Sometimes I look at her as a pornographer would,
Studying the angle of the light sliced by the shutters
Drawing patterns of desire upon her perfect skin.
And I start picturing her on an art-deco stage,
Gymnastic movements in the perfumed ether,
The thighs that end where the cauldron of life begins
Opening to the focused lenses of my eyes,
Rhythmic close-ups of the reverenced dance of breasts,
Babylonian woman in denim moaning on cotton sheets.
And these are the moments when I renounce death,
The gutters heavy with rains from a thousand storms
Shout out her name on a thousand different languages.
And I wait on the street just before dawn reveals her,
The orgasmic sun remembered again, sighing in relief.
I can’t write anything that could compare to this.
Studying the angle of the light sliced by the shutters
Drawing patterns of desire upon her perfect skin.
And I start picturing her on an art-deco stage,
Gymnastic movements in the perfumed ether,
The thighs that end where the cauldron of life begins
Opening to the focused lenses of my eyes,
Rhythmic close-ups of the reverenced dance of breasts,
Babylonian woman in denim moaning on cotton sheets.
And these are the moments when I renounce death,
The gutters heavy with rains from a thousand storms
Shout out her name on a thousand different languages.
And I wait on the street just before dawn reveals her,
The orgasmic sun remembered again, sighing in relief.
I can’t write anything that could compare to this.
© 2017 Luiz Canha Machado
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