Last lines of a first renounce.

   

They start again, to flow pain,
   my strong and old grinders,
   and of course, I do not like it.
           I could endure with the ache,
without raping at all my madness.
         I could endure with the chore
as I can share my filthy room
        with the presence of a crowd
  of undiscovered species of insects.
        Both bearable,
understandable
 as long as they remain forsaken
             under that bloody fucking bed.

Not enough bravery yet,
to abandon their own shady sewers
and conquer the sacred edge
of our sweaty HELL.
Toothache...
Unknown insects...
Both must be mantained
under control.
So harsh,
loneliness is.
So common,
hateful latent racism,
so obvious...

Every two years,
without an excuse,
toothache comes,
no laugh,
cause I know what it means:
Slaughterous-previous-mouth-grief,
vaticinates a new love is waiting
for me.
More cheap pain inside,
after oscilating between
opaque illusions of sempiternal,
or everlasting presence,
of new protean delusions.

Aesthetical insights of death,
sublimes... razzle and tears.

Some needed less,
some never had enough.

I deserve my toothaches,
as I deserve all that
I am able to
hold up.