I could steal, but I just write poems

I chew so few times. I swallow food so fast. In her 85 years of authority, Mom, who walks slowly because she used to walk fast, asks my son what’s the matter. She loves listening to Almir Sater. I love your fragile sweetness. There’s plenty of Rivotril on the lap, among other welcome redundancies. Never told me with your mouth son I love you. Didn’t even need it. Quiet, I read what the folds of your parchment skin have to say. The charm of loving is pure enchantment. I miss the sea, the fear of drowning in it. They should serve more poetry for breakfast. I reflect. So I go. I drive anxiously through the wrinkles of the city. I see other neurotic people occupying steering wheels with their ring fingers raised out of the car window. I spit on the hot asphalt and the spit soon burns and turns into a cloud. Part of me evaporates from dizziness. Now the brain’s synaptic pathways are too congested, impassable, and not a single living cell gives me breath in juggling shows. The bars are about to reopen. The hearts of the clientele beat closed and alone. Waiters with an innate talent for balancing tulips on a tray scattered across tables and chairs on the promenade. It is notorious that a draft beer with a high collar would go well down the throat. No use: they download banzo apps for me. I have sex with the eyes of a crazy driver who stops his car at a crosswalk. I think of the petroglyph he would draw in his benevolent lair using a solid red-hot club. Everything rhymes with pain, except love. The traffic light opens. The unknown frowns and accelerates until she turns the corner of her mind. Try I try myself, but there is a certain dissatisfaction with always finding a little more of myself in everything that is next to it. Rapid thinking syndrome, panic, anxiety or simply numbness in the five senses? If you don’t know, imagine me. If there is anything wrong in this empty suburban context, it must belong to the psychic sphere of this square, erratic man with inhuman grimaces. It has been years since the last twenty-four hours I have thought as if it were seventy-two. You’re right, mom. I swallow food too quickly. And I keep an eye on the clock. And I drive fast. And I slide on the curves of promising ideas. After all that, a little more of the present flies over my body, ready to consume it. It will have been too soon, for too late the night, sad as it may be, will pass like a breath, a breath which I blow into the deaf ear of death as it chews up men at the legally permitted speed on the highways of life. No one doubts anymore that nothing lasts forever. Neither the mediocre work of an immortal senile from the academy nor the starving person who passes out on the sidewalk of a bar during happy hour, affected by drunkenness, abstinence or anemia. I could steal, but I just write poetry.

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