Every once in a while it seems

that-death has not taken over everything,

that its milky smoke

has not blackened every corner,

every room of this house,

that laughter has somewhere to play,

somewhere to live, somewhere to linger,

somewhere to rest,

that there is in fact a moment

- a single moment -

in which to open the window,

without despair

freezing the geranium of the soul.


Every once in a while,

every once in a long while,

we don't see the piercing fangs

of the city.

From its purpled lips

drizzles the revolting spit

we cheerfully call a clear and savory liqueur,

and we would rather

they gave us each a kiss

on the eyes and for us again to see

those monstrous lips

performing a new miracle:

to resurrect the forgotton penis

lying dead, long dead

and to make it rise to the whitest snow.


Every once in a while,

ancient suffering, our eternal friend,

seats us at the table among ghosts,

laughing its vicious joke at us,

and after we gulp

so much bitter food,

even horseshit seems sweet.


Too fine a dessert for us: love.


(c) Xabier Montoia