Arturo Desimone

by Horror Sleaze Trash on January 12, 2014

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Arturo Desimone was born and raised on the island of Aruba (Dutch Caribbean) to parents of immigrant origins foreign to the island (Argentinean mother, Russian-Polish father) 

Desimone is known to compare some chapters of his life to Oliver Twist, the Lazarillo de Tormes, El Vampiro de la Habana and the life of Pinnochio. His new base is in Argentina where he has been researching family history. His poems and short stories have been in The New Orleans Review, The Original Van Gogh’s Ear Poetry Series, Counterpunch Poet’s Basement., Apeiron Review Issue 1. To learn more about his poetry, fiction and drawings visit his blog.  He is working on a longer fiction project. 
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THE HIJAB IS NOT A SEX TOY

such a wife!
under her hair-cloth
she is mine, my girl!
The Veil,
checkered
with print fat flowers
blossoms
(flowers like propellors
of a colonel’s submarine)
does wonders!
we wish we had
bought this sooner

II.
Spring simmers from a fabric,
under the sail
this kingdom of her black hair,
contrasted with her French turqouise painted on eye-lids

her nakedness and weakness mine
the wine-dark rougher patches
visible below her kneediscs, elbows: yes mine, mine!

my fat elephant with eyes of antelope!

the girl, laughing, clumsy,
drunk of Gabriel’s natural Summer wine
after sex and noon-meal at home
she forgot to pin it correctly,
elephant-tent not well pitched
giggling she loses the headcloth
to Tuesday electric street-winds,
her kite-kerchief
snuck onto the sidewalk,

to rest there,
like a runaway animal,
from the cross kneed, black-haired giantess

III
medusa-sun touches her naked obsidian
turns her to common property
of all, she is undone
in light rays of socialist sun.

IV.
I fear-smell an incubus,
a male demon attracted by oily
black hair
or a cock with legs walking
around sniffing, seeking
harlot
—quickly, quickly I
gather up the rag of flowers from sidewalk
put her knitting back on
she smiles at my clumsy, nervy fingers

V
she laughs at me
In my heart I wish she wouldn’t
In my heart I wish
that I could laugh
It is day again
The force of night on her head,
her hair full of nightingales excused,
sun’s comb dispelled.

VI
Prepare the bathtub with Atlas mountain flowers,
pomegranate and mint leaves
We will not drink wine this Friday night, but our sweat exalts our skin alcohol, drink

Later, there will be Berber radio music and fat love

 

 

 

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