is the nectar behind all unholy smiles
in the true gods frantic merry go round ,
fingering the clear vessels until they crack,
in a ocean of synchopatic vomits the truth and the throw
are in the upturned vowels
time to grow roses in the thumbs of the hair,
counting one by one the many days one can breathe,
without a single knife listening,
the other world a dusty mirror,
filled with aleluias for a late grunt of the clock,
with their arms glued with handkerchiefs,
the sky forgot,
so they say.
Do not dive alone in the abyss
if you do not know how to conjure wings of bliss,
the bottomless pit has no way up for hands
and no way up for feet.
It just never ends.
But you might never begin.
Hugo Calhim Cristóvão