the birth

The only memorie was a greyish soul,
on a grey morning. The greysh.
A yell persists in blood,
placenta and hate, the utero’s rejection.
Amalgamates walls,
the greyish shout,
only a memorie was left from that morning,and,
not even the leaves could see the certain death at the birth.
The grey.
Perpetual punch,
like an infinite karma,
like the liver soaked in blood,
like a pharynx drowned in vomit.
Since the prime breath in first body moviments,
the psychotic crying child that can’t even stambles,
although utters,
‘cos knows there is nowhere to run out,
undestands the world’s putridity and it’s metalic taste,
so this is only the beggining of the pain,
the child now feels his hate grows,
untie your lungs from the throat,
unfasten the inertial heart’s wandering,
and yells…