There is a corpse in his street and a musician on his rooftop. There are dead bodies floating in his dirty water. A buried person once said: ‘God help us.’
In his lost mind, politicians cut the throats of babies. A helicopter doesn’t stop. The cop goes to hell. A bunch of white flowers fall,
suspended, gravity abandoned, adorns the mass grave and a woman’s tongue dangles blood red to sing a last lullaby.
Her hip has fallen from its socket. Her breasts are round and firm with pretty nipples that like to be sucked . . . gently. Her ribs stick out. She is wearing a lot of mascara; it makes her eyes big. She believes makeup is a form of art. Her ears are torn by all the gold rings and flaps of skin,
No contact is possible to flesh. There are scars on her skeleton. They say: ‘If you’re reading this, there has been a great massacre.’ The painter jumps.
God hates him while angels dance on his head in stilettos, as requested. It was like swimming under water with wide-open eyes until at last he died. It was very relaxing.