In New Oils


There is a corpse in his street and a musician on his rooftop. There are dead bodies floating in his dirty water. A buried person once said: ‘God help us.’

In his lost mind, politicians cut the throats of babies. A helicopter doesn’t stop. The cop goes to hell. A bunch of white flowers fall,
                    hangs

suspended, gravity abandoned, adorns the mass grave and a woman’s tongue dangles blood red to sing a last lullaby.

Her hip has fallen from its socket. Her breasts are round and firm with pretty nipples that like to be sucked . . . gently. Her ribs stick out. She is wearing a lot of mascara; it makes her eyes big. She believes makeup is a form of art. Her ears are torn by all the gold rings and flaps of skin,
                                                                                      hang.

No contact is possible to flesh. There are scars on her skeleton. They say: ‘If you’re reading this, there has been a great massacre.’ The painter jumps.

God hates him while angels dance on his head in stilettos, as requested. It was like swimming under water with wide-open eyes until at last he died. It was very relaxing.