Non satisfied 

I love you
And I love 

The dark bird that you hide

Between your arms

In the deep blue sea of your eyes

I swallowed the white foam 

That came out of you 
Are you sorry now? 

You left me wetter than Ophelia

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Good girl

Having memories of something that has never existed

Like the domesticated wild animal
Who doesn’t remember being scared

Hungry 

Thirsty

And yet every treat

Every piece of food 

Brings the possibility to be the last one

Fear and joy 

The animal instinct of survival 

The contented tail

Swiping the floor with happiness

Asking for more
And just like that 

I have found my body

Numb and bruised out of love 

Afraid of being left 

My cunt would whisper his name

Even when he was still inside me

The dusk came to see me gasping

Grabbing his hips

Famished hands

My avid thighs 

Would wrap him tightly 

Never satisfied 

Forever pleading

I would flatten my ears

Curl my tail over my back

And crawl back again to bed

Good girl

Beds 

This bones

Covered with tremulous flesh

Yelling so many names

Crawling the floors

Breaking the glasses against the walls

So many houses and souls 

And yet I learnt nothing

Each day weighs like a mountain stone

In the mornings I laughed and cried 

I pissed and fucked

I ate and I fed 

I fatten my thighs 

Bacon and eggs

I listened to my mother 

Forcing me to finish breakfast

To hurry 

Running to school

Always late 

Shuffling my feet to the slaughterhouse 

Wasting time

Smoking at 8:30 with my friend

Giving head behind a bush at 14:30 

After school

Before returning home for lunch

Sundays at church

Kneeling down in front of a plastic God

Counting the tears of the old ladies 

The rancid smell of saliva around their tights lips

Pressing against them a crucifix 

Unable now to smile

My first morning alone

Far from home

The beds of all my lovers

Sheets whiter than the pall

Covering the coffins of our unborn sons

Reading under the duvets until 6 am

The loyal lantern

The days of feverish dreams

Coughing my lungs out

The days of shouting invisible names

Mornings with my siblings to combat the fear 

With my parents to fight the innocent aversion of loneliness

Waking up by their side 

Kindness granted 

Love delivered 

All the mornings I have lived 

And I have learnt nothing

I wake up by your side

And all I can do is thinking about all the mornings

I will wake up without you 

He doesn’t think the way I do

When I looked at this hands, this morning in the kitchen table, holding the cup of coffee, placing it near his lips with fear, burning his mouth a little, two lumps of sugar, so dexterous with the butter. I thought: those hands. Those fingers have been inside me. They have been covered in his saliva, my fluids. He had hurt me with them. He had indulged me with them. With his hands he had claimed my body, pressing my nipples, slapping my legs. Spitting in my mouth only to later touch my lips with the same fingers he was then using for peeling a banana, so gently, he sliced it and put it inside of his warm almond milk bowl. Without even thinking. 

The motorcycle boy reigns

He kept the ocean inside a tumbler

Soda pop bubbles

Trying to reach the surface

Restlessness

Effervescence whiteness

I told him many nights

Our thirst will linger

In the wettest dessert

Chapped lips

The blood we ever shared

Now tints the fountains

I found you

With your race half way traveled

And I poured

Gallons of gasoline

My heavy traveler

I took away your burden

And crushed it with my thighs

Motorcycle boy

Keep on riding

I went to the movies


A young man enters alone. He sits in front of me – in the very front down by the screen in the area where nobody sits unless it is opening night of a blockbuster summer extravaganza.He is alone, and noticeably so. His hair has waves in it and he is thin.  What is his story?I think he is a covert operative. Why would this boy come to see A Streetcar Named Desire all alone and sit in the front row? He had a small bag of popcorn with him.  Perhaps he was there to tape a brief encoded message to the bottom of his seat for another agent to find. Or perhaps he is secretly in love with the young Marlon Brando and his friends must never know.  What a tragedy it must be for him, so entranced by a man who was his age in 1951.  He stares up at the silvered image that towers two metres in front of him and shoots for the sky.

I was alone too. But my bag of popcorn was huge. It filled my emptiness.

Would you be my Huckleberry?

Goodnight 

is a beautiful word. A word to be whispered or laughed out of your mouth. 

It is a word to be kissed, near the ear, over the sensual and funny earlobe.
Goodnight 

is a pillow and a comfortable bed. It’s an armchair embracing us and protecting us from the cruelty of the night.

Often I cover my face with my pillow and I dream (awake) that I’m drifting down the Mississippi.

‘Hey, Huckleberry! Play with me. Be my friend.’
I’m wearing a yellow dress, it makes me feel fresh, my fingers smell like lemons, and mosquitoes cannot reach me.

I will be his friend forever.

I’m Huckleberrying my problems away, which means that I will just lie here listening to music and daydreaming about you, my friend, drinking the lemonade freshly squeezed with my bare hands