Rough a night
And a friend not in luck,
Laid my table tonight.
The moon is my pillow
And you, girl, my grave have been in time.
You all invite me in a dance
Where music is amiss,
With slow, slow turns,
With me staring at my birthplace
Or at my withdrawn masturbation,
Blind,
As a whelp twisted within the mantle
Of silence,
Within the mantle of the mute dream,
Within the mantle of your deafening
Beauty.
No matter what I drink,
All is so aged,
Even the effects
And the warped moon over the attic.
My unlucky friend talks cocaine to me.
I approve him, as if a suffering soldier,
Whom he never suffered yet.
I can’t do more than this;
If not to offer my own nose,
Spartan as Pinocchio,
Frail as the cow moo
Or that of a donkey, I can’t quite remember…
The table remains untouched
And the luckless friend the night’s corner
Tows over it,
As one does with a mantle of yore.
You ask me to shut off the moon.
I hang my screams in the sky
And now voiceless
Warm myself at your sorrowful grave,
Wrapped with night and earth,
Lulled in the dream of a
Day pregnant by my longing
For you.
