I believe we shall bring the matchbox

the matchbox, yes, that one under there

we journey, tomorrow, where you cannot breathe, requisite dance on the verge

Oh light! Cobarde, you, you 

Suffocating ever slowly in your own shadowless intensity


Most do not decry you, but I know you, yo se, I do 

They blame me, my wandering, my matchbox journey

and the children who oft travel with me.

Father sent me, starving sisters, la guerra too

But I know, yo se, it is not true


I am not afraid of you, or the shadows that you cast

to cover an ugly, nude body.

Convincing mask of worldly brew,

I and my sick bastards will come pining, pining,



And you, and voz, in your abode

flagrant, wispy fingers reaching

for our torn milk-stained clothes as we hold each-other weeping, the simple few

shaking, shaking

A psuedo-scientific psychotic episode.

As the cream of their poison flows in, I light my match, maybe two

And march, march, march back toward you.




Your chest collapses

Your staggering, fool


My torch, yes a fire flame, melts your false lungs into warm stew

Soon, it tastes like cream. I am forced to leave you.

But fear! But fear, Cobarde

I have tasted you.



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