I don’t have to spent any more hot words
from the sticking edges of thoughts
the crickets of mind are whistling falling inside
the birds are quietly freezing through the pockets
forsaken is the safety belt
the unshaved smell of the aggressive after
I wrote translated meat into a manual of onetime useful senses
that I did expose at the museum of science
on the crossed vault
in this car is an empty place for retouched caresses
tears of forgiving are running the Olympic marathon
for hiding into no destination
beneath the wheels outside the luck
this expression of stoned heart
that doubles me from the back looking glass
with my aorta prematurely cutted
for cowardliness
doesn’t show me fitting anyhow is irritating me
this likeliness with Venus from Milo
it doesn’t pull me out of my narrow prison-ribs
of this hope in well so inadequate warmed
when days are passing necked of celebration
new laws voted allow so clean madness
unclothed beings parading victorious on the pavement
still behind
remains the woman with her dreams and old-fashioned matches
burning pyre of rhymes in the postmodernist poetry
into the city where dwellers are the protocolar statues
communicating only the political diplomacy correctness
running out seldom from the boundaries of the silent sense or heart
into that winter with gates of exile under any circumstance
I’m waiting. to burn. inside or out my heart