O how many books in front of me
like, you know,
they make me smile and sneeze
so happy I am i've read them
and've learnt how to think like them
it's just like eschistosomosis (is this right?)
I mean... why not?
If only they werent so dusty, damn them.
they make bad for me lungs
turn right and you are there
follow my footprints, they are written, they are massive, they are pretty more Adornistic than Godlessnistic as if Swift was still alive, holding his guts against a crazy-eyed iron Man fighting Sysyphus once again.
confuse for me having to write this while being so so below them
lurking at me
not knowing that I cant' even
undertand what they are talking about
and in which language
they try to speak to us
no europe im fine with europe
cortázar and rosa on the sameless self
o poor ghost
i dont know
if I am taking you to the Ball
or if I'm gonna bring the fucking ball to you.