Thursday, June 7, 2018


Suicidal words that emerged from the street and we ended up to believe. Our end is the time of their candy empire. I don’t want this world. The corpse of the patient is seen from the outer space. A point in the middle of the immensity of madness. We repeat the same speech. They came to explode our cities, watching the chaos that take hold the psychotic dreams of the populace from their invisible watchtowers. They built skyscrapers of blood while promoting to escape to them, turned into showers of concentration camps. All in procession on the weekend highways, happy to lack everything. First came those with swollen bodies and diseased heads, lying about the fun of the empire, jumping from corners to windows, sneaking into our houses, destroying our belongings and making them theirs. Like those infected mouths that spit out the chewed testicles of the servants for years. They’ve taken the hell, they’ve made it theirs. We breathe insects without vision. They sell words, anger, fear, votes. They’ve sold you. They’ve invented you. And still, we repeat the same speech. The consequences and the buildings are burning in an inconsistent infinity. The right hand will last even in a corrupt body. I understand, now. They’ve taken people and crossed their miseries with the thoughts of any funny martyrdom, throwing later their remains into a common grave that grows on the side of the road. They’ve opened in us holes with phallic promises that melt like butter in the sex of a nymph whose murdered face appears in the front pages of the main tabloids. We repeat the same speech. Demons of privileged pocketbooks drown non-partisans, spreading hatred in insignificant times to last in power and enlarge their stomachs and their smelly egos. They burn books in the town squares. Applause from the audience. We believe we are free because we can switch the channel, but we swallow the same parliament over and over again. They cut off writers' hands so they can’t express themselves. They do the same with the tongues of the voices that vomit the opposite. And we repeat the same speech. They explode theaters, loads of dynamite under the seats where the children only see puppets. You have your brain pointed. The neighbor’s accusing finger, the one you played with when you were a kid. They arrest you for not thinking the same. They judge you in the street. It’s better to die. They’ve inoculated the germ of nonsense in the mind of the unborn to ensure their permanence. Long live to the education, wherever you are! Culture is torture that is repeated in traditional time. What time is it? A century and a half less. Constant stimuli, announcements of bright colors, cacophonous sounds that reverberate in the deaf ear of those who refuse to hear. Attached to a machine for breathe, to endure living. Lies made technology injected into the temple. And we believe ourselves free, and we keep repeating the same speech. Like zombies. World War Z has been installed in the living room of your house. The brain explodes in insubstantial information to encumber famous persons that nobody will talk about when they’ll die. Art is an open ass hole in the middle of darkness. Everything is so similar that differences hardly exist, and if we perceive them, we persecute them and attack them. Our teeth are filled with dust with repeated speech. Atrophied dreams of hyper-lubricated naked bodies, rubbing against our most abject desires. Vaginas and penises spitting fluids of bad slobber. And we repeat the same speech. BA Be Bi Bo Bu. I see mouths in the eye sockets of those people who observe their current account in which only hair grows and they don’t end the month without burning. Old age is an insult. Brother heaven, luxury fist. Senses screaming and scratching the hanging baby. A touch of violence from the fake smoking bone. The sirens sound every half hour. The mask well placed. Stubbornly dismiss the cruel vision of the hungry. They take him tied to the jungle where the sacrifice will take place. They don’t worry about hiding the biggest secret of the mafia that creeps at night. Big thinking head. A more atomic belly. The hot bodies that remain cold are then shown to the sky. A cross. The air runs. There is not the girl who sticks threats in the eyes of passers-by. "We want your sex", the men shout, with the approval of society, shortly before pouncing on her. They fish bitter tastes under the freezing of the anus. Some rise suffocated to the red-murder surface, not knowing what has happened, apologizing their actions, making them consequence of the system. I’ll swing my eyes over the swamp and my invented farm. We want a turn to escape, but it's impossible. I’ll settle for contemplation of decadence and destruction, because salvation is in there. The annihilation and beauty of things. Next!
--Oscar Varona

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