If you open up the door on the floor you will see the Equator
slowly spinning towards Thor: an orange line
inside an old electrical device
which keeps September bright for everybody,
like a false Christmas.
A tired polygraph scratching a mummified belly.
Santa Claus's nail is reading the first vinyl:
don't let the false children claim their toys now,
you can destroy the Unforgettable by putting It into a box,
a big violet ribbon on Its grave.
Insert a coin in the loin to feel this false Christmas
on the back streets
under the low traffic lights next to a margaritaceous Josephine
with a full set of winters inside- be creative,
eat all the plankton in the air, this Saturday with wounded legs
is ours and we will save it anyway by pushing everything
into a glass pineapple of motionless joy.
The first bar is a huge insectarium, Latin is spoken by itself
like in a pneumatic church.
You still keep the rocks under control but your skin
is already flying in ludicrous mood, makes friendship
with other kites stretched over too few bones...
Can't be yourself with two hands in those pockets.
Can't be myself under such a violet hood,
let's keep pretending it's Holly Christmas
and all our unborn kids are good
on the Moon.
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