Isquion Wings

I mess up, love, I mess up ...

I mess up, love, I mess up

when I go in your mouth, delayed;

and almost without why, almost for nothing,

I touch you with the tip of my breast.

I touch you with the tip of my breast

and with my helpless loneliness;

and perhaps without being in love;

I get messed up, love, I get messed up.

And my respected fruit luck 

burns in your lubricious and troubled hand

like a bad promise of poison;

and although I want to kiss you kneeling,

when I go in your mouth, delayed,

I mess up, love, I mess up.

Carilda Oliver