I have seen the demon once more, long-legged and exquisitely waisted

moving in all magnitude, smiling desperately anxious

multicolored wings like the protagonist

in a Hitchcock movie

and a carnival of fireworks

announcing the stardom of this new figure

that appears in my dreams

like a child seer of virtual reality techniques

Yes, I’ve seen the demon move and drape itself on my neck

a serpentine horse, tall and red-haired

with a tongue to overcome all my useless resistance

The demon does not speak Spanish, but tries

wears a black jacket and defies the heavens

even that of heroin

desperado hair crowned with flowers

and wearing long white dresses

as in the times of the first persecution

And dance, yes, it says dance

and the macabre dance

is nothing but an initiation rite

into risky sex

and the emptiness of the mixed blood

The demon smiles juicily and makes eyes

yes, the eyes of New York, run away

oh, hard-eyed

when you fall

it is possible to see the aura of its body

battalion of angels from hell

but when undressed,

you become a sinuous lady

white with a Polish girl’s face, red-haired and anxious

waiting to be lifted beyond the clouds


(From Hotel Marconi, translated from the Spanish by Paul Dresman)