A poem for monsters. How much is in you to give? A test.

Can you love an ugly child? Fat, tiny, whiny and useless, suddenly appearing into your life? Is it organic or manufactured, artificial or natural?
Can you love an ugly child who looks like trouble growing with hunger and thirst, who does not belong here or anywhere but needs a place to stay? Whose whole being yells how out of place she is even though she is quietly looking at you.
Can you give affection to a little beast who is an image of you? Maybe forgotten and hidden. Who reminds you of your weaknesses, your desires which you cannot attend to and fulfil because of that visible existence of someone new, an invader, an intruder grabbing you from your gut. Sounds like a leach.
Can you put priorities of your own aside and love someone with two heads and a heart that pounds noise in which nobody can sleep, unconditionally, without saying you owe me?
Screaming, needy and pathetic, noisier and messier. Heads following sudden ideas, not obeying anything said. Someone with three legs, several hands and wide open mouths nonstop.
Can you love an ugly child that needs to be loved more than you could ever imagine, loved more than you love yourself?
Put all your warmth on that tiny body that breaks everything just to try out what happens? How much warmth do you have to spare and what changes?

Language of turquoise

Excavator on a star looks lonely and abandoned. A horse called Flight was difficult to handle. The animal was sizeable and white. Only one who it let ride was a girl and I thought she was the bravest person I had ever met. I use to like to watch them work together in perfect harmony. The abused and hurt horse, beautiful and enraged, and the only one who could touch its white. How are we the same? What is the same? Why do you seek similarity? Why do you want to be safe with people like yourself?

Puta Madre conceptual garden sub specie Aeternitatis, where every deed happens: truth is a bitch.  Say the truth and you will be smacked around. Out-of-place, naturally dislocated.

Nymphaea looked for her earring on living room floor carpet. She said she has bad eyes. Great Horned Owl in her, in her bra was tightly pressured against her skin. Wanted to study her pressure marks, sunken bloodless steps on her, leaps of red. I thought it must have hurt to wear such bra. To wear underwear she did shaping her form. She always had a nightgown for me with a cartoon figure. I loved her furniture. She hung her jewelry on corners of her dressing table with oval shaped mirror. Smelling her bottles, her sheets, her plastic pearls, her things, her and valuables, details, piled magazines in her closet. Hers, language of her. I looked for it through her hanging clothes sitting on the floor. I poured everything that was in the box on the floor. Language of clichés,
language of beauty
language of trauma
language of banality
language of architecture
language of aggression
language of being a child
language of being alive
language of acting out
language of close
language of an old woman
language of dust
language of turquoise.