Friday, December 25

this. this, looking

The photographs that circulate
Hiding and coming from beneath,
Showing nothing for symmetry.
See that mosquito,
Floating a few intransmissible seconds
Against the rectangular colour of light,
He will find his way.
That bastard,
Tasting my blood in a minute I am sure.

And swallowing that glutton’s shadow
Lying in a room naked,
Watching your bodies rise after a long time
Eavesdropping on the movements behind that door,
You imagine yourself in an orgy
Or the king beckoning his prize for sex,
Then the sounds do not call out.
How these fucking myths live.
My fantasies bear no mention in my will.
That silence is an empty wooden jewel box,
I carry wealthy shit around,