I vent the disorder the daily chaos
with a single movement
of the pelvis.
I clean the ducts using bean solutions,
little by little,
clogged passages will advance
until the packet will suffice.
I bring one of her hands to my throat
And call it caustic soda,
I loosen my taut thighs
Before it reaches my uterus.
I have cauterized for years
the rips clothed in pleasure,
an engorgement of empty anatomies,
the boiling rivulet dripping
between my legs
as from a dormant volcano.
I will carry in my lap
this misery of ours
In pearl or flake form?
The pod will grow it white
and with the blue bearing
Of porcelain
Of snow that freezes
Of the frame of her glasses.
The sex-not-love,
the one "we-will-decide-then",
the sex-violence-for-the-soul
Is rough and dull
like an encrusted faucet
like remnants of dirtThat I now refuse to scrape.
