glass splinters are still
of that dish I popped into the wall,
included and cold noodles your last caruso sauce,
inappropriate for that call.
broom and kicked and I managed to deter the stubborn dog
their only hope was to eat my food.
Butterflies of the world will
flying dragons and snakes were hiding before
mud while their skins under my bed
with an empty blister
aceprax and two milliliters your soul's in my blood is just
that ...
I grab your bones if they were a step
but are spilled on your body
and do not lead to anywhere ...
From mazes I'm tired, embarrassed
never leave my children,
rather than slamming doors have not closed the doors of those eyes,
that were mine when I was a son of middle-class parents
amazed that my high notes in math.
glass splinters are still
of the cup of wine that threw me in the face,
and is still stained the carpet
as if following stations recorded eclipses
in letters that are more silent tarot
all flowers together.
The sunflowers are sun moon
no doubt that is a stone cold
turning just because, without light or aroma,
devotees of a king without a crown
point with me spring eyes are
and hurt me with his arrows of meat / dough. My lunar
shout that this lock of hair of Medusa
is an army of dead sea jellies
and why bother to kiss lips gray or majas
dressed or naked pestles,
if I know full well that the inside are filled with piranhas,
of fake crying virgin lost her virginity long
whispering another name, other
sweating sweating ...
chips that are still glass rib
God took me and then shattered,
sculptor who only knows how to work with clay, stone me
let myself, let me
resurgence of ashes on the third day ...
No. I do not want anything from you or anyone else
just want my shadow anchored in my navel
and my beats hanging to silence you left
to take your voice and the ticking of your wristwatch
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