The clogged air smells like speechless ink,
like manly sweat/the workers of the light are drinking all zealously quinine/#
writers are taking off their slippers respectfully at the treshold of eternity,
they hide Achilles' heel in the bell of putty,
swallowing loneliness/ bitter hemlock/
like a dystrophic fish

you sharpened the routine of the day on a hot roof.
Lascivious scribe, you are weltering your asymptomatic happines
in fancy verbal style

the stray dogs are barking in the gardens verbal extravagance
with dull fingers, the money are being counted/ the last Mohicans of writing/
I am writing myself on open heart,
sharing the cells from the silicone vein/ aseptic capsules/
I am typing my last edition without anesthesia every three pages
I am slipping the pink dew lizard of chopped words
disjointed words were mutilated Procrusteanly in your bed