the solitude of the city



maru delgado



VIVIANE

Viviane, the night approaches with half notes, cutting the hymens of the flowers and radios. You have learnt to entangle yourself in the moon’s ghosts, getting your temples naked to tide them to your fingernails. Your soul is rotten Viviane, and your body is used. The shape that follows you is a thunder that leaves emptiness in mortals’ brains. On a spinal bed that is nothing but your desiccated vomit.

The night approaches and crushes against your wall of impossibilities.

ADRÉE

I translate your eyes in the shade of my drained legs and sometimes, it seems that we are the same race at the time when your eyelids crawl on the earth’s plagues to entertain your senses… I have learnt to love you where the perverse hides the reflection of your cruel nails, the pale gold of your chest and the architecture of your armpits. I believe that you are, with heaviness, the evocation of a voluptuous time that stops above your steps and sometimes, you are also the sides of my breasts and my brain/ a completely blank canvas.


I.

The sanity of the stop light reminds me how impossible your seriousness was


The solitude of the city
cannot fit in the mouth of the most beautiful bird

II.

I am to tell you
about the secret fear I keep in my right pocket
It was easy for me to guess how old a flower was
by counting the dead butterflies lying around it

            WE ARE TALKING ABOUT THE PAIN

III.

I remember
the discreet laugh of your door
and my shoes carrying the day in my heart



            they used to smell like mornings

IV.

You came like bad news comes
with the wind all around you
reflecting all the diseases

Built from vertigo
you move around the avenues
seeking trees to devour

V.

Come
let’s invade the night’s reflection
that can only be opened
at the hour of the bodies


LUCIDITÉ

The smell of your nape
is the delicate art of vice
hidden under the bed
like evident oblivion of your brief spasms
like the instincts that stop the mornings
and reduce them to an hourglass that never stops
to help the screams of your pleasure

a reptile now slowly moves under my mutilated shadow

RESCUE

Half Maria wakes up with the desire to satisfy
the broken hymens of the moon
the gravity, hurt to death, ties my dreams

Thanathos,

            You burn me

FIFTY PILLS

Explaining the rebellion is entering to an old land
taken by birds
imprisoned in time
where the masks are born on the dawn’s sharp edge

Your feet… loving my absence
and I, inside, in a hole, drinking

The longing for the tremor of your prayers
cover me with the invisibility of a glass drunk on rum
with the wind seducing my throat
I W A K E U P

            Like a gift from the fear.

FIFTH LETTER

I have found you in the second movement of Chopin’s Cello Sonata. Gregor Piatigorsky was playing for the moon and made it stop orbiting. Then, I became a beast, a man, a little girl. And now I am the illusion condemned to the mortality of your moves. And I will always be reborn every evening as a mute lightning, in the middle of immortal empty pages. I am like a chalk piece, dissolved sweetly under rainwater. If I could only find Joan of Arc’s bonfire… every hour, every minute, every second. I would reinvent her eyelashes– fire- to find myself in her dreams and perhaps travel around her ideas and see my figure in her thoughts, in the rotation of her footprints’ diseases.

BETTER LIGHT

The storm of the blinded ones has started an immortal dance. There are parts of children hanging onto forgotten kites, on the street lamps of August. Five scrolls open their wings to reclaim the son that we have murdered… and you feel how my bones burn on the moons of a decapitated Jupiter. In the ashes of Hope, who has opened her legs three times to feed her poems, I have reached the smoke stuck in your chest and I have heard the scream of snakes, I have known your belly that holds worms, and your books that are kept safe in the dark side of the moon. I know that you fight Aphrodite in the afternoons waiting to the nothing devours you with its beauty.

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fragmentos

the continuation of utopias