my mouth
let everything be scanned,
that real sorrow deep down when it then rushes to the surface tears you to pieces,
feast of worms in the endless footsteps of the goddess of war,
the squeal of little pigs somewhere in the distance
under the sky obsessed with the farting of thunder.
And she covered my eyes with the same palm,
I was just another run
for dinner at Minski´s.
/from ,,Dinner at Minski´s and other poems ", 2016/