Friday, September 23, 2016

Motel Borinquen

Motel Borinquen

A condom falls on night’s shadows.
Desire lubricates my insides.
I’m sedated by your bang hole,
the jazz, the cannabis, the nether elite
to which I aspire.

Come to my dildo
manufactured on the streets
of Borinquen.

This word archeology
discovers the bone, the psychic earthquake
of reason’s instability and all
its caveman connections.

The sun falls on the city’s mist,
its eye penetrates the hustler’s wallet
and the hidden book of Babylon.

Insolent amazement dries
drunks’ rheum. A beautiful river
descends from a stone and travels
to the caveman’s ancient foreskin.
It is the transfiguration
of androgynous men into angels
carrying the metaphysics
of their pockets in their language.

The luxury of their burials
conveys the stigma of a leprechaun.
Because they made money
the final solution…the microcosm
of their soul is dead.

They’re threatened
by the burnished skeleton of a lover
and a joke made with a vulture’s gaze.

It’s not always like this.
But the city’s bourgeois need him
so he rushes to the blue chalet
by the sea, Motel Borinquen!

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