My Writing Poem by Alexandro Johns

I write at the age that real poets are dead,
and I grasp to their shadows like a desperate castaway.

I write because my tiredness is a trapeze
hanging in the abandoned circus of sex.

I write in the individual game of the cavern,
where all the shades are the same.

I write about rusting flowers, the Greek present of autumn.

I write with the childhood milk that makes my black old age.

I write stepping on my heels.

Reality, stop guiding me, already I learned the way,
I don't want any more your deceptive compass.

Time, you are scraping my tongue as a cursed nipple,
take away from me your chalice.