With a flower I announce that we are cursed I'm a snake in the desert meditating that has swallowed the keys to the gates of a garden of meat, meat apple cores and food for centuries, to return dragon made in the verses that are written in your mirror with the blood of bulls screaming that the battle is won if the eyes do not convey the presence, or appointing hands the secret of shadow puppets in the womb the girl you were at fourteen crying for the emergence of a pimple on the forehead, as an equestrian statue of pus, alone in the schoolyard. you sign with a flower that you are cursed, that I have no message to give my sex, I am a brick in your wall semen ice and if you ever were three Sometimes the goddess of my sleepless nights was because we were alone under the sheets of a verse. gunk will plant one on your navel to grow there the tree of life, and that their branches do not touch, and its roots grab your guts, and see that the fruit are detectors smoke. rest in which finger the ring whose stone has the color of my eyes, exactly the same, if yours is one I ask you to undress me with the other and stroked my back just to chosen and hope to die in your arms in that moment of extreme narcissism. before I would cross the moons of Saturn and air whip my face with the whip of your looks while waiting to discover a hidden horizon in which the road plunges into the ocean, and salts after appointing naked, to name without your voice, clapping to nothing, as do the bells, kissing the forehead of silence, taking his hands with yours, realizing they are two strangers with no kinship the terror of being alone by always be parentheses between a fetus and a corpse. I, however, I have a doctorate in diamond, bronze bust of snake a head start, footer end point of a text from another, condemned a rhyme and others invades me through the pores as a perfume darkness. I want to sit in a philosopher's stone does not myself in the sea, to spit on the ground and hope that my saliva was sulfur and could finally pass the recording of your telephone answering and morse code at least tell you that always took you back, all your rings have a stone with the color of my eyes, exactly the same, and naked without knowing me in infinite parallel worlds, and in those worlds touch me back, and even though I never want die at that moment, I and landing on the edge of oblivion not 
Demon sitting "by Mikhail Aleksandrovich Vrubel
(Iza Iza Iza spent)
Paratroopers and the Titanic flesh and blood Firulete kiss the sky is not looking at the neck of the landscape, tip of the tongue that touches everything in bed, whose bullet train destination is the navel of the earth ... That you a moment made of stone that falls well before horizon nothing is written on the envelope, are not poetry, sheet fall and trampled by the shadows, echoes eyes, not looks, whispering hungry snake lying on the back of the voice of the people. While oil spills in the tanks your fall is accentuated in the fictional Edens and internal bleeding occurs flowers that look frightened and give us your perfume last as a silent testament, made air noses
potters aimed at comfort and agony, populated Chinese shadow made in Bolivia. many feet in height required to be alone, to let the skyscrapers wrapped up with a drop of semen, am sure that you fear the shield of silence that comes after the scream, scream just because as your given number feature. Dadaist at the elbows that break the ridge of wind, mirror show me your palate, broken mirror and both show the sole language of the devil treasure hidden in the corridors of no dialogue. jail I see your tarot cards, I chains, and see tied to not know how many horsepower, drinking in the barn swallowed saliva in your childhood are the remains of the waves of the Atlantic, Titanic silent cancer that looks at my side without a message, without saying the name of the ship is inside the bottle gin. Irony you left it on the news by suicide tirándote
the ways of the underground, and finally meat you were ashes in the ashtray sofa arm so either someone like you, to hand out the window to see if it rains and carry umbrellas or not its horizontal life of six letters. Your tab fall without a parachute from the ledge of your eyes and you know that at bottom all that glitters is not glitter, not all are lions roaring defeated kings of the jungle reproach that dream at night that are thrown upside down on a zebra. 're getting ready from the plane paper for the big jump and you crosses as if God really existed, and finally you coin thrown from the height of someone. Lazarus, arise and die a whore once and for all ... 
"Le Golconde" by René Magritte
http://www.magritte.com/
