It’s Summer in the Heart of my Blizzard

It’s Summer in the Heart of my Blizzard

The rain that hangs on the coat rack is infinite

and light, like old foreskin

dripping its resentful flaccidity.

It is the anonymous principle of time

impregnated by stupid angels,

a fury of orphans and forgetfulness

that does not

end

end

end

Summer afternoons do not know

how to get down on their knees.

There is always a genital murmur in them

and an obstinate propensity to sleep.

Weight scale that balances the nostalgia of things,

scissors of light for the umbilical cord of the stars.

Summer is vihuela,

rotating stars and vihuela.

Siren Tamer, summer counts

its exploits.

It evokes cut nipples,

conch shells, pupils,

angelic and exquisite tortures.

I, immersed in the depths of the ink,

just listen, like one listens

to an impertinent drunk.