GOD HERE TODAY
WAIT, JESUS.
Wait that I will write you
something touching,
Like a wind of autumnal
drought
And the words being felt
emotions
Be not only verbal
expressions,
Verbal waves or creation of
hands.
But that they’ll be
exceptions to the laconic state
Of my airy, vulgar
introspections,
I must confess you, taking
flight over
The feverish state in which I
find myself,
Absent of you and focused on
the sliding of pen,
The noise of keys of a
typewriter typing,
My state of mind, besieged by
your specter.
As I am a lunatic, I must
tell you,
Transgressor of the secrets
of the soul,
Thrown to the libertines in
the streets
Of a cold Nordic city.
A fanatic for your caresses,
It’s what matters to me in my
intimate dementia,
In my spirit of an almost
inhuman being,
Nailed to the middle of the
infinite,
My soul of an almost profane
being
With the lips tight amid a
scream.
Wait, Jesus, that i will be like yourself,
Like your soul and your inner being.
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