***
The nightmare has remained beheaded
and naked, but we love him further
precisely because he’s ours and we don’t
see what we should replace him with
it’s as if a man in love ran after his girlfriend
who refuses to see him, fed up with running
in vain after her he’d give in so he wallow
in all kinds of drugs that cause him euphoria
submerging himself closer and closer to death:
we are thirsty for all that crushes us for nothing
in the world would we give up our own nightmare
coloured by illusions ‒ nonetheless we suffocate
at the time of the mercy, my quarrelsome brother,
brother within refusal and wakefulness and you fat
woman neighbour with thick neck whereon
my hope ascends and descends without any line
you are like a virgin who speaks tenderly to me
she knows how much I love her and drives
my despair away wiping the traces of love
off the sheet with the sponge she leaves the door
open so I can see her in the water closet look,
the huge panties, the Fridays, the rounded buttocks
the loneliness, the nightmares, the rain, the bitter
saliva in the mouth, the sonorous and resounding
creature stand as witnesses. The Morning is the Virgin.
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