Tawny night in the belly of the city .
Daggers draw crosses
on the obituary skin .
I\'ts no longer time
for lost souls that neither god
nor devile welcome ...
Too late for a paradise
and hell is sold out ...
night is a scarlet flower
for the hours of misery
and santa, powder retailer.
Suras and sutras desacrated,
Kafka king of rats ...
Afterlife candidates
take the last metro
somewhere ,night and fog,
birds without memory ,
gone with the whim ,
mourning their forgotten wings ...
The heroin of a novel
dies of boredom
in a still life kingdom ...
A bling-bling-ring
hanging from her toe .
You are on the eternal return list
or maybe deleted ...
I\'ts how Winnie the pooh decided...
Tucked away in the warmth of my night
I read german philosophers
and french existentialists .
I also love the necrophile poets
who haunt the necropolis under the moon ...
I tell myself that it\'s only the apocalyptic delirium
of an intelligence disconnected from the dream...