I open my eyes, darkness shrouds everything
I lent my ears looking for your voice, but I only found the echo of an empty Logos that has become
rotten flesh, cancer of my own flesh. In your absence’s deafening silence I dragged my flesh
involucre up to gangrene, cutting, centimeter by centimeter, every strip of skin in my body, now
corrupt and disheartened, remaining naked in the end, with the skeleton as my only image, a
warning of your empty word, of your deafening silence.
In this desert I looked for the hope given by your salvation promise, but by the glare of your coming I only see filth and infamy, and I saw and understood; I saw anguish in the moribund’s eyes who perished to the weight of existence while they were following hope’s vain flames. I saw dragging themselves pitifully across a muddy path, covered in layers of dirt, dying to the weight and nausea, but still they keep going ahead hatefully and pitifully, diminishing the being and drowning inexorably after a slow agony. I understood that what your sons call “Hope” is just a vain promise uttered by a mournful God’s livid and cold lips, helpless and incapable of being loved if not by lie and extortion, guilty from the beginning of this missed abortion, guilt as an abomination, wretched attempt of creation and omnipotence.
I struggled, coughing till I spat blood, breathing burning ashes’ miasmas inside the future’s catacombs, this horror, place where I have lived until today and where thousands of insects keep living, blind and deaf to my screams, absorbed in incomprehensible litanies to me. Locked in their rotten burials, they speak about faith, this rusty chain without a support to be fastened to.
What a horror these catacombs… (because of their moral and faith, laws that rule them), human presence multiplies endlessly, becoming the man’s own hell. In the same way of termites, billions of blind struggle breathlessly in din and stench, like drones, sporadically waking up from their sleep and slaughtering tirelessly each other.
Madness is spontaneity of being alienated in this world, passed by its own means, slave of his own ugliness. Insanity incubates under these fifty floor funerary buildings, the only possible fate is bestowing a slow and inexorable extinction to this cult, a total death.
Chewing blood clots mixed to these ossuaries’ dust, I have lost the will to go ahead, without strength in my now atrophied legs.
Scorn pervades every instant of existence, so tired and sore, I wander without destination, shaken by feverish convulsions, terrified; blinded in the darkness of this dying sun, I vomit blood and bile, disgust and hate, resentment towards an existence born by mistake.
Purulent flesh, by now nude and wounded, of a rotting corpse that still breathes.
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