My Chernobyl
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Glenlivet 12 Whisky Mixers Drink
My Chernobyl was not the press cover.
My Chernobyl does not name anyone, not even my friends.
I exist in the echoing silence d the instant after the explosion,
primohermano silence is the silence with which to end the orgies end
and see people wiping with towels and rats licking semen from anyone in the corners ...
The rear doors of my veins, giving my wrists are covered with bricks
years.
no master key that serves to get into my halls, corridors
volcanoes resting
expired fire extinguisher on a date I prefer not to name ... Take the bars
My prison without buttons,
you do not carry the luggage and you look at the crotch, if you
verse in the voice of the dead
in another language
talking with my mouth and said that my language was a rock
where
syllables that beat like waves are nothing
alone but together are falling on my bed sheets,
as silent scars of a stay in hell
and mid-ocean sinks
copper bust my face and your name ... My fingers are
bread crumb
just break your egg yolk,
and my mirror is the dish that was staining
and when you left, I had to wash
just to stop seeing everywhere .
The petals of a flower that speaks Russian stem fell off my eyelashes
as we would leave if they could scream,
if they believe that beyond our eyelids is a world ...
My red pine forest is populated by
blind birds singing a mournful melody to teatime,
and roots of trees are spoken in sign saying that I'll never be happy.
I survive as church bells, voices
meat hidden in whispers,
rusty and cobwebs around my navel,
but breathing my air and exhaling that call is not heard
as if my lungs were the room wait a psychiatrist dumb. You see at my table
open scissors
left a century ago to see if your voice finally appeared again, but in the end
the ellipsis is not agreed or knew your name
distinguish your fingerprints from the parachutist
quadriplegic who descended on the roof of the hospital only to find a blanket
because it was May and it was cold. Go
preparing a new sarcophagus for future
snake skins detached dwelling on the chair fell on that day,
seconds before me, who kept my promise not to hear the roar of my moles, and I ran
to yours,
to rest in the inner courtyards of the caresses of your hands, who knows how many
have already run and miss, and I envy
as cannibals hungry just because I keep the art of reconstruct you
My Chernobyl does not name anyone, not even my friends.
I exist in the echoing silence d the instant after the explosion,
primohermano silence is the silence with which to end the orgies end
and see people wiping with towels and rats licking semen from anyone in the corners ...
The rear doors of my veins, giving my wrists are covered with bricks
years.
no master key that serves to get into my halls, corridors
volcanoes resting
expired fire extinguisher on a date I prefer not to name ... Take the bars
My prison without buttons,
you do not carry the luggage and you look at the crotch, if you
verse in the voice of the dead
in another language
talking with my mouth and said that my language was a rock
where
syllables that beat like waves are nothing
alone but together are falling on my bed sheets,
as silent scars of a stay in hell
and mid-ocean sinks
copper bust my face and your name ... My fingers are
bread crumb
just break your egg yolk,
and my mirror is the dish that was staining
and when you left, I had to wash
just to stop seeing everywhere .
The petals of a flower that speaks Russian stem fell off my eyelashes
as we would leave if they could scream,
if they believe that beyond our eyelids is a world ...
My red pine forest is populated by
blind birds singing a mournful melody to teatime,
and roots of trees are spoken in sign saying that I'll never be happy.
I survive as church bells, voices
meat hidden in whispers,
rusty and cobwebs around my navel,
but breathing my air and exhaling that call is not heard
as if my lungs were the room wait a psychiatrist dumb. You see at my table
open scissors
left a century ago to see if your voice finally appeared again, but in the end
the ellipsis is not agreed or knew your name
distinguish your fingerprints from the parachutist
quadriplegic who descended on the roof of the hospital only to find a blanket
because it was May and it was cold. Go
preparing a new sarcophagus for future
snake skins detached dwelling on the chair fell on that day,
seconds before me, who kept my promise not to hear the roar of my moles, and I ran
to yours,
to rest in the inner courtyards of the caresses of your hands, who knows how many
have already run and miss, and I envy
as cannibals hungry just because I keep the art of reconstruct you
"The resurrection of Lazarus "by Caravaggio http://caravaggio.com/
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