My sulfurous and alcoholic mind at night…

On Shutter Island, I tore out my eyes in the cigarette hanging from my lamp.

Imaginary creatures, horror, and cold!

I worship them when my organs drink blood!

Shelter-shattering birds whose wings I’ve ripped in my palm…

The four-cornered demon inside me, aching my feet, turning them purple on the ice-cold floor.

When wormwood mixes into my cell in a barren wasteland,

I blow the Nightmare of Elm Street into the water on my palate.

-Understand me, my people whom I’ve left incomplete!

Save me from my purified reality!

The ropes of filthy swings are an oratorio…

From head to toe, I am the wound on Brecht’s left leg in the “Threepenny Opera.”

On the three-seater sofa of my delusional obsession,

At the vintage of my madness, every morning a king dresses and undresses in the image of my father.

-Which smile spreads across such a vile face?

Who can touch the whorish darkness on my lip?

My wakefulness distills shrapnel pieces into my inflamed abdominal cavity.

The parenthesis of something in my cannibalism: “Women Who Run with the Wolves.”

My tongue and palate are in pain, a glass of martini under the full moon.

Old dynamites and rat eyes in my limbs…

An old circus traveler plays me with strings on my arms.

The god of lust living in my groin crushes all theories.

I am a hunter now on my mother’s knees.

Last night, I drowned my childhood in the river of innocence…

There are still fragments of blood on my hands….