THE VIRGIN FOREST

You have a virgin forest in your head, it seems easy, it seems candid, but no.

Intricate, colorful, warm, but above all humid. That humid monsoon, fragrant, soaked and green.

Cursed deciduous trees that stumble the way, and soft brambles darkly intertwined.

I want to look inside. Go in there. Make room for me, get my hut to enjoy in peace. Jerk off as I please, under a rain that comes like a dense nebula.

Bathe me with the thoughts that you enclose in that casket. Precious and fearful. 
Get me dirty with peat. 

Give me what you are while I dig. Give yourself as a gift to anyone. Shower me with your embarrassed and excited obscenities.

Don't spare me the evil, give me that too. I am the blank canvas, for once and a thousand more if I like it.

Be a serving cavalier for thoughts, works and provocations. No flowers, there is no space in the jungle. Not below. Not here at the bottom. Not in here.

I am the epiphet, which lets its filthy resin run down the trunk, which it leads straight into the heart of your belly.

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