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?
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?