Those self-destructive poems. By Carlos del Puente

But they slipped as if they were of gelatin they slipped their eyes on the irregular surface of the objects Lincoln City a sinister wandering gaze Every drop that falls is the ashes of an unspeakable fact to Arlington, en Virginie at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport a fog covered the alternation of the gaze reserved and apparently taciturn they did not follow the social code of the expressions of their respective nationalities the Lyndon B. Johnson Expressway it didn't bode the roadside motels whose luminous panels their empty cells filled with sudden anger it is these things that lead a slightly rectangular iris their biography which did not play their game However, details worthy of a surveyor those self-destructive poems never indebted the repetitive capabilities of machines the rhetoric of the same in mind the promiscuity of the other in there actions, free. In his desire, slave the simple fact of Again Once again to start writing about

By Carlos del Puente