All are moments.
There was never enough nor will be.
Don’t say you’re sorry. It’s real happiness
for passions to be kept in the mind.

Two lips lighten worship, devotion.
Lips convincing not so much for kissing
as for transformation.
Such reality, so picturesque.
Because when at last redemption spurts
I’ll kick you away like trash.
And I’ll keep only the echo
of how crazy I was about you00, over heels in love.
I’m not wrong when I speak of infatuation
and not divine feeling, heavenly crowning.
No such words.
So many words.

Everything a disguise for the look.
Literally everything: music, taste, perfumes, touch
even the most surprising spark.
Without a sixth sense how can you glorify life?
How are you to find the backdoor on the facades?

Everything is spotless.
Love maybe fated to have two sides
but this doesn’t involve a gold coin.
And if it does, look at it straight out.
As though a costly way.

This is what you want, huh?
Stillborn exaggeration, plain as day.
And if the measure should break with Ate
Nemesis rises ageless.
Theories all. Nothing stands without theories.
But I got wise to it in a jiffy.
There’s no such thing as if in love affairs.
The only certainty is the void
that unnatural void after the act.
And who knows how many uncertain consequences.
How can you be friends with them.
Not only are they uncertain. They are also unbearably many.

An astute smile friezes time for a while.
Invisible as reefs before the ritual
two or three ithyphalluses* flicker in the background.
Scattered giggles pave the way
the most unexplored for everyone. Diversions, what else.
Dionysiac cries compose a convenient rhapsody:
“Even the gods twist and turn.”
Well, they change opinion and personality.
They have this virtue.

Good for the poet!
And we, mortal friends of pleasure, ready for roles
to show ourselves somewhat divine.

That we look like games without resistance,
do they see us as beings without resistance?
Let it be. No one ever is
what others see, whatever they see.

———–
*Ithiphallus: the phallos ancient Greeks carried in festivals.

“I am a servant of two masters.”
So he thinks and sees his playmates
as superior, not naked.
A kind of treatment and not tyranny.
He confuses life with art.
Don’t listen.

Completely unfortunate Goldoni’s title.
Though still not apparent
a psychodrama is played here.
The mind for a servant, what body?

Oh!
Sometimes an exclamation
shows and says everything.
This is the problem.