Poemgranat Buenos Aires 2013


I usually boast that I am from the 19th century
but reality dawned yesterday
really I am from the middle ages,
evidence: these latest attempts to avoid falling in love
trying from a hiding place in a cloud to lower a bucket
from the corruptor sun
and shower acid down on the pomegranate tree
whose branches unfurled with fruit
from our embrace in the night-bar
unto the iciness of lunar light in the Argentine winter,
the night Videla died

I am ruthless as the king of the pomegranates
and a megalomaniacal jackal for the comparison
They should have made Videla kneel in corn
for twelve December heatwaves

At my hospital-white computer, the social-hope-generator,
the cinema porno reels gyrate as saws
against new branches and entanglements
in the pomegranate tree of lovers,
smaller than a porcupine it contains a copy of the planets in its dew drops
I seek to impose…

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