It looks bad

It looks bad

that the days ahead, the empty ice that stumbles in our face

When we walk the streets, waiting for the hungry dogs

that we abandoned in the suburbs of thoughts,
They come to chew the orbits of our eyes so we don’t see

The time that has passed since we woke up.

And since the night began, she also began to walk

into the womb of our ruined and less noisy houses.

It looks bad because it always does, because people don’t just do this

They don’t simply sleep on the parapet of life

With the various fractures exposed to boredom

and a sharp tenderness of the bodies of others

to burn slowly as a bath of sweat, imagination.

“Please don’t just sit waiting for the iron sun to plunge their senses.”

a sun that would heat so hard that it would blast the nerves of the pictures you take

to all those magazines that just look bad

and newspapers that also look so bad

because it seems bad to dilute affections with a mud of numbers

a mass of statistics,

a mud shares, revenue, deficit, crisis, grise

of free pulsating, demented, sickly images

that flutter and get under the skull

leaked onto a website with all your most intimate secrets

The travel was a narrow corridor where you grew up

And now your identity is a kind of obsessive relief

With which everyone fantasizes.

But let me put things in these terms,

When I lurk you by the shutters of the blind

And you’re half naked, and it’s so late, but nobody has fallen asleep yet

And there are glittering lips at the tips of deceit

“Are you trying to make sure that the land doesn’t commit suicide

With a seismic song of your gestures?”

because after all, my fingers and my desire and the fingers

(This is looking so bad.)

We retreat from the condition that I irrigate in the poems.

And rumors are floating in undecipherable memories.

I put my headphones on and leave for two seconds, nd the world eats your face, nd we can run away

ffroma better hassle than this.