I screwed up, yet again.
I moved again to the bus 26
again I did not return the corpses to the place
I picked up the phone again
It was me … I made their death to the end
with the patches in my hands that I covered them
with a pudding of water
from where I would catch the fruits of theirs
blood, I cleaned them dirty, helpless to control myself.
My poems revealed a deadly activity.
sometimes I’m too quick, hasty react
so I missed the victim.
was walking into the circle, tweeting:
People like to nod over their heads to be loved.
I know it was important to them, more than respect.
I am now released to the pasture of life,
with whipped flowers on the throat.
I flew to tell you that you will not be alone.
On the road waiting for you, only the dead can understand.
And on the way, you are waiting,
the alarm clocks do not ring for a dream)
Now astonishment took the stomach. Behold the miracle.
Because the dead are not coming back. Plant them in a tomb,
fill their suitcases, like a plate of porridge
yet they are here.
The dead are coming back.
Always. They have unpleasant names, they are nameless.
I ring for you, stand up, life is one,
grabbed you .. Live!
then slowly retreats,
It inserts the umbra, traps,
passing days, same days wear headgear and grey caps.
Neither a dirty sock is no exception.
You’re becoming a monk from
Loneliness then soaked
With the melody rising,
with the harmony of the sphere a bit of my old dirt.
I’ve been drinking lots of benzodiazepines before
resurrection, a happy event
I’m a character forever lost in the brand of everyone
once beautiful, now one of many, decrypted, glued
for the machine from which the paper is fed, printed in legitimate crumpled letters.
I and Jesus are like a nail and baptism.
I have an appointment with a psychiatrist at five.
@Leila Samarrai Mehdi