The burning of the skin starting
In the fight of Gods and ****** in
The bays of Golem where
Red, humongous ghosts are stranded.

Elopers, exodus of children,
Westend, Gaza,
Crystals, glaciers, jaws
Panting, greedy for the
One fulfilling victory of love.

Shoals are occupying the shells of
Their ancient homeland; skins,
Among craps and lipstick,
Are burning.
Hollowed castles of silk and
Mirrorglass.

Seven verses distant.
38 souls close by.
Ten gangs
38 skins against burning skin.

From the ravines of displacement,
Burying the sun of happiness under
Concrete-colored solitude;

From the year of hiding,
Lying in the rills of an old building,
Doing things incessantly;

From the energy of an army,
Focused in the fingers of a single person,
Doing things incessantly, mistaking
Approval as an attack.

Holding on is holy! The waves been
Slapping over the carpet of concrete
Of the vibrating city.
Displacement is holy!

In a chromium-colored blossom
A son was rising from the father's
Fist; he was yawning while he reached
Under his pillow for his gun.

Applause is burning in the night's
Heat like fire on the skin.
Bodyguards shooting at
Paparazzi.

The streets were writing a mixture
Of dreams and mania in the lines
Of history; kids stole the words
Before publication.

The language of the heart glows
In a grandfather's mood on a
Bridge between moon and sun;
Consisting of heat and cold.

Gunfire from the darkest alleys
Where patrons in Escalades looking
For beef — incisors shimmering
In the shining of cell phones
You ain't ready for Poppinz

Where he go to school at?
Son, park the panes
Send a message; they be knowing!
Hazel lying in her blood: Out of love
Money ain't no good here

Gunfire in the projects
Pushing beats on the 23rd floor
Burning down the block
Chopping the leader's head off
You are now a rock star!

In the heat of the sun of the words
Infinitely deep traces
That once would dry up all flesh
So an ice bear was digging through
Traces of skin to find words
Scenting.

The ice bear smacked while scrunching
The traces of the heat and the sun;
The taste of the traces was akin to its
Earlier life as an hyena's child in the
Jungle of a ruined country.

The ice bear was sighing, his head lifted
To the polar light, emerging from the
Shining of black space —
Traces from colorful, dry fog.

At once the ice bear fell asleep
In the traces of light and memories.

Mastermind always plans perfectly
Leaving nothing to chance
Before war it counts its enemies
Blessed with sound sleep
Its car is similar to Osama's.

Never act irrationally, that's how
Mastermind remains invincible
What happened in the hail of bullets?
Two snitches were killed, so
Forty winners remained.

Amateurs in beef with
Grown men in a tower
Weather below zero but
Blessed with sound sleep
Leaving nothing to chance.

Everything planned perfectly.

The kingdom of silence is opening its
Gates for the wounds of
Light.

Where has the scrawny,
***** father gone in
All these years? Talk of
Cigarettes; Then the father
Vanished in lies; leaving a son
Behind.

That son was usually looking for
Letters under the heads of the
Ancients; at that he rummaged
The hair of graceful mothers,
Addicted to diamonds, coldhearted:
Generous and benevolent to the son.

Thirty-eight years later, an invincible
Wound remained where the kingdom
Of silence used to be: A wound having
The textur of a mirage, a
Misperception of scorn and emptiness.