I have a crab in my soul, he says, and, wildly, he scratches himself with words; carefully selected, unique delight, paragenital. >I am a poet, he says,
I am a poet, he insists,
magician, dreamlike, fantastic, cold,
creator,
bastard son of Cathier and Marylin,
continues,
The Wild Bunch,
dubble-gum of each verse of mine,
je raisonnais en fonction d'attitudes
purement
cinématographiques, Jean-Luc< br/>Godard, twenty-four
images per second,
those rainy days
with Barbara Stelle at the Mac Mahon,
the memory foam
descends Intimate and heartbreaking,
Incandescent spider webs
starry copulation light years away
of darkness, fog; soupe
à l'oignon, l'oignon and now
the second chain destroys a Mann
Man Of The West, shot
American by Gary Cooper, reverse shot
Founder It's a UFO thing.
I turn on the last Rex I have left
with a worm of discomfort
or crab
stupid and masochistic
which gives me back a Barbara
br/>canned
lulled,
dusty. For the first time
in Spain a pubis
on the big screen, Helga,
I am a poet, she says,
I am a poet, she insists,
although being a poet... .

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