Buenos Aires: Last Entry
 

Flying over her casa muy grande at one a.m. the rough sea of roof heaves.
Shingles rattle & twist. Blackened windows battle the gabled main.

Chimneys shoot into air, flip, & corkscrew-dive off the mountainous manse’s 
darkened cliffs. Then afterwards we run through the neighborhood, sit 

under low-hanging boughs of old tilo tree, take food to children of hunger 
silhouetted against the drizzled monument as white mastiffs dig up the obscure

moon. In her father’s shadowy study, we pitchfuck each other like footballs 
onto red cushions. We touch & pull close every glistening object. & taste it. 

Nobody had any concept of what we were up to. Till self-deceived state 
machines stormwashed our fiction into the gutter, ravaging infinity inside us.

Whatever power she plugged into I received through her gaze. I’ve been left behind 
to sketch mis alucinaciones. Abandoned with nothing but this sputtering lamp.