Don’t Touch Me


I've been lost in this abyss,
Somewhere deep in the tribe's libidos,
Under the decay of the last beggar's tooth,
In the sweating body of a veteran
who sucks his boot.
My blasphemy is like a crooked sense
I've driven on myself.
Stop it!
My eyes aren't patient with thy acrid poems.
Can't thou see I've become God?
I've been fed up with faith.
You pledged it on my feet
like a madly oracular
to fall asleep calmly,
Empyreans! I'm not from the heaven;
forgive my wrong presence
on the half-burning stub
smothered on the back of thy hand.
'cause I've got old
and suck the crack of the wall,
and dusk behind the footwears
paired in our shrine every night.
You've banished me
to the lands of limbs
and planted me
behind the walls of virginities.
I smell thee out of the locks dangled on your ears.
So, you see, besides stench,
Thy odor flows in my veins, too.

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