EMBLEMATIC FESTIVAL OF ECUADOR
GLADYS MENDÍA (Maracay, Venezuela, 1975)
THE DEFORMATION OF HUMAN MATERIAL IN THE TUNNEL
a real world melts running
USE SEAT BELT
one of the fictional worlds burns cold
there is no judgment
no guide
no threat
no help
you think you choose
the only omnipresent
is the manipulation of the signals
HEIGHT MAX. 2.3
time for the bats
is the anesthetic distraction in the tunnel
CONSOLIDATED PATH
they treat us as concepts
with delicate symmetry they teach to let go
RESPECT THE SIGNALS AVOID ACCIDENTS
they say you don't enter the same tunnel twice
as if one were the same always
TOURIST INFORMATION
immortality remains to be promised
and sell it in capsules
ROAD UNDER CONSTRUCTION
the signs are everywhere that can be seen
as if they help
as if they said something
KEEP YOUR DISTANCE
MR. DRIVER DRIVE DEFENSIVE
MARÍA EUGENIA LÓPEZ (La Plata, Argentina, 1977)
I
One separates the flowers from her hair and loses droplets of blood from her crotch. On my knees I watch how they fall, slow. My girl is afraid of bleeding and not bleeding. That is why I bathe it in olive, pouring the oil from above. Sometimes the orange blossom water drips. One spreads my legs and tears fall. Lying down, watch how they fall, slow. Sweet little girl. He puts his hands to his mouth after touching his lips. And he tells me that French only has two words. Heh t ', Una, heh t'. Puppet, little butterfly. All heart and tears. Everything is the same for me. I watch over you how you get pieces of paper out of an open granadilla. A word will touch you and it will be water.
MARIO Z. PUGLISI (Guadalajara, Mexico, 1980)
THE DRIVE TO PLAY IT ALL
Rest here, on me the impulse to touch everything,
to fill my vocal chords with scrolls,
to fill me with lakes confused between rocks,
of feeling the inaccessible, blow by blow of the foreign drop,
to enter the seas as curved and rusty seagulls do;
it is the only impulse to take a fist of earth into oblivion,
to touch naked the absence of love of our parents,
of accepting everything, in silence, every time that grief inhabits us.
Something in me knows so small, so finite
so geometric, synodic and urged to jump over chasms.
Something in me hurts, something that covers me all
and when he turns he says to me when he sees me: nobody.
The distance between words and words
is the correct equation that solves mazes,
for our folly of extensive caesura
in the verses that reveal the margins of our dreams.
My arms travel with their circular desire over the meadows
wanting to reap every surprise in grain,
the wonders that remain waiting in our footsteps,
and then they get up
when they feel treacherous mountains and mountains
stumbling on the heights and on the crucifixes
wanting to become owners of everything.
Because there is no song that does not perish in cold dawns
I feel the urge to sing them all
to tear them with my light teeth,
to live the wait sheltered by bushes and brandy.
The impulse to touch everything resides in me, on him here,
to empty into my pockets the old and exhausted,
walk all the streets of other people's history,
to encrypt the indecipherable, drop by drop, in the blow of a passing night
to map every gap where the wind has left their farms;
it is the only impulse to dwell in the dust and stay clean,
to take what sleeps in the reach of my hands,
of assuming that nothing changes, only the routes that make each moment
a new beginning.
Something in me is afraid of autumns
it is scarce, peripheral and cowardly as a fleeing train.
Something in me has not yet fully awakened, lives to sleep
and when I turn he says between sighs: nothing.
Terror is that force that generates the fall of bridges,
it is just what is necessary to get closer to science,
trying to win back the volcanoes
in the treaty that men make with their ancestors.
My eyes rush through these fields
wanting to inventory colors and reflections in the iris,
the impact of the sidereal networks on the forehead,
and then they lament
when they see the butterflies lose the war against the dry leaves,
tripping over truck crops
wanting to hold on to the last stained glass windows.
Rest here, on me the impulse to touch everything,
to paint the transparent walls,
and write poems long as time
the one in which the laws prevented me from writing them.
Point
VALERIA MEILLER (Blue, Argentina, 1985)
WATERY
*
During a flood, the strongest
they meet up in a tree.
With water everywhere, the family on the roof.
Make a boat out of the bed leg. A sheet candle.
The first solution is to climb. Transparent,
parents, grandparents and pregnancies.
