Ritornello for thou

Fog, loneliness, extreme heat outside

The iron between the legs

        (meaning guitar in venezuelan rockers’ vernacular)

The derelict keyboard close by

The neuronal spider webs all around

The composition that does not flow out at all

As a musician, I am hyper rational.

Back to the poem:

I learn to fly

Polishing verses

That ignore meteorologies

I become über kitsch:

I cultivate in pectore

Hallucinations of your naked body

Your erect breasts stubbing babelian towers

Your shaven and smooth pubis

Your clitoris that dislocate my futures

Your legs that grip me like an unchained boa.

I wake up.

I return to the ritornello:

Hell, Mozart, pass me a little bit of your muse!