The Photographer

I photograph women

After 10 pm,
My shadow curses
The disjointed weave of flowers

A dark comma on a street corner
Calls out to me

It’s a dance burned by rum

They hit me for two and a half minutes,
Two minutes is a long time
A cracked rib,
And my computer stolen

Hours of plexiglass
Watered by the gloomy look
The policeman has the patience of a bear
Pursued by the moon

There are silences that no soul can shake
The man taps on a matt keyboard,
A wooden window waits
The apocalypse

My sleep is a boat
Which escapes at the bottom of this ocean of papers
I sign and I moor myself
To the firm flesh of the past

The dancers have stolen a hard disk from me
And my camera, tonight
The moon seeps into my sheets,
The softness of cotton irritates me
A Shakespearian scene is playing

My wife is asleep,
Her cheeks reflect a cardboard smell
My children slide down the mauve slope of dreams
And barefoot, on the fine grass,
Like an oregano leaf
I watched a motorcycle go by
In the oil of time

Four hours
Before the coffee choked me,
In my dreams
My camera lies at the feet of a gypsy
I water the wet earth of my prejudices
And acid
The wind is stubborn behind my livid ears

There are four hours left
Before my chief syringes his ideas to me
With his big naked hands
Like a colt melted into the rock

Suddenly, a plum dress
Covered the scattered moon
With its crisp veils
She touched my eyelashes
Her dress slid down
Like the morning,
A troll emerged from the goddess,

He took out a straw
And began to drink
In a crater of the moon

The stagnant water of his gaze
Captured the boat of my ideas

We stayed like that
The imp and his astral drug,
Until the moon
Dresses its pale clarity

My stolen camera, how
To tear off the monster
From the mirror of reality?

I thought of the teeth of my boss
That pierce his lips,
My pockets swelled under my thoughts

Without a camera how
Usurp a moment,
And retouch it with seriousness?

The elf spoke,
In a girl’s voice,
He stared at me with his sonorous saliva
And I lowered my eyes,
Again:

« The device that was stolen from you, » he said,

You will never find it;
Would you surround the earth’s belly
With a cord of milk,
Gone are your artificial dreams
On the altar of misery ».

How he knew me doesn’t matter.
I heard a door slam,
My wife in her nightgown, dead,
Floated like a bee on the veranda

But the leprechaun continued:

« Come bowling in the world of the stars
Your muses have wrinkled,

Stop photographing the desert
The flesh blued by the light,
No camera is worth
The intensity of a word.

When
Burned by the white light of the hospital
Your eyelids
Will cease to pretend to exist,
It is not a photo that they will take,
But on the poetry that they will close

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