Perfect sex.
Opus alive on the mirror.
My limpid mind pierces.
This first lesson: third hello.
The man, with the long muscles,
The sunny dark skin; the bleached hair;
Stag eyes, man of the East.
His stolen woman: white, craving skin;
breasts in bloom; her bob of dark hair,
Pale eyes, woman of the North.
Hunting time.
Black wings flutter over my cinnamon skin,
A frame for my perfect shoulders, my perfect back.
The world is a hot pussy; I dive in and I smile,
With my scotch in my hand and my cadence divine.
Now! I dance and look at her,
I feel him, and her, watching me.
I’m music, I’m gaze, I’m body, I’m prey,
I’m hunter, accomplice and keeper,
I’m wind birthing.
Take-off time…
[Guests out of sync: you don’t exist.
Functionaries, workers, and secretaries,
House-wives, the insensitive,
and the short of breath.
Imbeciles ruling the world
and people’s houses,
You don’t exist.
I’m too young, too innocent.
I’m just too brave.]
Black wings of rhythm, my smile,
Two drinks and my eyes; his eyes.
She burns and stares, sideways.
He streams through the crowd like a cat.
Impromptu words, melodic gestures,
Floor rippling at my feet,
World soaring at my lead;
All but a prelude.
I dance this perfect now,
In sync and I will live the fusion of existences,
In a couple of sins.
Fated total presence,
Excruciating innocence.
If I had known: human after human,
Year after year, sex after sex,
So often I’d find myself just hunting
My black wings of freedom.

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