The machine which make's orgasms

My eugenist and brutal father
My dreamed first abortionist
It was a windfall of words that broke me
from the fists to the hands
They were dead (the aborted ones)
My serious concussions
The cornea of their blue skulls.
My father, my eugenic root
Wanted me to become the most perfect beast in the world
To me, crazy blood of all the atavistic sculptors
Knot of existences that are carriers of no things,
Like my first love
(beneath the light I burned the doors),
Against one wall I ask him to gasp the holes of poetry,
I was now growing up to the slow pleasure of the needle and the wound
And I no longer love all your medically approved suicides
How old I am?
I forget when I lived in the cells of my life
I was the one infected/slowly and hideously/
Looking for the way of unknotting my heart
I had in me a voice that seems to sing
when in reality
just goes every once in a while to the psychiatrist
to cure the heart-like feature
of her famished lips.
That is the silence of the great
accomplishments
the genital tears in the mind.
I own the machine which makes orgasms
As always returning to me
Cured until hell,
Crude until hell.
From the feet to the vulva, graves would still be needed
To suckle all the children that I no longer seek.


Marina Victoria Dentice, Los años Vendados.

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