METROFUNK

The night is an anaconda anacobera
devouring its placenta of clandestine pleasures.
Knowing itself a traveler of symmetrical passions
it plunged in the turmeric phosphorescence of the subterranean.
Reddish bone, the wind creeks, is stirred up
and it is entangled in the oily navel of girls
with the reggaeton rhythm
wiggle the seminal clay of their hips
the ovular tremor of an unborn song (itself) in the platforms.

The swinging of the train unites the bodies
in an imperceptible movement of thighs.
Tego’s dog style, ancestry of song crooner
“Pass the bottle, my buddy/ advice is not free”
Mix and mingle of winding buttocks
swinging itself of an elliptical cable
on the verge of causing an intercourse circuit.

Like who does juggling with serpent’s eggs
The boys surf in the roof of the train.
Blood drips in the pistons of the fright
like an atavic offering to goddess Shamanta.
“Attention passengers, the train has been held
momentarily due to an accident on the tracks.”
The sticky anguish of minutes
throws overboard the schedules.
Somebody waves a banner: “Push Bush out”.
The corrosive acid of impatience
nibbles the humor of the passengers,
beings united by the inexorable resin of the boredom.
Emergency crews gather corpses.
The train resumes its march.
The next stop is Bowling Green.

METROFUNK

gfrederias

Joined December 2007

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