Blood on the Snow

On winter nights like this one, while women like me sit comfortably by the fireplace discussing shopping over a glass of fine wine with their sleepy husbands, I make outrageous political remarks which start bar fights and end up screwing on the cold iron gate of the train station elegant like pharaohs, with boots on. I never had patience to get to hotel rooms, and bedrooms, and all kinds of proper rooms. I know the kitchen is not such room. The fact that I don’t drink does not help, I am constantly drunk of that man, I purr the moment I sense his body heat, his smell intoxicates my blood.

He is my Corto Maltese, a mercenary in the dark corner of the eye, burnt and casted in steel, a survivor. Always at brink of orgasm, in sadistic alliance, we draw knives from our radical hearts and throw them at the poker table. Watching us closely as they would monitor explosive material, the ambitious and the constricted servants sweat as we utter words in weight of our scars engraved bodies. And we know they are getting wet, their eyes darken in jealousy and pain of the intellectual inadequacy to respond to the naked tango of titans filling the room with living pulsating flesh, making them moan of obscene pleasure watching the acts of our extended bodies in violent copulations

On winter nights like this one, when they kill wolves and hunt men, I end up on the wet walls of the crying city taking him in me as a dagger, on winter nights like this one when one can smell the blood on the snow

Self portrait