There are broken words,
Like the foam of the seas.
The spit of the beginnings which splashes the cheek.
You call them memories.
Hell, you are aware that all that you throw from your mouth reaches just at the halfway of the idea.
You release an arsenal of letters and sounds which defend up to the den the Sense.
There is something of the world noise settled in you
And it came without being called.
This words are not yours.They entered in the swamp of the time.
They wallow like the pigs.
And after they get very dirty,
You wash them nicely, you are careful so they do not crack, so not to hurt yourself.
You are lying! This is all what you want! Infusion! You want to get sick with the words!
I wish there was an apparatus to transcribe the flicker of my brain. To betray all the suffering and perverse eyes.
Every thought is poetry. Oh! The unfortunate and nasty oblivion!
You must remember that squirrel, the poetry dressed more in white fur than in a red one.
The squirrel was more humane than you. That’s why it ran away.
You must remember a lot of these things.
The damp and sticky like the snake skin walnut leaves, the frozen apples…
So, without memories, you can not live?
No, you can not. There are the yesterday memories, the two weeks ago ones, the memories from another life or the ones from two seconds ago. Here it is! Another memory!
The man is and will be remain… a simple memory.
That is to say, I wish he remain in memory.