ashes away to never
the meowing of two clocks
torn and the restless thought
writing.
When he lost no looking back
that mocked the sentence to be yourself
who lost and laughed and was buried in Mondragón
who vomits on the poem and on and on
Child of pain filling his pockets
cramp and pus
whom nobody or nothing came to fart or ballads and wept
back home
tattered hands and kissing as far
who lives
or dies on the hump of the poem
while a black rose
crawls every night
the neckline of our lives.
