Tuesday, March 29, 2016

He’s there, hidden in his rooms

He’s there, hidden in his rooms.
I know his prehistoric gestures
the beauty of his furniture
the perfume floating on his couch.
His anger
occasionally shatters some of the porcelain
ferrets around the red flowers
nervously crinkling them.
Their beauty provoke him.
He rips and throws them away.
Canopies fall on the bed.
He parades feverishly around the rooms
Nothing satiates him.
He lights up the fireplace
admonishes the maid
and ultimately frightening, with trembling snout,
he throws himself on the sofa.
Opens his legs
caresses his nipples
swaying hips
and roars with the spasm

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