The moon was enthroned in your right nipple / Gocho Versolari, poet

The moon was enthroned in your right nipple.
When you parade for me,
I see her shine
naked and white,
and when I approach,
she blinks and blinks
With the serene joy of the old moon,
under your skin
By kissing your nipple
I feel the moon taste
Frosty burning
loaded with wallflowers and deaths.
A door up.
One door down
and in the middle of the lunar perimeter
I see myself making love to you
and each onslaught
and every orgasm
is to follow me in that jungle
No plants, no animals.
Frost.
Burning.
Top feeling
It takes me to fly over your moon
and a heart of birds
I get bread, partridges,
wine and salt
In the supreme orgasms
it’s the moon that explodes
in a wink of time so small
that nobody warns
the soft explosions,
the faint petals
of diamond and steel,
the herds of light
That laugh the lift.
No one warns that the old moon
It has been transmuted into the sun.
The moon was enthroned in your right nipple.
When you parade for me,
I see her shine
naked and white,
and when I approach,
she blinks and blinks
With the serene joy of the old moon,
under your skin
By kissing your nipple
I feel the moon taste
Frosty burning
loaded with wallflowers and deaths.
A door up.
One door down
and in the middle of the lunar perimeter
I see myself making love to you
and each onslaught
and every orgasm
is to follow me in that jungle
No plants, no animals.
Frost.
Burning.
Top feeling
It takes me to fly over your moon
and a heart of birds
I get bread, partridges,
wine and salt
In the supreme orgasms
it’s the moon that explodes
in a wink of time so small
that nobody warns
the soft explosions,
the faint petals
of diamond and steel,
the herds of light
That laugh the lift.
No one warns that the old moon
It has been transmuted into the sun.

_06a9264_by_daniel_west-d7lebde

GOCHO VERSOLARI

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