The resonance of the stone pickaxe, in the sudden leap of my pulse,

destroys, in my imagination, the figure of the Earth,

dissolves the Tower of Babel, tears away its gates,

scatters all its bricks,

sets ablaze the Hanging Gardens it contained.

Then: neither water, nor shade, nor flower.

And here I am, rejected, hunted, toward a cave

that no rock encloses.

No fire that I animate — and which animates me —

stains the darkness of the night with blood.

You — hawks, tigers, lions —

tear the Man to pieces.

If a shudder of the horror that night unfurls

seizes him,

assail him with your roars,

make his tomb tremble.

My brain — heir of generations,

wanderer of the abysses of multivers —

an ill has struck it:

it has paralyzed my foot,

and harshly gnaws at my heart.

These words are more sincere

than any prophecy of a seer.

They point out the paths of meteors,

the sentinels of secrets,

show the hidden lookout.

If the physician speaks,

silence the astrologer and the soothsayer.

The resonance of the tombstone

crawls toward my extremities.

In an instant,

I will be unable to lay down

a single distraught verse in my imagination.

Beyond you, O my imagination,

stretch horizons and a thousand skies.

Make millions of suns and lights

gush from your stars.

Kindle an earthquake in my blood,

so that I may write

before death,

or madness,

or the inertia of the weary hand.

The archipelagos of my mind,

my memories,

all my dreams and my illusions —

I slit the throat of my mourning spirit on the screen.

that a wretch will read,

after years and years,

to know that one more wretched than he lived in this world,

vowed — despite the ill, the grief and the insomnia,

despite the misery —

to living.

My ill — are you a mask of death?

And if death were to let its veil fall?

I fear that,

if the pale grimace and the two orbits

from which the eyes were sucked out

— battalions of worms,

around which silence dozes —

unfold before my gaze,

blood might flow from my nose

and the two orbits.

Where is my father?

Where is my mother?

Where are my forebears?

They wrote their names on the water. And I,

I do not even want to scribble my name on the water.

Farewell, my friends, my beloved ones.

If you wish to remember me,

remember me under the full moon.

Otherwise,

it was only a name dissipated

among other names.

Farewell, my friends, my beloved ones.

I’m going to walk down with the Sun in Chino with a busted nose, handlebar mustache, peroxide blonde fascist undercut crew with a rat tail. A mini jacket half cut football jersey, Hitorii bouldering knickers. singed illusion mesh train around my waist in fishnets & crocs. Fresh from the smut shacks, porn houses & entertainment rental booths that dot the pan traverse limits signage dragging a Marilyn Monroe print hard top half case with a dog leash. A raged knife cut bitch of a queer war pig..

Your as always: A Low Type Poet

Ask my heart,

now that it has found its peace—

and now that peace has stirred again.

Perhaps it still has some reproach

to lay before Beauty.

When life grows difficult,

we turn to the wise for counsel.

But has Beauty left my heart

even a reason to speak?

Once, whenever I questioned my heart,

my tears would answer for it.

Deep within my breast,

flesh and blood lie joined—

frail remnants of a youth

lost beyond recall.

They ran from me as tears,

and I thought they were departing;

they beat within my chest,

and I thought they were returning.

Even hearts forged out of iron

could not have borne

the torment I have endured.

With those I loved,

I tasted the purest wine;

but our union was brief—

a bubble trembling for a moment

before vanishing into air.

After they depart,

the heart becomes a stranger to itself.

At the memory of its own,

it burns,

it withers.

No one can teach you more about Time

than one who has lost

those he loved,

and those who once walked beside him.

O you who live in this world—

I see your earth as a viper,

forever shedding its skin.

A spotted serpent,

watchful precisely because it seems asleep,

its deadly venom swelling

beneath the mask of peace.

Strange creature:

it turns the hair of its lovers white

and brings them to ruin,

while it remains forever young.

And I—

who could still be deceived by this world?

I have known it too long,

until I wore my very garments thin

against its touch.

It laughs like a singer

for the simple-minded;

I laugh like a sage

who pretends not to understand.

In its garden

I gathered roses and thorns,

and from its cup

I drank both honey

and wormwood.

I acknowledged no verdict

but the verdict of the Lord,

and sought no door

but the door of the Lord.

Among all things,

I revered only true knowledge—

the distilled essence of truth.

And I honored only the face

of the free man,

whose generosity

makes his own rich in blessing.

I have seen no greater evil

than the hoarding of wealth,

nor anyone more wretched

than the miser enslaved by it.

A freestyle haiku\ And I wrote it just for you\ So pay up your dues

Oh you say it's shit?\ And you think that I sould quit?\ Saw through the ol' bit?

You knew its not new\ I don't know what gave that clue\ You saw through the ruse

But rhymes is money\ And honey this aint funny\ So pay up buddy

My rhymes is my time\ And shitty rhymes for pitty dimes\ Is a petty crime

~a very rude sequence of haikus by a shitty street artist to be recited to the next person who wants a ten cent freestyle 🫠