Miguel de Unamuno – My Vulture / Mi Buitre

This ravenous vulture grim scowl
that devours me the fiery bowels
and my only constant companion
till my pain with his hooked beak.
The day we touch the last sip
I rush my black blood, I want
it leave me with him alone and landmark
a moment, no one as hindrance.
Well I want to win, doing my agony
as he my last stripping swallows
surprise in his eyes somber
look to see the fate that threatens
without this dam as satisfying
the terrible hunger that never goes out .

and in Spanish

Este buitre voraz de ceño torvo
que me devora las entrañas fiero
y es mi único constante compañero
labra mis penas con su pico corvo.
El día en que le toque el postrer sorbo
apurar de mi negra sangre, quiero
que me dejéis con él solo y señero
un momento, sin nadie como estorbo.
Pues quiero, triunfo haciendo mi agonía
mientras él mi último despojo traga,
sorprender en sus ojos la sombría
mirada al ver la suerte que le amaga
sin esta presa en que satisfacía
el hambre atroz que nunca se le apaga.

bourbon flavored font’s

two glasses unwashed

sat upended fragile in their shine,

opened bourbon

a long mouthful held then swallowed

his bourbon her breakfast,

moving from one room to another

morning cool on skin

she wore only panties,

typewriter on oak

bold keys hold promise

again it was his

the cat shared moved onto lap

as sitting down,

chatter of keys as poetry flowed,

to him she was a disposable muse,

she did not care

being on all fours

fucked from behind

staring at cotton bed linen

her mind could think

without his face ,

all he needed was the mirror to pose,

weave of cotton held a story

as she thought of next poem

he too had release,

it was a kind of love,

they used each other in

different ways

ink stained finger pedigree

kiss and whisper in her ear

hair dyed nocturnal sheen,

this clown without sanity

also had no morality,

for him love was the crazy light

of all dead angels,

his heart navigated slums of heaven,

babylon a drink to satisfy

and of those there where many,

at the door watched as she

burned on the brazier of sweetness,

leaving behind

he would go now and

make seven nymphs homeless,

in his mind words dwell,

a mirrors reflection

shows glance of vain apathy

downstairs and out

he went walking brisk

on soft sprung sidewalk,

there will come a last day

where pages no longer speak,

she was far behind

no turning back,

sorrow clung to his own breasts form

blood of his lust drained

pausing to turn into the bar

instead of heading home

will wait on tonight