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During the nights
the cockroaches
climb down the walls
to escort my dreams
and, without respect for my rank,
look at themselves in the mirror
and are happy everywhere they go.
They attack the generosity
of my socks
(the aesthetic dogma of my feet)
that, faded like skeletons,
relax upon the floor.
They beseige the tyranny of
my boots,
humiliating their perverse lineage,
and it is then
that they hurt my soul.
I trap a thunderbolt with
my hands
and they get frightened and run away;
they enter and exit the barrel of my machine gun
and in the magazine make a conclave,
readying themselves, as if preparing to kill me.
I spit at them,
bang the wall,
and, shouting,
invoke the devil and curse their origins.
They march away
and hide in my books;
there they remain quiet
and, in the imagination of the world,
deposit their eggs,
and also
they shit on knowledge. |
