recalcitrant and ill-tempered,
sneak into sacred territory
where they always find
enough to entertain their
absolutely lousy sense of humour.
They tug on fibres holding things,
shake up the velvet valves,
squat on the great ‘His’ Bundle’,
but most importantly, creating
and enjoying the new turbulence
that gives you PVC’s, and fear
as stumbles wake your sleep,
and skipped or missing beats
urge you to move your body
just to prove that things are fine
and as they say, the beat goes on.
God has, the Cantadora says,
allotted you a certain finite number
of beats, to be used wisely
but when they are, my dear, used up
there are no seconds, and no substitutes.
Then all the turbulence just stops,
the hornets leave as if to say how boring,
and you depart, not ever having known
that not one moth did ever grace
or even briefly visit, your corazon,
and, as you see, some hornets can behave
with skill and self-serving deception.
There is, however, as they used to say
that little fact that for each single ill
an herb is growing somewhere on this earth,
to set things ortho, that must be doctor talk,
and in the case of the old clock that ticks
inside your chest, just like an aging drum
it is a substance called ubiquinone,
as also known as Co -enzyme Q-Ten.
I would not kid you, nor do I have compadres
among the hornets, so I urge you, listen now,
take time between your wondrous poems
and study up for future days and nights
when tides are rolling in and out, in moonlight
and do not sit there, with the gel and electrodes
strapped to your melancholy breasts to gauge your mood,
no one will come and scoop you up, my friend,
for rescues to succeed do them yourself.