A lesser person walks
in the dead man's street
to meet his metastasized
oncocytes to,
kill for the sake of kill,
death for a song that was
not there.
And you will keep wearing
the explosive vest
which will not go off.
Luteum. The color of
spring spreads. No prolactin.
Milk has dried up,
and so the tears in the eyes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Feral in the forests of the flesh, carnivorous beasts feast and ingest the meat and wine of the body. An incantation of poison echoes hollowly through the halls vacated for the ceremony of ascension. The inflated anchors tethered to the sun are undone one strand at a time.