the night cools my soul and suffocates the woven rags in raucous, glaucous pedestal in which are posed the glosses of the dislocated dawn of apotheoses evoked among the roses revitalized and morose furrowed with bruises and ravished with purring, looted with piles, asleep in nothingness, scattered by time, the wind clearing dust and earth from my eyelids to see my blood, boiling, foaming, in the heavenly, insolent spring, of innocence breaks my ranks in pearly, beaming floods, I am only one moment in the awakening from nightmares of the last night on earth I play the game of twinned times with memories in black, sleep-inducing bristles where my stunted dreams macerate that try to measure up to the only truest, those of the word and forgetting (banners of solitude where I atone from my anger over the stupid lies of life) saturnine rotations in the rings of the squares of carnal annals oceanic replies and reversals in waves and whirlpools rounded by the frictions of fiction and splits in the fissions on the fissures in sutures on the azure crackled with bits and divided with stripes surrealistic and liquid in the limpid bricks in the doorways grins of the diurnal moon in fragments of water tanks and the words the words the words the alcohol flows freely, ambrosia of idiots, the blood of the giants who feed the streams the arabesques almost agile in the kidneys of the remains of dry marrows strewn over blazing breaches spare parts of stylized horrors among the crossings sly, encloistered with spontaneous mistakes in the voided void with ova rhyming with ideas of rime fragmented into stellar crystals pulsating drifts in pulmonary echoes and racily rooted with blasphemous ices of traces chants and flasks hidden and fantastic if my wishes are under the care of smooth silky dreams I would dare to hope to know when emerged from my eyes in gazes transformed from matter into halos 2. the emptiness of words and the emptiness of the soul, spitting made to measure by its loathsome instruments of war, devour the ubiquity of silence in the temporal frameworks doxa of disturbance crime and punishment of resplendent backwashes in stylistic echoes of simple purities prolific pleonasms of magnificent and magnanimous anarchic dogmas fullness and multiplicity foldings in the subtleties simultaneous deconstruction of my feverish poetry the instants that escape the desire to capture them the hands too big to wear them, shedding leaves in fragrances, the effervescence of foam, the rainy soils of planets in orbit around galaxies in infinite spirals in the darkness the softest of sleeping azure 3. season of skies in fluorescent compendia glints of joy on hinges tainted with rust in expectation of the tender, wet suffering drunk, obsessively bubbled sleepwalker abandonment of the being in indivisible cells 4. the Cyclops's eye gaping in its pedestal grief of the myopic giant in his rags leaves that mask our timeless prayers apocalyptic cancer in an orgy of destruction sows the blood of semes that self-love in syncopated scenes repercussions of rebounds of shattered shells on the surfaces of mirrors, on the imprisoned reflections echoes of sighs of exterminated shadows ghosts and spectres of lights that slip between the railings of my eyelids to throw themselves into the abyss of my skull 5. at the end of the world your wings spread, viscous will detach.

my soul extends over the crest of the vast nothingness is surrounded with sidereal sweetness furrowing the edges of light running along the flow of the gutters a rain of stimuli streaming in my veins to irrigate the earth of the sleepy garden and so that I can gather its fruits of signifiers on an autumn morning full of laughing leaves scattered in the wind like my childhood memories I feel an imperceptible substance I drink from an inexhaustible spring that fills strident slanders with sleeplessness wind gusts of infinite whisperings my shell of wilted blood ravage between the gizmos where smooth clouds slide waving the fresco almost frail of the jumbled landscape kaleidoscope of inaudible mirages and me, the man under the mirror of skies that lies, dreaming between the eternal cracks streaking the attempts at raw emancipations of a body lacerated by invasions that heckle to the last boundaries of the universe the molecules of azure structuring my matter in the cold folds, artificial paradises me, that man, like the swallow, flies off to the unknown I feel an imperceptible substance I drink from an inexhaustible spring that fills strident slanders with sleeplessness wind gusts of infinite whisperings my shell of wilted blood ravage between the gizmos where smooth clouds slide waving the fresco almost frail of the jumbled landscape kaleidoscope of inaudible mirages

I have to detect the differences in the inconsistencies of incongruous spaces like a climber who looks for cracks to grab onto and continue to scale on the sides of cliffs of an indecipherable discomfort to find the strangeness in our sleepwalking to continue to look for the weaknesses in the prism to emphasize the omnipresent qualities that construct the negative spaces the bellicose ubiquity of the whitecapped buoys in the black ocean spun with propellers and spirals escapes the fangs of my ferocity purple fog in my feral pupils electricity provided by the colours of dawns palette of feelings that fly if grazed by the simple caresses of the wind I am don quixote at war against the giants of the universe I am don juan who attracts the metaphysical succubuses that under my cyclical sun inhale the kaleidoscopic rays to leave only one unit, stripped down in the tub of lego blocks of eternity the grace of the delicious movements of the propellers of my flesh shivers like a silent prayer in my reptilian brain my cortex, heavy, awkward, incapable of grasping every subtlety let yourself be carried away by the impetus of roots I skid outside the universe of reason I am unreal, magic dissolution

