***
The man doesn’t have lyricism ‒ there’s a hum
in his head, a lie. Everywhere middlemen,
commentators, exegetes, sodomitical ties,
a spirit of family of homosexuals and transgenders,
and one doesn’t know who’s the father, the mother,
the son, the animals, the angels, the saints, the priests
no trace of intellectuality everything leans on atavistic
remnants of sex organs. Maybe a concept would at least
move them they are all running to the monkey
but no one shows himself desirous of understanding her.
Everywhere rewards, accounting and heebie-jeebies.
What the man will do to himself, nor does the young one
of viper desire for himself.
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