Good Old Days

In those good old days I had to visit you in the
afternoon
when the breeze was rising
and wait while you finished your first appointment, with that man
you didn’t love.

Faint memory, your house, just like all of them
with a tiled patio, green and red squares
tubs of geraniums, spaghetti chairs
yellow-washed walls
and the everlasting fag
- who hadn’t slept all night –
going from pillar to post
like a slaughterhouse dog.

In those good old days
it was a huge pleasure to pay you.

To be able to buy a little of your love
a few of the many caresses you exchanged
for ten or twenty pesos,
to see you show your legs and buttocks
or remember you
with your black pants hugging your flesh
and the red jersey that covered your enormous tits,
goddess, most beautiful of all, eternal female
that all men have dreamed through the centuries.

I seem to see you, see you and again see you
with your red lips sounding in the two o’clock heat
at your door dying of laughter and desire
desire, something we know only is desire for
life.

In those good old days
it was good to open your legs
and lick you to exhaustion
and fuck you to the last drop and leave.

In those days
when you weren’t the big fat
whore you are today that I’m celebrating
memorable object made of music
doll with no spite in her
toy for all pleasures
beautiful and unique.

In those good old days
gone for ever now in March
when only memory
can construct a past and a life
dead for ever.

Traslated from Spanish by Rowena Hill