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

naked.

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