They dance over the corpse of a new hope and choke the remains of our sanity in white sheets It is time to be plain and run towards nothingness It is time to fornicate the apathy and to be abyss God-

Hundreds of them in my skin they circulate like fire walk over the walls blue, red and black Thousands of them within me blinking misery in drops of light They are God-eyes Lucifer-eyes You-eyes Millions

West Wing God hammers the night with the babbling of an idiot and the white hug caresses his back-semen, it sews his lips with clouds in order to tear out his eyes instead of cursing the wind that blocks

Why this tormenting thirst? Why the fatiguing need? It is the wound that talks from the left side and traces itself perpendicularly to the inverse angle of an astral projection, which is not your image

I want no more than to cast away my demons with these verses tattooed in the femur. Insomnia has substituted my eyes with coffins, and a mirror watches my dilation among inexistent colors and smells. I