The kids on the roof sucking
their ration of bone they ask
Where will the sun be? And they phosphoresce.
Others flourish as well. Transparent children are born in the rain.
The midwife swimming
assists mothers without providing. A dog follows her.
The youngest stick out their tongues and drink the rain.
Many drops is male, so they choose a name.
*
After a week of rain, a head
it is yellow rennet. Twenty heads, a sulfur mine.
Sour milk sadness makes you cry
not even swallowing a bone is going to save the shine.
LUIS AGUILAR (Altamirano, Mexico, 1969)
TOUCH
Glare that goes astray, barely
Gone among the gone, a man
it's a hesitant second
Absorbed in the little touch:
Eyes on yours
Any life that goes on forever
even if it fails to register memory
VIRNA TEIXEIRA (Fortaleza, Brazil, 1971)
MEMORY LOST
Thirtieth Floor: See the city at night. Deletion of files, memories. Some were twisted in thought like the building, with Gothic windows. Captivity. Cinema Voltaire.
On the windowsill, an orchid. Isolated against twilight, violet. The erased outline of the buildings.
A sunny day. Couples stroll in the park. They walk among geese. Children play in the sandy pond.
Hippocampus, strangeness of images. Corners, forks. As if I had never, so many times, walked there.
Translation: Jair Cortés and Berenice Huerta
RENÉ SILVA CATALÁN (Santiago de Chile, Chile, 1971)
BACK
Inside me in the unpublished strange,
an angel root had no watering
Humberto Diaz Casanueva
I come from your death
like a telegram
I wield the chuzo
the wandering gut
your lame worm
The row is stained I feel
in a night nettle
I overturn my heart
I'm back
With wings tone to shadow
I bust the geometry in a scream
your window feels
in a puddle of air
morsels of the wind drink earth
on a paper echo
fuzzy
like the dust lost on the roof.
LIYANIS GONZÁLEZ PADRÓN (Pinar del Río, Cuba, 1971)
KONSTANTIN KAVAFIS
Spectral poet
You sink into my dream
drawing a circle on the page
LUIS ALBERTO ARELLANO (Querétaro, Mexico, 1976)
HERESY MANUAL
Dies on August 28, 430
being the city under siege
since June by the vandals
by Genserico
Aurelius Agustinus of Hippo
Lord of excesses and tongue of sand
So many tears Augustine kept for God
So many voices left to hear who confesses after all
who has suffered, that the meat
it has been pleasant to him and the spirit does not regret its defeat
That Augustine god overcame years later
Genseric
to Manichean
the Cathars and their purity
Augustine received his doctorate in churches
but he still has nights when he remembers black women
skirts that sinning
they made him holy
ÓSCAR SAAVEDRA VILLARROEL (Santiago de Chile, Chile, 1976)
[It is that all the muscles of my heart are detonated. And I have to say so many so many things, and this Ethos is born, reborn, damn it!]
How he touches his daughter, how his country lowers him,
how he climbs its mountains, how he rides the
wild northern horse, how he wets his
earth, how the serpent lifts and violates its
seas, how she says daddy enough, how she says
homeland instead of daddy, how do you say in your ear
his wicked anthem, how his flag flies
dry in bed, how he injects anima into his
ghosts, how your hymen breaks
mountain range, how the city listens to this coprophagy,
how the poison is taken from its rivers,
how it gives the poison of its rivers to drink.
Look at what offspring, look at what type that is,
look how now he is touching his daughter again,
how his country brings him down again, how a machitún makes him
to his conscience, to his lakes, to his Ganges.
See how he does it, how he does it.
How she says homeland instead of daddy, and how daddy claims to be his homeland.
