Cocaine

Cocaine

We’ll call this consumerism era

love making us a dose of powder

           

            let’s plough the devil’s property

            until the day of the golden ring

            and the cloying gala

            with an anthem to the Blessed Virgin

At the market of love

—buttocks paralyzed with rubber

to be desirable

—whisky, gold, and assets

so that you drift in my direction

and you’re not short of goods in your old age

You’ll open your eyes touching your husband’s back,

he’ll squint touching your backbone.

You’ll both load fingers and hands smelling of drool,

saliva, and lies.

Fruit of the devil’s property

this is how you’ll sleep.

Devalued currency dulling the trip,

devaluated gestures ending without meaning.

Two separate lines on a glass made of dreams,

you think, stir and join, disengage

images of your days of silence.

This is how they wake up,

attracted by the roll of bills that time despises

and uses to consume them.