Labios Mojados

If I could stop thinking.
Even if I stay, even if I
curl up in silence
in a corner, I won’t forget.

I’ll be there,
I’ll weigh on the floor.
I am, I am, I exist, I think therefore I am; I am
because I think,

why do I think?
I don’t want to think,
I am because I think I don’t want to be,
I think that
...because ... Poof!

Existence is soft and rolls and shakes,
I shake, I am,
existence is a finished fall,
it won’t fall, it will fall, it won’t fall, it will fall,
existence is an imperfection.

To expand: my cut hand hurts,
it exists, it exists, it exists.
To caress between the white sheets
spread out the flesh laid bare that
falls again, sweet,
touch the blooming sweat of
the armpits,
the elixirs and the liquors and
the blossoms of the flesh,
enter into the existence of the other
in the red mucous,
until the heavy, sweet,
sweet smell of existence,
feeling myself exist between the
sweet wet lips,
the red lips of pale blood,
the pulsing lips that yawn
all wet with existence,
all wet with a clear pus
between the wet, sugary lips,
that tear up like eyes?