's Rib Adam
God gave it to a dog buried in the slopes
of what now is a volcano,
whose corners await the four horsemen of the apocalyptic
heading to London and Tehran, passing by Cairo and Buenos Aires,
for my neighborhood, my home, my door
sad killing all men,
and will be a day when the angels used
neck brace and wheelchair gods spit from the sky
and saliva will be called sulfur.
Because the lion is not in its roar
we desperately seek in others
caged us in the background without keys hidden and those eyes of others,
abandon our self in the sand
private beaches and desert we seek,
and only found the butts of those who wrote the first stanzas
predesigned to verse, rhyme enslaving,
like a cubist statue,
almost carved with axes, bloodshed
foot copper where blind
shake your hand dry heart
to sound like bells coins
called the Mass
where there are not enough assessors in the blood of Christ,
or money to survive into the pockets of jackets irreversible
not confident to take who have injected heroin
looking out or the fire escape that start on the pillow, and also
those secrets will not tell us anything,
not returning the mirror, nor
credentials,
not the skin or lungs, or postponed the appointment with the psychiatrist ...
there are branched, nothing is known after the autopsy ...
The bodies themselves are often patronizing unless
do not usually sign the check to a relative reduction
which sank in the same urn as our blood wrecked in our veins ...
Alone at last,
say as chalks of cocaine in the stomach of someone right now,
finally embraced awaiting stoning schizoid
buying silver bullets to recognize the limits violated,
crying because it's free and legal
because no one opened the Red Sea into two halves ...
will die thinking that death is something that happens to other
or lust and begging for more doses of morphine
to finally close the curtains of the window overlooking the cesspool
and think that the axis of symmetry of great vigilance
was the spiral of promises not fulfilled in life ...
My hell is that Bosch and is adjacent to the garden of your delight,
only lasted a few centuries and no one will appoint,
kiss me if you can, if you do not mind that he is dead
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