«I barefoot myself to you make love to me» – Sex and death / Gocho Versolari, poet

In a corner of the room
The mirrors of death are hidden.
When you get barefoot,
when you undress
start your deployment
Then to the sound of your groans,
We go through the mirrors.
Orgasm is prolonged
when traveling the bright roads
of death.
Holding hands and without shoes,
our nakedness throws spectra
to the waters of the lower sky.
Pale faces peek in silence
when our explosions of pleasure
they hit the roof of death.
Only your bare feet
they open the dark bolts,
the play of shiny surfaces,
the flight of pleasure.
At the end we return to life:
tiny seed
loaded with afternoons,
of animals and skies.
«I barefoot myself to you make love to me»
you ask me again whispering
while death breaks doorknobs,
loose luminous mastiffs
and dissolves the dark crusts
from pain.


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