A folded morning slips in under the door. The headlines erupt. Accidents of lines. Dark alphabets of horror. Blasting prints. You can even hear screams in between lines or bear the edited gush of riotous words. The becomes a newspaper page with mishaps, corrupting voice, bold caricatures of distinguished men, violence and defeat.
Dates pile up in kilos and under the tip you’re your
nose the world at strife
moves on and on.
Twentieth century of institutions and perverted motivations. Masquerades of metropolis leading an aimless march. A voiceless cry. You fold your times only to take a breath and move about with an absurd determined air in an uncertain age.