Esta noche se parece
a un enano que crece
        —De Ory

Two poets 20 and 23 years old, 
Naked in bed with the shades drawn
Intertwine themselves, suck nipples and
Erect cocks, between
Vaguely literary moans
While one’s older sister curled up in the armchair by the TV, 
Eyes enormous and scared, 
Observes the great metallic wave of the Pacific 
In scans of capricious fragments and discontinuous trails, 
And screams: Fascism, fascism, but only I 
Hear her, I
The writer locked in the guest room
Uselessly trying to dream up
An ideal letter
Full of adventures and pointless anecdotes
To cover up the real letter,
The terrifying letter of parting
And of a certain kind of 
Occasional amnesia, 
While the poet’s sister bangs the doors of empty rooms
Like someone banging the successive doors of Thought
And screams or whispers fascism
At the moment when, with two dry bangs, the 20-year-old poet butt fucks
The 23-year-old poet who goes ugh ugh, 
A 23-centimeter cock like an iron worm
In the 23-year-old poet’s rectum, 
And the 20-year-old poet’s mouth clings like hyssop 
To the 23-year-old poet’s
And the 20-year-old poet’s little ivory teeth
Seek out muscles, joints, the bone in the neck, 
In the nape, smell the cerebellums
Of the 23-year-old poet. 
And the sister screams
Fascism, fascism, a strange fascism, sure, a fascism nearly translucent
Like the butterfly of deep forests, 
Though what prevails in her eyes is the Great Metallic Wave
Of the Pacific
And the poets scream
Fed up with such hysteria:  
Once and for fucking all stop reading fucking
Raúl Zurita!