RODRIGO MORALES (Santiago de Chile, Chile, 1980)
THE DIVER
The glass fabrics hang from the sky and it is as if hunger does not exist on top of this boat you are left looking at me as if I were a provincial cinema luminary or a small accordion abandoned in a corridor I know it hurts to lick the winter when I tell you take care I do not want you to give up like those birds that only seek a temperate place those schizophrenic birds with psychotic song in the word heaven I walk through the little sea house making gestures that I will forget in a couple of minutes while you braid a girl the clouds indicate a certain type of tragedy such as slamming a window or breaking a wave near those girls in paradise sea lilies sail cramped eyes that are drawn barefoot among the algae while I dance in a small raft that nails its rosary in the seas of the air but life is nothing more than a puppet show that is later left abandoned in a fourth an amancay adorns the blouse of a girl about to speak while the cholgas are heard opening in the fire someone declares himself to one side of the garden here there are no gardens but the words are heard passing mute through the desert I think of simple things a butterfly black perched on a fox's ear butterflies that go to the sea and then die behind the waves the sun is disfigured in the mouth of a purple fish among the rocks the cacti small christs of the place they see the dead fish pass towards the town I wake up under water crucified in the desert when there in the dim light of the distance a man like me cries out for defeat and presents himself
ROY DÁVATOC (Jaén, Peru, 1981)
Denials
I've never received a love letter
completed a crossword puzzle, or made rings
with cigarette smoke
I have never understood questions of optics
neither pastry nor navigation
But I imagine there is a point where the water loses
its unnatural consistency and becomes a torrent
in black space
I mean:
I could have a coffee right now
and die moderately
MARCELA SALDAÑO (Santiago de Chile, Chile, 1981)
INSISTENCES
I
I insist on the exquisiteness of the cut flower Inside the parks On the furniture Inside the clothes On the cables and the telephones Inside the secret fibers or life that which you call that way Subordination The coffin inside the eye Inside the foot of the sound Of the laughter and the hidden beasts twenty years in my dress From here the country of fear that rebels
II
I insist on disappearance In time On leaves and springs On the shattered door and on my friends I insist on my songs Dark holes inadequate to my desire I insist on everything except smells and pure forms I insist on the macabre In the obscene Obscene correspondence with a European genius
III
I insist on your face wolf's mouth In your never inappropriate hole In the clearly alcoholic beasts to which we indulge At the sound of the grate below The busy telephone many consecutive nights and I here waiting Looking at you like a snake waits for a cat That cat that contours and kisses this neck that looks like fish And you meow and urinate on my forehead You scream and I just hide my teeth and my poison This abundant but harmless poison A thick mouth poison That poison that I just want to stay in here throbbing
FERNANDO VARGAS VALENCIA (Bogotá, Colombia, 1984)
WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD
You know by heart
that anguish is a prize.
Too bad that sometimes we get lost
the lottery ticket.
You know that every chair promises absences,
that no absence promises chairs.
And you rage like the city is to blame.
As if the chairs and absences were to blame.
As if you were to blame.
You know, and not from memory,
more for stubbornness,
for wanting to be an invented animal,
that pain becomes destiny
when you want to make the sky
a break up.
EDEL MORALES (Cabaiguán, Cuba, 1961)
STREET G. 1982
One night we were splitting almonds on G.
It was after 12 and you and that skirt with white flowers
they seemed like eternity.
I stopped for a moment to contemplate the light
and the passage of cars through Havana in 1982.
Everything was so simple.
The old blessed sea in front of the statue of Calixto García.
Your face advancing in the semiclarity of the pines.
The stroke with which my hand searched the red intimacy of the almond.
Everything was so simple
like the life of the water that slips through the fingers.
No one was to come.
We weren't expecting anyone.
I stopped for a moment to contemplate the light
and the passage of cars through Havana in 1982.
You and that skirt with white flowers
they seemed like eternity.
CINZIA MARULLI (Rome, Italy, 1965)
REGARDS
Do you remember mom
coffee at four in the morning
when the darkness still penetrated
in the bones?
Some rags on top
the old black coat and shawl
around the head
and then dad and you
down the street of the triton walking
in silence, side by side
lower your head and sleep in your eyes
the usual office
the same things to clean
with your knees on the polished floorboards
and holy hands in the toilets
I, on the other hand, still at home
with the books on my knees
and then to school to destroy the dirty rags of misery.
SALVATORE RITROVATO (San Giovanni Rotondo, Italy, 1967)
YES
September 11 came five years later.
Sitting in an armchair, in front of the television.
Sitting listening to the words
of the last witnesses who have returned
to look for the angel who has saved them.
Sitting alone, waiting. No evidence.
Today it seems that there are no planes falling on the houses.
The maid looks dumbfounded at the two returning towers
five years later to shine in the picture
and they fall again, it's not a mistake
I explain, it is not an American movie,
it has not happened today. I did not know anything.
The afternoon, the day that the world had changed
I collapse on the couch out of breath.
