The stranger’s voice is broken
by the ice and he heads for a sinister place
probably that enormous store,
where girls are auctioned off,
at this time of the unpredictable moon
and faces marked with red ochre.
Whilst the charade lasts he dresses like them
because lying to life doesn’t matter,
nor robbing from oblivion ignored thighs
with no love and with fury.
He more than knows now the cold plaster
that takes the place of the laughing and lips
redder than blood,
but never his.
His love wants kindness not to keep
more days in its pockets like today.
A man who is strangely alone
who drags behind him the inert body
of Betty, the sweetest little whore
Parque de Ferrera
It is truly soft
the grass so that right here
the dogs can devour the throat
of girls under the unveiled light
of the moon.
And if not, drunks will come
to slow down with their song the hunting,
to burn with their fingers
the great barbarity.
A man smokes and watches over all this,
his face was lit up for a moment
as the embers burn.
That is me
a long time ago
scribbling things in his blotter.
It starts to get cold
but now I don’t even feel it,
at dawn he misses the traveller
who now yawns and sneezes.