in the machinery of the night
illuminated fractals, the terror of the walls,
the ball is over and about to begin
the sins of the father
the sins of the mother
on colourful credit-cards.
Going to the pawnshop
to build me a dream,
vanishing into nowhere
on a Zen mountain,
saint john still on the cross but already smiling,
the mother weeps in the soft wind,
jumping of the roof in a limousine sleep,
the intoxicated screams of abuse
beating on drunken virgins in diamond chains,
the realms of love became echoes of dust
on the broken shelves of the library.
The jumping became flying
in borderless infinity complaining about the valley of tears.
Is it so difficult to choose between your grandchildren
and conflicting interests in oil?
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