what name shall i give you,
i have so many names ready,
i am paul, but they call me greg,
(i can be a kenneth, if you like,
or an apollo, tell me,
do you like greek games?)
i told you i have been always
Paul, not the apostle, but the
one that they always like,
at the gallery of bones, at the
esplanade of hands, more hands,
the room is clean and perfumed,
and the light is dimming like a
human drama of lovers and
what they do quickly to themselves,
you like to see dark nooks
something that is crowded
just for two people to feel the
pulse of their wrists
nothing about the heart here
you emphasize it from the start
plain rubbing and then at the
back of our minds an
impersonal groan,
then we leave, without a wink.
honestly, if you ask me,
i never like it, but i know
soon another one follows.
(note: this has nothing to do
with me. Someone i know.)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem