Inside (revised version)

There still is life
going on inside
a room,
clogged in its own stale sighs
remembering how my gag gushes
through your lips
interrupted by default
the way a wind paralyzes
and stagnates life
until it stank...

... the room.

The room stank of anxiety,
an anxiety,
(that same anxiety that keeps you awake in those
pseudo nights when you can't manage to dream, or think, or not think, or not dream)
and it permeates your thoughts
leaving trails of sin and warmth
like the whore's milk
crashing against the depth of your collarbone
until it stank.

It stank
of orchestral beats slamming against my divided legs
encrypting sterile rhythms into that endless crack
where I try to delete life
or consolidate dreams into
the crevice of artificial pleasure

and so it stank.

of relinquished lust.

End of conversation.

No need to go into further details of the
orgiastic consumption clamped on to my smile,
the T.V. set humping behind my head
masculinity crisis
thrusting itself in,
oozing herself out.

The lucid ego, smeared about my face
encaged in the abyss of my own reflection
where ideas are drained and forgotten
like pubic hairs interlaced with toothpaste
because the only market to bank invents beauty as an accomplishment


It's tight
in this room

where decadence and depression have become exhausted terms withered into fashion statements.

where “Drugs and Sex” is the taboo everyone is talking about
between cocked eyebrows and theatrical grins.

The importance long forgotten,
the reason long lost.

You can’t tell anymore what is sexism and
who is racist
where is God and
why me

We don’t believe in romance anymore.
It was just a myth
like everything in the Bible.
a contagious disease we love to spread
like the legs of the back alley whore
slit open like slivers of moonlight
tainting the silence of dark hours

the earth is round
and everything learned never cured us from the fall.


Yes

my dress is falling
lipstick’s run
hair’s all tangled
and my smile is torn
but there still is life
going on

inside.