Demeter blessed my coffee
with another doubt

her poetry squeaks:
it is hate,

After her,
i grant myself the permission
to wait for nothing.
that doesn't mean
she was the best option
for our collective unconscious.
we inherit retro dreams,
stupidities and
the incomprehensible macho stance:
the burden of the burden.

The leaf waits for me
like a woman in love:
naked, eager, languid.

If you could get out of your own light
for three minutes

and accept the burning words,
the implausible darkness
we all hide and hold,
you would forgive
my postmodern sexuality
and sunlit mind.

She's walking into smoke
again and her mind swirls,
avoiding linearity,
stretching over
the repulsive night.

i am afraid when her eyes
is a force against me
and release the past in
small clouds of self-pity.