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††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† †††††††MARÍA ANTONIETA FLORES

 

 

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ogun


it will always be the winds of the north sea
and your lips pronouncing your name

it will always be your body under his body
surprised

it will always be to love in a foreign tongue

suffering the storm
friezing words with pain

three nights written in the present
an always of the instant

your slow saliva gulped in anguish

walls filtered by desire
always the signal

always misfortune

and a trembling in thirsty lips


+++


sunday 8 a.m.


soaked by morning rain
clement in its scarcity
you return with the sound of the violent woman

in her lean body with the grease of the daysí filth
her desire to kill that man

so much violence youíve learned during the long week
you pine for the calming of this anguish

quickly buying bread
the newspapers
the walk in the rain

moving away from the scream of a woman demanding her money

this threat of the displaced madmen
these women with cut bodies

furious furious

on another street
two men not far from each other
sleep on the sidewalk under signs of misery

violent hangover sleep

and not too far away
(you know it you feel it)
a woman brandishes the tip of a broken bottle

on a corner she drinks
the cheapest bottle of alcohol
while her standing body convulses

while you write and the rain worsens


+++


fires over the stones and in the abysses


a fog of sand

the mist over a city
sunk in fear

history returns in violence
mortar dissolves in words

i encase myself in the silence of your eyes
steeds have no pity

something about their name terrifies me
the threat of being without my tongue

this lightning bolt

breathing breaks my night


+++


contrary wind


you implore the trees
to take on the ailments that have befallen you

slow leaves
barely the rainís tribute

your sibilant breathing unleashes
the story that murders your days

the emptiness your viscera enclose

amid foliage
the flight of birds

urged on by serenity
you stop to write this poem

a captive
in shredded tendons

 

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TYPO 18