A little ,a lot .
Maybe never .
The next moment until the end.
Is it still possible to escape ?
Poetry is just a passing inn
where we write on a stain tableclothe
what we were unable to say to lost souls...
Words ,now only have the taste
of a cooled tenderness .
Meat that return to ashes...
Life remains suspended on a twilight
of remorses where hours converse
with boredom .
Savoring the poisoned instant
of an amnesic absinthe ...
At departure as at arrival,
we are always to late ,
forgetting the lethal lyric ...
So cold is the memory of reverie.
Tonight I will stop at the inn
in the middle of nowhere .
Terror terminus .
By the flickering light of my subconscious
I would draw up the lines
of a will for nothingness.
and tonight falling asleep
in the arms of a child\'s death .
The appetizers of a well -educated folly
leave regrets on the shredded body
of a double bass that I will no longer enjoy...
Up there,I will finish this concerto
for purple dahlias ,
in tribute to the vestal virgins ...
A red beverage to the feeling of metal
draw a ruby necklace ,that is dying
in the delta ...
A little,a lot .
Maybe never .
The next moment until the end .
Escaping is no longer possible
under the black sun of melancholy...