In the throat,
right where the last honorable blister’s
scream was broken,
a starvation of three hundred and twenty-eight 
unspeakable words is breaking out,
gathered in a forty year old bundle of hope
of at least an inch less mud on a stick 
leaning against the rotting door of autumn days. 
 
Only Hidra could feed her 
multi-headed offspring
with your crunchy crust of hollow words,
gentlemen.
My son is popping anti-depressives 
and dreaming of the Alps,  
glitters of Krvavec on the skis of crazy times,
Gretel’s crumbs and the matches of the little 
Andersen girl so he can set his bitter rap lyrics on fire,
 
and no,
 
I will not plea my case with silence today, 
honorable gentlemen. 
You handcuffed me with powerful joints of law 
and I was forced to accept this court of justice. 
Go to the golden district of my moon; 
at the foothill of a cardboard bed 
right next to the last step 
under the metastasis 
which blooms in a pot of faith, 
you’ll find proof of my guilt: 
a forty-year-old weared out  casing 
of a spine grinding machine,
an urn with the ashes of dignity
which I haven’t buried yet.
You will also find a gnawed bone 
of Kant’s ethical philosophy with which, 
at the gates of Karitas, 
I murdered my  God and ran into the night. 
 
Your dogs, whose barks are the only thing left of their persistence and loyalty, 
never could have sniffed me out, 
never could have found me 
if I hadn’t risen out of myself
to condemn you all  to my ruin.

Smayo