The bard

He writes as if the tip of his muse's tongue
were searching stars in his ears
and
there is dripping fire in each line
he entangles the silhouette of
my breakable ego/id
and
there is a baroque joy i need
and refuse in the mouth
of his wet poetics.
( but i lick the beauty i see in it)

he is like me:
we make love to images,
hiding our multiples faces
and voices from the sun.
ah!he...
he opens the legs of my words,
relaxing them with enigmas
and impertubable streets
that go nowhere.

if he knew i wait nobody
because nobody died
in english and portuguese.
if he knew my flesh just
wants to scratch.
(that's enough)
if he knew how low
i can fly.

but
he leaves me half-breathing
whenever he writes
and this is what matters the most:
the air he always steals from me.

karla bardanza