Blood thickened stain
Clogging the slitted throat
A leak within the fatty blabber
Shaping my eyes to crystals
This downpour so precious to cut a knife—
it's a scratch into my eye
When I meet the audience
do I stand with crackling knees?
I do
or no, sometimes lay paralysed.
A distorted life, oedema in skin
To commit is becoming a column of dry concrete
To dream is policing a disrupted screen.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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