I want to run but you're right there you smell like the incense of a cold-blooded saint a look at your fingers looking at me you're the only one who sees there is no way out of the wear and tear of love I guide your bites to the rhythm where your wounds heal and can’t manage your greed your soul is covered with varicose veins with scars with windswept cliffs where I can sleep and never scream. oasis, the flow of my dreams may, wants, maybe, worried, take root in the erotic erosion erupting in a gloss of flesh and thoughts, and you quote, excited I love you and neither do you you look at the snow the flood of flakes and flamingos in the light of dawn glows the sky is orangey clouds light with rages and exhausted storms the final stages are completed. raise up from your feet. you must still talk about your old addictions freshly cleared of the sun drunk with water of your life enduring and tough until infinity my passions writhe like silk wolf cubs that nibble in the mould of my reflected self in a frantically closed faith you freeze your frights of animosity they bequeath you a static pain for lack of more insecurity you watch the snow fall your open eyes flicker under the shock waves swirling in the belly of the ventriloquist you are of a rare beauty, woven with rags

On the crest oscillating between darkness and light, on the brink of the abyss, before being devoured by the icy fangs of the inevitable, the tender joys of spring and the torrid passions of summer put on their dresses fed with flames woven from a proud desperation. Among the bright remains of the cohorts of dead leaves, the foam of tender memories stirs a soil curled up against the formidable frostiness of decline. The dawn is a tender memory at the zenith of life, and the burning dawn like a living forge, inhabited with an array of dreams, gnaws its sparkling tears of relief from the sky. Finally the end of the hunger of living The hopeless, hoarse howlings and whisperings of the winds of a void unreeling its sterile guts in the childbirth of an opaque sleep rock calmly the awakening of the living. Refrigerant storms overlooking the orange strangenesses plastered in the beauty of a candle flame burned down to the final gulp of gory wax. It doesn't take much to appreciate the war cry of our mother in the face of the bitter conclusion of her mysteries, in the face of the powerless silence of the floods that freeze like the sap in its trunk. A simple breath is enough to undress the trees of their armours woven with tongues. Time tears their flesh to leave only clues of life, monolithic skeletons loaded with boreal rains. The light crosses the prisms among the branches and imprisoned rainbow reflections graze those light rays of their kaleidoscopic voices. The last leaves stay bravely on the branches, their last colours blanched by the moulting. Nature peels under the hail of time. The hidden subtleties of those coloured fragrances can do nothing against the reign of defleshed snow. Even the sun, sealed in its pedestal, is subjected to the infernal night and to its voracious gusts of tar. The Moon stares at us with a mocking, crazy placidity, like the eye of the ghost of nature above the cemetery of our joys in arborescences of bloomings under the implosion of stillborn buds. All there is left to do is to wait for the revolution of the entire planet. His breath of life is based in his frosty tomb. But in spite of that, autumn is a sign of hope, adorned with peaceful laughs before his fall. During his journey to the bottom of the abyss, we see one last confident, conspiratorial smile from our mother to her children to reassure them, because one day, she will come back.

