I felt keen on poetry like one
who feels keen on popping bubble wraps
in consulting rooms of boredom,
waiting the call
for the inspiring lobotomy.
Yet here I am turning around in the same
wheel, at the same rhythm or worse,
nearly in disbandment, unable to stop myself
when words come and push
to say things in some pitch of pseudointellectual
who despises what's doing and feeling.
Then you have to put them in an indian row
first, then in supermarket heaps,
moving the irony over them paraphrasing
cleverness and witticism or throwing up
the guts, even though after that you feel disgusting
about so much mawkishness poorly expressed
or underpinned of metaphors and silly
regressions to the primal adolescence.
All this because our heart beats a mile
when you are hardly aware of it
and find out that lice do exist
despite the shampoo and hygienic
ways and the asepsis of days
and the pavement, and hospitals and bathrooms.
Suddenly, one day, you wobble, wounded
by a vile arrow turned into flesh
in some eyes and a mouth.
You look for support somewhere and you see her
there, lying in the middle of the street,
like a mendicant who offers her cane
to you, or a whore
opening herself and saying: "Come in and vent yourself".
You give a glimpse at her and you stay sitting
on the edge of a sidewalk thinking
about unicorns and longing scents
and dolphins ploughing through blooming fields
on the solstice of a damned springtime
with its allergy of unhealthy colors.
And to hell with prose.
