If I was, with my imagination,
discerning through the voice the kind
or the monstrous spirit in every living being
(with whom I would converse),
That same imagination discerned me the existence,
of the unused prints of such melodious,
and yet so unloving,
Voices not yet revived,
which are yet to rush, buzz, roar and call
the dark, unexplored worlds
Threatens to suck in and pull
the fear unclear, mixed with loathing,
walking integrals made of blood, meat and malice
All of humanity towards the corpses of eons,
the polyphony of murmurs,
From the purple mouth of the Dark,
creaming, maddened medusas
with horse necks and with bodies of the bull. . .
Who scratched the disc of Dark,
who flipped the pages of the atlas of Death
who, hungry for red meat,
Search and grab,
swallow, storm, crush with their feet
bodies dismembered and the transcript of antique nostalgia
Dedicated to the wiccans and the undead,
on the slopes the pierced the grounds,
like forks into soft meat
Stretching far above the tips of malicious temples.
as well as Belobog proposes to the Boogey,
With her scary face and open jaws with no teeth.
Hercules searching for Persephone,
but, the drama one, not the lyrical one!
When the sky is bloated with gray clouds,
and the rain does not drip drops,
but bubbles like cursed membranes….
Did they have faces?
even if they did, those would be dark curves of circles
in Nothingness itself.
Tzap, poof, abracadabra, doo!