he looks out the window at the light broken by the poorly placed frames of this damned house. he tells himself that this mess isn't worth it anymore. he picks up his rifle and goes out. there are two vehicles parked on the street. a gray one and a black one. he starts to shoot at the people driving the passing cars making sure that they can't see him it would be too bad not to be able to finish the work begun he reloads his rifle and walks in the public square. nobody notices him until he liquidates an eighty-year-old in a wheelchair who was moving too slowly. people start to scream chaos music his ears can barely tolerate that racket. he harmonizes it with two cartridges. one smashes into the skull of a little six-year-old girl and the other in the belly of her pregnant mother. he laughs enthusiastically. no policeman stops him. they look. he begins to understand what he is doing and he wonders where this desire to destroy comes from. he tells himself that it could not be otherwise and that it has been far too long that he has been waiting his whole life he has been waiting to see this moment. he hides his face behind the sight of his rifle and he fires again and again blinded by adrenaline and the euphoria of ending all those lives and of being the one who who who who who. Jack wakes up in his shabby basement filled with broken light that comes through the frames of his poorly place windows in this damned house and he tells himself that he has had enough of this damn mess so he takes a knife and goes outside it is two thirty-three and it is very cold several pedestrians could be targets for him he chooses one at random and cuts him to pieces in an alley. the other man doesn't even have the strength to scream because he is also fed up with the damned mess of reality. Jack Jack Jack wakes up in his dusty attic and begins to eat the rats he hunted that night before the pieces cut from his dolls provide him with salt for his filth and he refuses to believe that this girl is not of ivory but in fact of flesh. Jack wakes up and wakes up again and goes back to sleep while waking up and he takes his time with the body of his beloved. Jack sits down on his couch turns on the TV and begins to watch he feels better. his house is on fire. he doesn't feel the heat licking his skin and making his eyes boil. everything he feels is a stretched smile on his lips that are no longer his, but in fact those of an ordinary demon. Jack wakes up and sees jackals shredding his carcass. pigs eat him all around. Jacques wakes up and suddenly he observes that he is in class and he has to write his psychology exam. the teacher laughs but Jack doesn't laugh. he shoots himself two days later and that's the end of our story pain of living sounds of dry breaths / cuts abrupt and fluid discovering the fragile tactile volume of my tight throat that frees my words I would have to have a tongue to speak / an absence to have a reason to have an idea to know where to go with this thread of forced shivers. the odour of copper muddles the living room with asphyxia the nerve tightens the hands stretch out on the lascivious faces of cyborg brides waiting in line to jump into the volcano they stretch their wings. they try their refuge, their fantasies incoherent in the inn of our flesh. we implore a sky blackened by atomic faults. blind and howling for pity pity pity to combat the objectivity of nuclear precision. our families united in one last instant of life unbearable sufferings shared at random like those shootings in the media like those parades of macabre mirrors on TV its claws rapacious hollow its voracious nest in the cavities of my skull I have. / I have a / I have an ache / I have a tooth / I have a toothache / that will only be healed by pulling them out / I have a heartache that will only be healed / by pulling it out again and again and again and again and again and again and again for centuries and centuries blessed be he amen.

the pink unicorn looks at you with lunacy and indecency. it is as if a point on your belly itches. You scratch to relieve yourself, but the more you scratch the more it itches. so you keep on scratching. Through the hair. through the flesh. Through the iron that keeps your skeleton whole. it continues itching but you no longer hunger for scratching. you're in spare pieces. (self-destruction.) the pink unicorn tears off your head with its benevolent smile. it penetrates your being unconsciously. / it knows everything on you / it wants everything about you / it wants to devour you / the pink unicorn flies in a Crayola sky weaving its web of tearful whistles and carnivores on the edge of circumflex, cerebral death. its wings of sheet metal and magma sewn of pyjama fabric beat the air with their heavy mass / and its ripped open torso lets flow her bubble-gum coloured intestines but it is her eyes that provide the scariest spectacle it is as if their shine evoked billions of stellar teeth formed from clouds of sharpened diamonds. that cut out the planets and devour the heads and tear away the new-borns from the humid basements of specialized clinics in botched abortions her laugh is like an epileptic fit / her smile detaches from her anorexic lips her whisperings worm their way under your eyelids / between your eyelashes and penetrate your retinas to loot them for sulfuric urine / it blinds you and gnaws your face while you scream a laugh covered with incoherent words. and you wake up in pieces from your post-traumatic nightmare

standing in front of the mirror, a pallid face the rain is soft and showers wipes its muddy filth on the carpet on the dank stage under the blank page facing the snow escaped from the clouds to be deflowered among the seeds of the stem cell of unreality I wake up. I forget my dreams (condensation on frozen thermometers) coagulation in the gaze burst skies neck numb tuque buried under the spider webs of our umbrellas one is devoured to discover that the answer is simple we are a society tamed by institutions of nonsense shut up in our senses. the climb toward perfection leaves everyone behind, above all else. the burst skies blind our atheist spirituality that bellows while humming hymns that glorify the waste of beauty during the economic crisis of the stock exchange of our ideas. frog in the throat. I swallowed it to clean the soot that sticks there when the fireplace of my guts burn. air current lucid lights across a window sewn from scratch in the mansion of my reason it is the waking of wonder that lives in our blood impassive, the skies have been left to languish in their pools of eels, drowned by diffuse, translucent, limpid, sterile tears they have been burst. cruel eternity of blinded awakening, the setting sun is red green yellow blue I tell myself I have to have eyes to see, but I tell myself that it is false and that I am still capable of glimpsing it in my dreams or else when I close the space between my eyelids and that finally all that equals nothing except that I can say that now I know what to talk about. and all the little stars that hang in their niches in the sky simultaneously disconnected from my temporary reality virtually altered by random conditioning and completely relative to the television station in which your reason watches itself while it worsens… are very brilliant. and very beautiful. silence that whispers in my absence.