Late perhaps, but I only understood
five years later.
It was a tremendous western question
the hardest day for everyone:
convince yourself that something would change
later. Being afraid of him, for example,
to the world, every day.
And tell it on television.
Believe in capillary controls,
in peace, in the waiting rooms.
In a hidden and distant god.
Wait for the din.
One month after that September 11
I said yes.
Get married in February. An ideal month,
cold and short. Would pass
unnoticed in Venice without carnival.
Yes. Have a welcoming family.
Children, mortgage, single account.
Life insurance. A slight
rush every morning, hoarse voice.
And then the sermons of the pedagogues
and from pediatricians, the prescription from dentists.
And one day I'll have a lighter urn.
Now it's easy to end up in ash and rubble.
I tremble at the thought of going down stairs
and stairs before I dissolve that day
like that September 11
at work or on vacation.
Staying in the crack of a building
of glass and papier-mâché that crumbles,
burned, pulverized.
Like an air gap, hungry rust.
In front of a tiny city.
looking for another higher wall
protected, and spurs, and flies
Where planes can't fall
Should not. But it is not easy.
GABRIELA CANTÚ WESTENDARP (Monterrey, Mexico, 1972)
As if I don't speak enough during the day they say
that I talk while I sleep, and I think they tell the truth.
Last night my own voice woke me up as if it were that of
someone else. It seems that some of my nightly phrases
have to do with dates and names, but sometimes
I also curse, that is, I say high-sounding words, words
that said in broad daylight and in full consciousness
they would worry. They claim that only 5% of adults suffer from
of somniloquia - scientific word that refers to speaking
while sleeping. They also ensure that in those recitations
real and fantastic elements are mixed. It is true that I suffer
certain sleep disorders and that sometimes I wish I could sleep
three or four days in a row without any interruption; and although I am
certain that this is far from happening I do not lose hope.
GABRIEL CHÁVEZ CASAZOLA (Sucre, Bolivia, 1972)
NIGHT FLIGHT / POETIC ART 1
That light that goes out
it is not an empire
not a firefly.
Antoine knew it, he knew it flying over Patagonia.
That light that goes out is a house that stops making its gesture
to the rest of the world,
a mansion
—A humble mansion if anything fits: all the houses of man
they are a mansion, all the mansions of man a cabin—
a mansion, said Antoine, that closes on his love. Or about his boredom.
A flickering light to which
-Cold to heat-
some peasants gathered
they hold on
castaways balancing a match
before the immensity
from a desert island.
RAÚL HERNÁNDEZ (Santiago de Chile, Chile, 1980)
DRIZZLE
There is a shadow chased away by the dogs.
There are fish dying in the deserted basket.
And nothing suggests that this morning
the faces of the sidewalks will continue to be illuminated.
You exist like leafless fog of public squares
you warm the air with your hidden transit.
From the windows of the schools
they see you appear like the stranger who interrupts the class
between a student and thought
between the clear word and destiny
through the layer of torpor and desire.
There is a shadow chased away by the dogs
nothing simplifies the eyes of the drizzle
and without looking back
the walker wanders swearing illusion.
A limited meaning of winter
from a corner of the road.
CAROLINA DÁVILA (Bogotá, Colombia, 1982)
NO OTHER WATERS PENETRATE WITH THE RAIN
I would love that woman who wanders
through a desert of frozen nights
while rumors of some port reach him
but they don't break their silence
nor do they soften the grooves
that the pain traced on his face
I would love her because she does not bend
because other waters do not penetrate with the rain
because his body opens there
where spring is not enough
ÁNGELA SUAREZ T. (Duitama, Colombia, 1982)
BEDROOMS
I list wrappers
of clandestine sweets.
I order superfluous papers,
picturesque.
Conspiracy
against the fractal collection of your silences,
Against your strange fear of knotting yourself
Against your little abstract window
and unfinished.
ISTVÁN TURCZI (Budapest, Hungary, 1957)
SIX VERSE POEM ON HISTORY
(Hatsoros will see történelemről)
Christs, kings, ideologues
and tyrants transfigured in other battles,
like corroded plastic jars
they fly together towards the Great Exit,
until eternal peace comes,
even worse than any war.
BALÁZS F. ATTILA (Targu Mures, Romania, 1954)
BIRTH OF CASANOVA
"Handsome boy" observed the midwives, placing the baby on his mother's chest as he struggled to free his throat from the pain of the universe.
