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 m