La Collectionneuse


We both carry the same cross.
Blue and magenta.
But the feeling left
The monastic feel
I’m bleeding.

Yes, you bring out the worst in me,
at the beach, in the mountains.
sinking into a lethargy
insolence and devotion.
But the sea’s that way.

But once back in the emptiness
afraid of settling
In bed with some guy.
She takes what she finds.
It’s over immediately.

I wanted my gaze of the sea
a Song vase.
Razor blades are words.
They’re Polaroid.
they leave after a set period of time…

in the play of shadow and light,
Impossible to hold.
I break whatever I like.
I have no lovers.
Nothing’s possible.

my cherished solitude,
prompted by insomnia
as a girl I might sleep with,
and now the broken vase
is transformed into beauty.

caress a girl one dislikes.
as if by razor blades.
what “distance” means.
I’d always backed into the dawn
lacking any heroism whatsoever.

degraded and mindless type of beauty.
It creates a kind of void
of awakening and beginning.
I know boats.
the first yacht made of plastic.

some good qualities.
poisoned our relationship.
against harmful rays.
send me a postcard,
with an eagle’s profile,

But that’s the strategist in her.
What I don’t want
she’d succeeded,
to conquering precious me.
my vacation dream.

She’s the easiest girl
a waste of my time.
an already obsolete theory.
and silence of the house,
and the rest of the world.


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