Lena Horne & Francisca Pascoaes

 

Actual logbook 

(02.06)

The bow creaks

The sad king will be crowned

The prow creaks, the sails lash 

the massifs 

and the sea is a ring 

that closes around time,

like the smoke of a 

forgotten cigarette.

It's raining outside 

and Jeff with us.

Me and the cats. 

On the same perimeter 

as my bed

Lucy guards my 

right thigh 

and Minie leans against 

the other leg,

next to my PC screen.

Che on my ankles

their moustaches and fur. 

By the latifundia,

Europe begins

to feel the weight of the planets,

Jupiter and Saturn, 

Pluto, Uranus and Neptune

Mercury and the nodes and the

temperatures rise. 

The King will be crowned. 

With a poor man's hat.

And the basic antipathies

return to the charge, 

the groups line up

I don't foresee a rave.

But it's always good

get to more this spring

to this April and May

of holidays and eclipses,

de Costa, Galamba, 

Marcelo and his aunt

Poor Nations: 

Through them creak the oiled ropes

Storms flock 

to the conjuncture and 

circumstances promote 

the rest

Fair winds from Spain

And why not?