Self-portrait

¡Cold coffee!

And your memories
running around me.

I always speak about the same:
about silence
about loneliness
about why
you are not
about
those mountains
of amazing and non-existent
sex.

Oh yes,
pornography,
that limit
that consideration
about beauty
and desire
in movement.

The moans
and screams,
sometimes
pleasure
is a too little reward
and I need to
hurt.
To hurt who?
To hurt what?

The perfect onanism
of substituting
dependencies
with punishments.

I suffer, therefore I am.
I insist,
and then I just
keep existing
for still suffering.

That pearl of knowledge
disappears
when I morbidly enjoy
the grovelling,
the kidnapping
and the parody.

I would like to laugh.

Sound of bones
like a xylophone
from the catacombs
of your love.

You only exist when I create you.
You don't have soul.
You are mine.
I possess you
in more ways
you are able to
imagine.

You are the tool,
the excuse
the brush
of this self-portrait.

The Devil gets bored.
I love that image:
the evil
surpassed
by his own creation
(at least one side
of us is his,
not by merit,
but by pure and simple
legacy)
without being able
to be surprised
or to react
to the mundane horror
we have created:

We shape
the dislike
with a goldsmith passion

We damage
with the temper
of an old Furtwangler

And we desperate
with childish devotion.

I always talk too much
When I don't want to say nothing
I contradict myself
as a -perfect-
excuse
against my limitations.
I am deliberately bad
and now
I am using a costume.

Hopefully clocks
work backwards
Hopefully words
could sweep away,
get collected
like simple
fishing rod
and make them
disappear
under the
rug.

How much wasted love!
How much self-imposed disatisfaction!
How muck fake melancholy!

I am not even convincing.
Better leave it.