Round, hot and astride woman / Gocho Versolari, poet

Every day
I walk through a slow desert,
small as my nail,
as broad as a expanding sun
over blue and lost spaces.
Your nakedness that transited
forgotten corners of space
comes to my bed on freezing nights
where spiders marshmallows and monsters
they copulate,
Lover round, hot and astride
you ask me to penetrate you,
to split you in two,
while your humid heat
casts into the night horizon
bubble gushes
on docks, in dreams,
in vermilion skies
We both seek to penetrate us,
scratching us, procuring deaths
full of resurrections,
the eternal platform of love
where we can stop
and watch our bodies shake:
my buttocks that pushing you,
your little feet
turned into claws
and the desire,
the endless craving that fills us
with blue veins and thick as trees.
The desire:
it shakes us and exhales
from neck
to ankles;
from the soul to the nails,
from the blazing dream
to this touch the nothing
loaded with newborns
and carcasses of donkeys.
We are living volcanoes and exploding birds
in successive and multiple orgasms;
and the entrails escape from the mouths
and the ghosts of old lovers
they build orgies on our buttocks
I collect snapshots of desire
and I send them to the heavenly vultures
who guard the carmine space
full of children and drums,
of skins and steams,
of rusty steels
and of you.


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