lovers: a chronicle of torment
if you’re looking for poetry, look elsewhere.
it perished long ago, in the vespers of acrimony.
this is a story that has no hero, only characters chasing
the pleasures of the flesh. & survival. you might recognize
yourself in the crowd.
how many hearts have you broken? how many times has
your own heart suffered? how many sordid copulations, &
how many tears…
I sit in a dark anonymous bar, obliterating my soul with hard
liquor. I scan the chiaroscuro obliqueness like a sexual
predator. in moments, I approach a girl of the street nomads,
or she approaches me. the price of sex is debated & finalized,
& we hasten to a room in a seedy hotel.
a crusted shade covers the window. a lamp with a bare bulb,
perhaps twenty watts of illumination; enough light for me to
observe her Galatean body as she undresses. this girl who sells
herself. what scars, I wonder, does her frosted beauty conceal?
how many beds has she labored upon, in her young years.
she bathes my penis briefly with a damp rag, & we engage in
the primitive rite of male dominance & feminine submission.
there is no romance, no poetry, simply the instinctual act of
carnality; two human animals debasing each other.
when my craving is drained, I retreat to my private corner, to
wash away the filth. I douse my cock with alcohol, to kill the
the vileness of a whore’s cunt.
for a night or two, I marinate in my own disgust, arguing with
the devil who thwarts me, & almost resorting to prayer. almost.
I live saintly, until my depravity is again erect.
when you have slept too long with whores, you see the makeup
of a whore in every woman.
y las damas de la pristinas jardines nunca me conocera...