Liberty the human color
What mouths will fly to pieces
Roof tiles
Under the thrust of this monstrous vegetation
The sun a setter dog
Leaves the stoop of a fancy town house
Slow blue chest where the heart of time beats
Stream of stars
Who washes away the punctuation marks of my poem and those of my friends
You mustn't forget that in drawing lots I won liberty
The explorer grappling with the red ants of his own blood
Right to the end it's the same month of the year
Perspective which allows us to judge if we have to deal with souls or not
19...An artillery lieutenant is waiting in a trail of gunpowder
as everyone knows
In otherwords the world that won't exist
O superimposed windowpanes of thought
In glass earth skeletons are stirring
Everyone's heard of the fart of the medusa
And could if it came down to conceive of any equivalent of that fart in the sky
