April 2013


Your hair is soft
soft and splendid      sometimes i wish there was no God      to know all my thoughts
to know of my thoughts      the things i would do to you      the nerve of me
selfish self taught in the ways of sinful pleasures      i want to learn them with you
i want to forget about the moon with you      the moon frowns and the stars die

it was the brick and post      it was walking fast past the voodoo shops      it was the chicory     
it was the jazz      it was fifty two degrees      it was definitely the jazz
it had to be the jazz
it was the voodoo we found in the alley      underneath the emergency staircase
it was the lipstick smeared on my chest      the things i would do to you

splendid like the face of death      right before the orgasm of our shadows
like the orgasm of hollywood and vine      the nerve of me
again the moon shines      and again it dies      again we forget

it was the palm trees swaying
it was the open mouth of the coming sea
it was the sun
it was poetry
it was smoggy and overcast
it was definitely the poetry
it had to be the words
it was the kiss from your lips`

the hard-on you left behind      on them boys
their imagination      of your lips      on what you left behind
again the moon rises      and dies      and is forgotten the stars die

it was this poem
erotic and selfish      turning heads      giving blowjobs in the rain
it was your lips      falling from the sky gasping to die before the land
slowly praying before it lands
on the pages
of time

we sit across from each other
with the grains in our mouths
of coffee from the french press
waiting for the first word
to come out of our filthy mouths

a song of sadness      a song of sexual intercourse      of course
a song of sex      a song that will die      along with the moon and the stars.

—Edward Vidaurre

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