day SIX HUNDRED and ELEVEN

"I no longer see myself reflected in your bloody stars," he said.
This fruit poisons us and turns us
into monsters.
Chewing poverty leads to hatred.
Nice yellow glands on your lips.
I’m your cold in the economic change.
I'm debt, I'm a gun,
one that the glorious luck accompanies
and that unleashes its rage on your orange body.
The food is plastic,
and the sun burns my cancerous skin
without compassion.
You don’t know that your heart is a fried kiss of rancid humor
that I want to strangle.
Shooting gives you fun.
Killing the different is what you want
to stay alone in your infinite loneliness
and not throw up.
I don’t want to hear your thoughts
of a harlot anointed and drained
by slaves who lie words and songs. 

Tender and reproductive flowers give birth the black spring
in a hole that is my singing,
my food of faith expanded and passionate.
Everything is disease, infection.
The others lie more than the rest.
And the nature of my fluids
turns black on Mondays
when I read the news that you star.
Children of the third world have cracked nodes
and you laugh
and you feel fulfilled for being observed
by millions of immense eyes and
cooked meats that you want to chew and eat in panic.
The taste of the hunt is different.
Adrenaline is more addicted than heroin;
the lie.
And the old world turns, changes, and I don’t want to live
with people like you by my side.
Suicide for political, poetic reasons.
Stay with your church,
with your violations and deaths,
with your hatred,
with your racism and misogyny.
I hope you never get to win.
I’m already dead,
as well as my old fashioned world”.

--Oscar Varona