A mostrar mensagens de Novembro, 2015

nothing happened, except that I was saved

aching fever, flat on my blanket
the night hurls distant railway tracks
and sweaty squalls of cabbage corpses
from south-east
into the black black chamber.

in my fever dream, the corpse
sucks me south-south-east into the landfill
into her dark entrails, into her blackest fluids
fever ache. the potent stench of rot
in the bedroom

but deeper into the night
your compact body against my back
the room smells of linen,
Orion enframed in the window
you smile in the glowing dark

and touch me where I need it the most