terça-feira, 3 de fevereiro de 2015


There’s nothing left;
the filthy floor,
rubber bands, lemon
juice and a bunch of
burnt spoons.
I find my way through
the doorsteps and
cuddle with this warworn
pillow. the blankets
have never been tidy, I know;
but so doesn’t my heart.  the
dilapidated eye of god is the
thorn under my chin; acres of
silence and a shallow well; 
should I be good?
[The loveliness of the question mark,
 like the fragmented body of  a muse]. 
I hold my mouth; stop my hands
from moving around your neck;
my lips from blossoming
a whole new way of kissing.
I draw a tree with a bird
and swallow the smoke
of the last cigarette.
a wildfowl dances
under the double-edged
knife I keep inside
my left lung; a flute
which is not meant to be
played. an abandoned
factory of bauble.

Tonight I disappear;

and Chopin goes on
playing as if he knew
I was supposed to.
as he had predicted
the uselessness of my
soul and body for love

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