Seeking the sickness into the eternal wisdom of the singing lines of sorrow,
between the forces of nature and the abilities to limit impulses,
among the bitches of street wondering about older and younger,
into the longest flight of a fly making orders to the hazardous wind of terror,
the scenery of a life without anything to hold on strongly
flows with the river of guts falling through the ways of failing trial,
taking breaths and steps onto the big great alley we all walk up to nothing,
and finishes words with an amount of simple laughing.
The shadow of storming powers stays under the skin ashamed
of the enormous despair we get nailed around our paining yelling,
and the nails are bleeding over the solid void called bed and coffin;
praying inside the shell full of sunken series of thoughts
waiting to burn on the seats of your shining pieces of wealth,
breaking with a ridiculous random joke about drinks and coke,
you go back and steal the time from the clocks chaining your arms,
and you make it a slave trapped in a bottle of deep mistakes.
You can hear the roaring of a man trembling in a sand of glorious ashes,
the knocks of a giant hand on the other side of wonder spaces,
a tiny cage of lust opening among the ice knives of a burning dawn
releasing the salty tears of skin to the covers stained with dust;
and flowers are now working as accessories for death and its great vanes
so people can cry above the tombs of parents who never cared
and fill up the seas of solitude and regrets and guilts and shit,
and thoughts around a zombie and the necrophilia it all involves.
Suddenly there’s nothing on the table where no one eats a damn,
the chairs are empty and the crumbs stink like a fucking old cat;
fears are raping anxiety and its moans don’t get through the walls
of the gray skins covered in mud and the querulous screams of dying years,
and the sweet kisses of Bacchus trying to flirt with the instincts
become craters filled up with sheets of black deep unerasable letters,
and sex gets emotional and emotions get cheap and money gets social,
and society gets pricey and money gets emotional and emotions get sexual.
Questions start flowing out and stick like forks onto the back of the writers,
complains come out embracing pride and pride’s fucking selfishness,
envy observes them while she’s jerking off imagining jealousy’s dick,
and wrath is in the pleasure noises, spanking them harder, talking dirty;
inside all this lust there’s no way to escape and hide from true answers,
all the leaves begin to fall inviting gluttony to face the bloody winter,
greed appears avoiding all from orgasm and asking for more and more,
and sloth waits for la petite mort to light her cigarette and go back to sleep.
Freud’s directing the scene and Jung is praying in the backstage
while everyone’s sharing their weakness and open wounds to public,
so let’s hug our dark, let’s follow the poets, let’s face the broken mirrors;
we are the little kings, the rejected kids, the disgusting addicts,
looking for shoulders and ears, creating gods we can’t even believe,
opening windows and closing some doors, losing and inventing keys,
trapped in the office sucking the floor, burning up a bible, museless,
loading the weights and dragging the chains of past and future murders.