Mentir la isla

24 hours submerged in an imaginary geographic slash

The fracture in the stinger of a scorpion

The eternal witness, gazing inward

Voices receding, skinning knuckles on the walls, injecting death on every corner

A piece of meat hardens in the puddle of saliva accumulated over decades

Entering the island, leaving the island, dividing the island, stopping the island, lying to the island.

Reptiles with bitten hearts, the smell of damp and rum

The three kings seated on the same throne

A boy in a wheelchair enters the sea

The crows in the sand eternally reconstructing the scene of the perfect crime

The greenish scene of resignation

Black saints moving under the blinking light of a god with a broken hip

Devils with white teeth and enormous tongues devouring the moon, dancing to the point of fever

copulating to the point of poison, the blood and foam of freedom.

Last night I dreamed of the storm and of castrated men drinking every drop of rain, kneeling

begging forgiveness from the snake that slithers around the rifle of god.

You lie down with the old woman and wake with naked dolls under the dust and light of

desperation in a room that could be a liquid prison and you ask yourself

How many birds die in their cages with bellies like stones and feathers charred?