Mauro Giuliani’s guitar
Is played
Sonata erotica
I hear it
As I bow down
My head
My right hand
And all five fingers
Supporting
Like five pillars
To this temple
Of an unwashed
Face
Attentive to giuliani’s
Sonata erotica
On a Sunday
I face a road
Sliced by sounds
Of motorcycles
Without any
Silencers
Sonata erotica
Flamenco guitar
Entering my ears
Resting on my head
My guests this
Sunday noon
Flamenco notes
Dancing
With dainty feet
Stamping on
My brain
Erotica on Sundays
Flamenco dancers
In pink
My eyes follow
The hands
And the hips
And the feet
To this surging
Dainty Desires
In a sense
Sleep is a stranger
Whose name
I have yet to
spell.
the face of prayer
is a little bit
sketchy
its eyes
closed
its nose
blocked
by so much
phlegm
i breathe
something
erroneous
to my heart
my sister
the religious
&
the piety
as usual
is angry.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem