What I know, the beggars know.
in the fine noses of shamans,
on the railway tracks
and on the bridge of my city they choose
kidnap princesses commit suicides.
This is the one who doesn’t have it
secrets
no shame
neither famous translator nor poems
with tender language and content.
In front of the cave of the Sun I dance
every day
and the Sun comes out curious from the noise,
burning my face and making me bleed.
This is the one who doesn’t have it
secrets
no shame.
They are already used to it
men with my comic ways
and they applaud my grace,
my slight agony.
Dancing until the night falls.
Where the night names my faults,
my shameful suburban street.
Actress Gloria Swanson photographed by Edward Steichen
L.D.
Gloria Swanson’s eyes
as if in 1924 there was
satanic drinkers and honey thieves.
I can’t find the word
May he manage to give me back my satin shoes
that I gave him
if I walked barefoot
for your house,
if I revealed myself
in their rooms.
It’s my impossible love
since I loved boats devastated by wolves,
since I dressed to lose at once
innocence,
and with my love that refuses opportunities
find a love
civilized,
for example: this young man who sculpts trifles,
for example: strabismus
ATM
who spends his afternoons reading The Necklace
from La Paloma,
with so much love I dream of him
every night
and he comes into my bed
without authorization.
That’s how I like it the most,
goodbye and bending
my scruples
