Decaying animal corpses, fancy coffee,
a Devil Woman Naked and despoiled,
storms in the eyes of Men and the Immortals
with tin cans of beer in hand...
Poets' bowels are the Fortress,
with all the stored Violence perching.
Decadent silhouettes, who hate nothing
and they worship nothing.
And a ward full of babies,
Blue-Red-Green-Black-Yellow.
But all the colors are from plastic paints.
In the evening the Women washed themselves in the River all TOGETHER and ALONE. And the next morning the people in charge painted them again. And the nightmare will never END!
The obsessions are in the direction of the birds…
He is the Man who became "Ahistorical" or
the categories he produced to describe his EGO?
What does it matter!
Earth, anyway, would be conquered…
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