Rodolfo Zamora Corea

Of my bastard verses
Her hips moved violently,
lulled by the roar of a hurricane,
were the violent winds from Quincey’s mouth,
Or maybe Poe’s exotic nightmares
and his ravens.
aromatic poisons,
hallucinating with hemp flowers,
pulling the nipples and their nerves,
turning her laughter into tears
and the rocks in baskets,
with flowers,
dancing; voluptuous whores from Bali,
fornicated by furious erect tigers,
scratching his back,
her mind, her buttocks,
attacking his insides,
with the rhythm of the waves of the Indian Ocean.
He knelt often,
to fell its sinister petals,
to lick its whitish resin,
to lick the hashix from his little mountain,
to go crazy in the arms of his black Venus,
that made him suffer,
and that he made suffer,
that made it terrible and mysterious,
making her scream,
making her moan,
with harsh sobs,
cries of anguish and pain,
taking her to the climax,
asking for death,
if it was not repeated.


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