domingo, 21 de febrero de 2016

march 1988

when I think of all  these fuckin´ hours
lost in weeping over nothing
and of my own broken wings
that screw up my soul
to the septic rhythms in the head.
How could I be though to turn down
my own humility
and not to follow, say, Pushkin, to
his death ?
O what a rotten fuck
to not have the seasons or heaven
or errors of unknown elements
breathing down my neck
and being thankful for that.
No one sees me. I am just here,
my foot a decoy for compassion
my sympathies and despairs for
another generation to find.
And if in the dichotomy of a
missing world
a cough awakes the night
you´ll find I´m not asleep

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