It’s Summer in the Heart of my Blizzard
The rain that hangs on the coat rack is infinite
and light, like old foreskin
dripping its resentful flaccidity.
It is the anonymous principle of time
impregnated by stupid angels,
a fury of orphans and forgetfulness
that does not
Summer afternoons do not know
how to get down on their knees.
There is always a genital murmur in them
and an obstinate propensity to sleep.
Weight scale that balances the nostalgia of things,
scissors of light for the umbilical cord of the stars.
Summer is vihuela,
rotating stars and vihuela.
Siren Tamer, summer counts
It evokes cut nipples,
conch shells, pupils,
angelic and exquisite tortures.
I, immersed in the depths of the ink,
just listen, like one listens
to an impertinent drunk.