In the pit of Veronique

In the pit of Veronique, fantasmas live
and they spit on their own sombra in the pit of Veronique.

At the back patio of her house Veronique, behind the gangrenous tree, she's got a pit
a ditch, feminine and brutal, an abyss full of summer hands

it's the pit of Veronique, which actually is her own medulla, this pit of Veronique
where the lettuces grow in the humid shade.


The aeternus sopor populates this deep.pit, vertical like a vagina
the vagina of Veronique.

In the pit of Veronique eyelashes observe its fumigated mud.walls
they live there, in the pit, why?

And some nights, voices weeping seem to come from that tubelike bottomlessness.



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In the puerile afternoons of the autumn, Veronique throws mozzarella and wet bread at them... from the distance the light of the city is seen, ovoide an yellow-ish like La Pampa in estival Palmolive.


There's no offense in the pit of Veronique, only surd yearning
and some evenings her denim skirt and her legs come too close to the brim of that chasm

where she doesn't want to fall, although it's hers, and she already was there and doesn't know it:

like domestic beings, certain entities dwell in that excavation, human or not:
Veronique sees them mentally, when the transistors of the night modulate our names with disgust.

Did you know that in Octobers of replete moon, Veronique lets her used tampons fall into the narrow chasm, all soaked in her menstrual nectar?

Denaturalized voices receive the vaginal plugs, sucking them with spasms of delight
she simply walks away from the border of the pit and her apples sway under the smooth fabric.

In the pit of Veronique no-one is innocent, terrible crimes have been committed down there

but Veronique, she covers all that horror with a merciful stare under the apolune
as she turns the gruesome tenement of nodose retortions into Aero white chocolate.


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We wonder what impure facts are hidden in that fossa
in that precipice replete of degeneracy and implacableness

and why some noons, fervent vipers come out of this tantalizing mouthall, creeping to the surface?
Like Lamias they are, coming from a Hell full of incest and canicule, crawling on cupidity, like the child.

Veronique sees them moving on the turf of her garden while she drinks her Mirinda
their transparent torsos slide on the wet grass, rising their long heads like prepuces

see the thin line of pus or cum flowing from their small mouths?: Veronique licks them
and amorous in her warmth, she throws them again into their martyrdom


into the martyrdom of Veronique.