Tonight I made a bonfire was burning in the fire which engulfed. I threw the echo of a voice, the look of slain goat, monthly blood specks, bits of verse mending the nipple, the mouth on my back, the crust of dried tears, bites on the toes and feet insisted that praise, the backpack that crawled some dawn between Europe and the vultures (read "family" policy). The three hundred and forty-four thousand emails, photo black and white in the old pool, the key to a cheap hotel and pass the string of a box without music sulfur the penis early, insecurity in the naked body, the old crow's feet and the cock that treads and sleeps, the inconsistency, missed calls, the fat of MSN so amorphous, so blue, so quiet, a name i Greek and four boys who said Dad.
also threw good faith, warmth, sex in the twelfth meeting, the prudence, the manual of the perfect housewife, compliments of my husband's best friend, glass vessels d'Arques, I used the cries of earrings, kissing with closed mouth, the razor blade and offal, the reggaeton CD's and Marc Anthony (I like Marc Anthony, but his love still not me either), the hands of those committed to my tits, then her arms, torso, and when I came to myself, just left the gray and the occasional post coital gemidito.
Tonight I agreed with Fiona from Burn Notice : if something is too good to be true, it is best shoot, so I was not so bad contemplation and soot I was in the fingers write this without even thinking. What serves as a catharsis, I said.
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