Cognac

Curled
in the cooling depression of a
spring mattress,
there is still the smell of cognac
and you.
Where in the night
we rolled clumsily
one over another
and crashed upon the wall;
the liquor dancing on my lips
and my lips
greedily snatching bits
of your skin.
Laying amidst distressed sheets,
sucking the ecstasy
from the air,
I wished to fill this empty hour
with cognac
and rip-tides.

5-9-10

punta del este

buildings protrude from your navel

clothing your naked sand

with thorns and asphalt streets

sleepy

on a winter morning

of fog and humid air

sticky with salt

i can smell the ocean

in your hair

taste tears

on your tongue

the song of sirens

remains in your throat

hundreds of sailor's voices

lost in the history

of your jagged rocks

the past is a bird

gliding over waves

and forgotten shores

immortalized in statues of stone

the corpse of a tortoise

rotting in its shell

the putrid stench of death

decaying

on the steps of your temple

golden breasts of Europa

carried away by bestial heat

(incarnation of gods)

to the plundering city

of kings

across the Atlantic