Manifesto

The Matria is an all-or-nothing place

The Matria is an all-or-nothing place
Of arrivals, departures and memories of valleys.

Like any port city,
She's the prostitute muse of shores,
Protector of encounters and disenchantments
In the valleys of journeys
And of the holy shrouds
Of Penelopes veiled in veils,
Sighing in the moonlight
Or slowly revealed
And sometimes ravished.

Virgin of Guadalupe
Patron saint of exiles
And other condemned
Sons of the Motherland
Chained to the galleys
Of consummated crimes
And unfortunate migrants


Mighty Aphrodite
Matrix tattooed with a soft acid neck
In braids of thin gold
To the sweaty curve of the kidneys
In the perpetual and fleeting movement of

Creation:

(Fragile silk thread unravelled
By delicate lips
That can be broken at any moment).

The crossing of naked styles at south
In the long afternoons of the Andalusian summer,
Creole "cabrita" who runs and dances barefoot
Amongst the rubble of Moorish tales,
And corners of murmured songs in riads
Of discreet courtyards from which fountains spring
Of enchanting corners
In the shadow of secret orgasms.

"The Hour is Greek".


Whispered myths of Sisyphus in veiled hypogea
Contrasting with the warm, drowned laughter
Of lovers' alcoves in mysteries of incense
Bound by arpeggios of hermaphroditic strings
To the gallows promised by envy
Of diminutive ungodly chords
And torn hymns of impotent cuckolds
Wailing for their sodomised slaves

From the pools of scorn and petty envy
Of old withered vines
In the shade of raisined grapes
By consummated cassock incests
To the Infinite Love of the parturient streets
And their naughty daughters who lie down,
Raw and youthful,
On the scorching limestone
Under an Immovable Invictus Sun
At high noon sharp,
Where Seven Black Virgins
Gathered by a Thousand Fountains
Surrounded by Alfamas
Fiery and damp
Loom, immaculate,
Under an Intense Light,
Facing the Sidereal South,
The fate of the secret burst of rinsed waters.

When the blood of those who leave
Is not the same as those who return,
Nor the eyes, the glow, the hands,
The wounds, the ears, the ground,
The songs, the tongues and the refrain
Of the legends of those who return
Are the same as those who,
in blazes,
Metallic with fear, leave.

Because, as Heraclitus said,
No man ever steps in the same river twice.