No more of witch-hunting
in gramophone voices.

No more of staged distractions
and dilapidated laughter.

Erasing with a wind compass
the vinyl topography of lovers.

Corpses rolling like dolls,
in the wind,
in the miniature explosion of dust.

Bruises on the walls of laughter,
horses in the wind,
your hair flows like milk and honey.

Windows burning, momentarily
decadent horses
your skin of poppies

Canopy of solar lips,
fantasy of unburied laughter,
in the navel of the wind.

Smell of broken skin and wet leaves,
famished in the nest of the wind,
almond breasts painting…

Your mother’s cigarettes burning
the windows of laughter,
and plastic mythologies
on burnt penises.

Temptation of dust latitudes
in the boat of your lips,
cinnamon valleys of love.

Blades of laughter
in her electronic nudity.

Faith of the oleander wind
quietly departing
between your wet thighs
at sunset.

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