So he continued after a short sleep when, drawn from the red marble sink, he was vigorously deposited in the dressing room. And much later, after passing into the arms of his father.
"My son" - lifted him up in the air; then, not calming down, he handed him over to an attractive aunt. What a miracle: the little boy stopped crying in the woman's soft arms.
"Look at this!" his father muttered under the mustache, uncorking and pouring the champagne. "For young Casanova!"
The newborn did not seem to share the family joy. The party held in his honor took place without his participation
On the way to church, before putting his son in the arms of his godparents, old Casanova prayed to God. He asked that his son be filled with all the repressed dreams and desires that he could not achieve: to love women with the courage, determination and opportunity that he had never had.
And the Lord, who was in a good mood, heard her prayer. The adolescent Casanova stroked shy but provocative girls without limitation; From his hiding place, he saw his parents make love, bathe his aunt and his cousins together. He trained his cock so that it was almost always proudly straight. She quickly learned the secrets of the bed from her maid, who knew all the resources. Then they came, one after another: the governess, the butcher's widows and the coachman, the housekeeper's daughter, the grocer's granddaughter, and after them hundreds and hundreds more.
He fornicated until the end of his days, enjoying the arms and breasts of beautiful girls and women, just as his father had invoked.
But when his child was born, Casanova asked God to bless him with a boring marriage and a mediocre life.
And the good Lord heeded her request.
ADNAN AL-SAYEGH (Bufa, Iraq, 1955)
POEMS OF THE RAIN
* *
Oh! Rain…
stay in the streets rebelling
like cats and children
stay in the crystals shining
gliding like the goats of light
and do not enter the coats of the rich
nor in the stores
fearing to contaminate your white hands
with the money.
* *
Oh rain!
Oh! The letters that go from the sky to the fields
show me how the flower of the poem opens
of the speech stones.
* *
When the rain dies
the fields will fire their coffin
just the tiny cactus
will laugh in the deserts
disappointed in the weeping of the trees.
Translated by:
Muhisin Al - Ramly
Azucena del Rio
MOHAMMAD HUDAIB (Jericho, Palestine, 1965)
EIGHT FIFTEEN
Love for this morning
is finding your shaving brush
next to the machine
and realize for a moment
that you are opening the window all the way.
Love is a battle of sheets
during which you realize for a moment
that you are captivated by a stain
on a woman's hip.
Divine drawing of the flower of fire, it is the stain.
PAULO FERRAZ (Rondonópolis, Brazil, 1974)
ONLY THE IMPOSSIBLE IS IMPOSSIBLE
Let me read your luck. Barely me
I realized and I already had the hand of
the old woman clinging to mine. Hand
beautiful, old , less gypsy
that begs. fine skin,
but those lines. What me
he said later he was lost
in pollution; my mind
stirred, to save
his palmistry, the garbage can;
later, done the chore, [12]
deciphered: good fortune
of your there are superimposed
a shrill siren sounds
cia, your uniqueness
maybe it 's in your destiny
(I think the correct translation
would be: your fatality ).
Eat this ream, eat
This ream, this ream feeds
your belly and fill the intestines,
you may be indigestible.
Will be. Then choose how [24]
the letters will come out of your body
written on every page.
Until recently I was mute,
happy and dumb, ignorant and
dumb, why dumb my
way of living in the world?
It would be better to be still
in a corner, be one of those
CARLOS AGUASACO (Bogotá, Colombia, 1975)
NEW YORK
This world is by definition contempt and arrogance.
Gesture of disgust and the disgust of men shoulder to shoulder
Sitting on the train.
Fixed gaze that crosses over you at the midpoint
And in you it dissipates into a turban-shaped arabesque.
This world is not your world and it is.
The city is there to be taken
The city is there to splurge
To give contempt, to be a reflection of man and man
To remember that always, no matter where you look,
The heat of a lens shelters you with obscene discretion
Of who without looking at you observes you.
It would be necessary to kill John Lenon and face sarcasm
To smile at the camera so that she denounces you
In the headlines for ten continuous years without paying you a penny.
Laugh like crazy and stink of money
Stink like crazy and laugh at money.
New York, it's not me you greet
With your torch lit in the Atlantic.
