Masquerade

I would invite you, Marilyn,
to a mascarade
where you only wear mascara
painted like a spider's web
from your eyelids to your toes.

As soon as you saw me
petulant in your impertinent pearls
you became a little bit pregnant
and sneezed with constipation.

I thought you so sympathetic
pitying me that any relative at all
might be my parent.

You thought me informal.
Did I molest you, Marilyn?
Lust is a luxury, delight a crime.
My vulgarity was commonplace,
my success with you merely an event
although you fainted with dismay.

Marilyn, the actual isn't real
-- remember that record we heard
in the bookshop where people only borrow?
Disgrace is just a mistake.
Actually everything happens by chance.

Now I'm desperate to wake up,
repentant all of a sudden.
You would invite me
to a massacre.
Gringos y gringas
are such false friends.

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