Dilated Cervix For Dogs

Stéphane Mallarmé and Proust

windows

Tired of sad hospital, and foul incense
Who rises in the ordinary white curtains
Towards the large crucifix weary of empty wall,
The moribund surnois straightens an old back

drags and goes less to heat their
rot than to see the sun on the stones, glue
The white hair and bones the thin face
the windows a beautiful ray light tan wants,

And the mouth, feverish and azure blue voracious
This young, she went to her breathe treasure
skin and once virginal! From a long foul
bitter kiss the warm tiles of gold.

Drunk, he lives, forgetting the horrors of the holy oils, herbal teas
, the clock and the bed inflicted
cough, and when the night is bleeding from the tiles,
His eye on the horizon light gorged,

Sees galleys gold, beautiful as swans
on a river of crimson and of perfumes sleep In
cradling the tawny flash and rich in their lines in a large
nonchalance loaded with memory!

Thus, taken from the disgust of the man with the soul lasts
Sprawled in happiness, where his selfish
Eat, and insists on looking for that junk
To offer the woman suckling her young,

I am and I cling to every window
Hence it rotates the shoulder to life, and blessed
In their glass, washed eternal dews, gilded by the morning
chaste Infinity

I focus see me and angel! and I die, and I
- That the glass be art or mysticism -
To be reborn, wearing my dream tiara
In heaven where earlier blossoms Beauty!

But, alas! Here below is the master: his obsession
Just sickens me sometimes to this safe haven, and vomiting
impure Stupidity
me strength to hold my nose to the sky.

Is there a way, oh I know that the bitterness
to drive the crystal
insulted by the monster and run away with my two featherless wings
- At the risk of tomber pendant l'éternité?

Stephane Mallarme

windows

Tired of the hospital and smelling incense That

trivial amounts in the white curtains

Towards

Wall cross-weary solitude

Their backs up the man in agony,

Creeps and is not so much by his wounds

warm to see the sun much closer, to stick, With the gray

and bones of his lean figure,

Al crystal bright large windows,

And feverish mouth, azure blue anxious

Tal, young breathed his pleasure more valuable

- A virgin skin and other time! -

tarnishes

With long kiss sour the warm glass of gold.

Drunk, lives, oblivious to the horror of the oils,

Clock, teas, and even the bed done,

cough, when the later bleeds on the tiles,

His eye, the horizon full of brightness,

Go

gold galleries, beautiful swans,

Asleep on a river purple and fragrant, Rocking

tawny reflections of their lines

In a large lazy loaded with nostalgia!

So with disgust by hard man,

mired in pleasures that their appetites

eat alone, and still looking for that mud

to give the nursing mother to her children,

I flee, run away and cling to all windows

Wherever the back to live, blessed,

in your glass, wash sprays

eternal morning Dora Infinite breed.

I look and I see angel lay down and wish

"That the glass is the art, or mysticism-

flaunting my dream Reborn which

headband above In heaven Beauty in bloom.

Mas ay! The Here-below is the master, their treatment is often disgusted

often even in this quiet,

And with their unclean Stupidity makes me vomit

to cover my face in front of the azure.

Is there any way, oh Yo you know the anguish,

to sink and the monster that has insulted the glass-run

And then, with my wings without feathers,

A risk of eternity? Translation

JOSE ANGEL Battistessa