The Boudoir of the Burlesque. poem by Carlos Mijares Poyer

(c)copyright May 2018, by Carlos E. Mijares Poyer. Caracas, Venezuela.


THE BOUDOIR OF THE BURLESQUE


What is that thingy betwixt your legs?
Oh, decorum and socialité. Perhaps a
twenty first century digital daguerrotype.
The enamored tree gave you
the fruit of love
right "smack" on your mouth
and Ahh... it all came down
like a latin american stream
of condensed passion.

The porno-tech cartoons reminesced
and told once again the forgotten story of poetry
like it had never been told before sensual
in redneck English
country fried rice and all
imitation is the English Way, y´all!

Yes, that closet and laboratory set of Dr. Caligari
had a secret entrance, that led to a secret window and that to
The Yellow Submarine. -Help- is still and important song for Lennon
the Brits says, and who am I to say among all this
convoluted jargon in media of intranet
MIASMA!

Death will find its counterpart on-line, and so will the Devil!
Jesus invented Facebook and the Chinese tweet grains of rice in
the evenings in desperate watercolors.
The Afro-Cuban nunnery anticipated
a new European visitor so they brought
out the casino music minstrels and the Cha-cha-cha,
a bad imitation of Fania All-Stars Salsa music from Spanish Harlem.

The world does not fall beguiled to nuisance
on the liquid holograms on the computer screen,
parameters of truth exist in every drop of dew, always have
on your skin and in each one of your lonely  derelict cells
is dappled with brinded irises and tie-dye psychedelics
like that erased tattoo on your back so long ago
which offers a new tinge of purple haze,
Riddled with the foreign signatures of millenials and the socialism
running to the next concert, the last arid remake of reality in their hearts.