NAJWAN DARWISH (Jerusalem, Palestine, 1978)
JERUSALEM
If I abandon you around in stone
if I return to you I turn a stone
I call you Medusa
I call you older sister of Sodom and Gomorrah
your baptismal font that made Rome burn
The rumor of the murdered his poems in the hills
the rebels censor their chroniclers
meanwhile I leave the sea and come back
I come back to you
through this stream where your despair runs
I listen to the reciters of the Koran the shrouds the corpses
I hear the dust of those who grieve
I'm not thirty yet but you've buried me time and time again
and again because of you
I emerge from the ground
let those who pray for you go to hell
who sell souvenirs of your pain
those who are standing with me in the photographs
I call you Medusa
I call you older sister of Sodom and Gomorrah
your baptismal font that still burns
FAKHRI RATROUT (Zarqa, Al-Zarq, Palestine, 1972)
THINGS I MISS
Tonight I miss many things:
That I hold the perfume that I lost
from a woman long ago
May god be my friend
That sadness does not attack me
Let it be me this afternoon
That I never think again that I am the hell of God
with which the disobeyed world punishes
That crazy people fall asleep in their cells inside me
Let no one die at the end of the night
May the mirror show me my false face
That I hear the whistle of a cricket
That my brain is not the dinner of the world
That the world does not undress in front of me
That the moon does not see blood shed at night
That my scared curtains fall asleep
That I do not die this afternoon
Don't let the blue elephant crush me
Let no one ask me:
What is the blue elephant?
AHMED AL-SHAHAWI (Damietta, Egypt, 1960)
THIS IS MY TOMB
هكذا قبري
I want to be buried alone.
No one before, no one after me.
That they wrap me in a linen shroud
Like an old egyptian sage
And let my face look up to the sky
I want to take my perfumes with me
And my toothbrush
And the poems that he hadn't recited yet
And the books that I didn't read
So as not to go out naked in the city
Give me papers and pencils
So that the grave does not strangle my dreams
Let two mulberry trees appear over my name
I would like to choose from the book of Allah the azora "Lee"
And the verse: "We have not taught him poetry"
For the two to be witnesses
And let them write my name in Persian calligraphy
And with Arabic characters.
Just as Allah likes to see a poet like me.
There would be no such thing as what prohibits fruits and women
Because paradise may not be under my feet.
FERNANDO CAZÓN VERA (Quito, Ecuador, 1935)
THE OBESE COW
The obese cow
does not contemplate the rose
nor cry in the storm.
When the field matures
look at the loneliness of your land
and on the distant moon
believe find the horns
of his archangelic bull.
The obese cow
he has to die one day for us.
SONIA MANZANO (Guayaquil, Ecuador, 1948)
THE PROMISE
If one day both of my hands are seized,
if they seize the goldfinches from my tongue,
if they raid my garlic garden
the flocks of pecking crows.
If they break the glass in my eyes
to accept the crystal of resignations,
if they tie me to the leg of silence
to scratch my soul:
bound, gagged, stripped of the neck,
with no other option in hope,
it would bruise the anguish,
hit me with the punching wind
until leaving with the most eternal arms
through the open seams of the night.
MARITZA CINO ALVEAR (Guayaquil, Ecuador, 1957)
UNFAITHFUL IN THE SHADOW
At that time
I got involved with nothing
I put off the words
I divorced my sex.
God was waiting for me
in a place on your skin.
Hidden in his tunic,
with earthly mysticism
I rewrote the gospel.
SIOMARA SPAIN (Manabí, Ecuador, 1976)
THE WOMAN WHO LOVED MEN
I love men
He said
beings without forgiveness
no tongue or sign
I love the stubbornness of their banal indecencies
his hands that twist sanity
and drag the spoils of their forbidden love into the abyss
those who praise each other in the night of hymen
as they lie in the clutches of doubt
and in the high tangle of desire
erect and violent
they drag their exquisite fury to the den of feasts
while wrapping
how you throw
like braids
his paleolithic fingers
in the waves of the last body
He said
But I love the cleverly androgynous more
I love his slim hands of a writer or artist
unable to wield their own name
because they dream of being called
Paris, Alejandro, Lucifer or Antonio
He said
I also love the straightened voice
that rides the harmony of my name
He said
and I bow a hundred times like an indecipherable fool
before the most sinister of men
that with a reversed and gleaming tongue
take me to the ear
ordinary and wicked
holy stupid things that I believe
