Instead of Smiles

Instead of Smiles

We all have specks of hate

gilding blue our day

in our bed of magnolias,

flecks macerating juices,

framing

cheerful blooms, its leisurely fruit.

What seas, what tempestuous depths

beat against our chest?

Instead of smiles,

they open claws and fangs.

The sea raises

and its roar stirs celibate waters

with hatred. Behind it

comes another wave, another ferment,

another secret

giving you more of its hate.

The studded tower rises

like an emergency,

it is a monument of unbridled fury.

When we feel the smell of burning flesh

there's such a deep cry, a mask on fire

ignites our words. 

We all have a lethal spear in our tongue,

because where there was warm blood,

explosive blooming bones, bones without woodworms,

doggedly, hate grows,

its tongue scalded by

the atrocious vinegar of meaninglessness.

And our hearts, made to house love,

thrash our muscles,

pump the desperate juices of anger.

When our index finger stirs

and points with fire,

when it prints in the air its mark of disgust,

when fully erect phalanx by phalanx,

what a rain of reproaches.

The gesture, the expression,

the accusative finger,

and the nail.

Oh! The nail,

a buckler hamstring kneeling on his chest.

We all have something to reproach the world,

its inaccurate portion of pleasure and melancholy,

its unhurried, vexatious, virtue

of being beyond,

elsewhere,

while we are with hands clasped close to the rumble air

of disappointment,

and of course, its circumstances of

edge, extreme lassitude, blind abyss, its

inappropriateness, and all its hastes.

Somewhere in our body

there is an alarm, an alert thermostat

sending pulsations, something that says:

NOW!