"I have hair like tickets for the butcher's meat
the combination of my face paralyzed like a totem of bad luck
ear cavities ironed over time with a rhythm of jazz and David Gilmour
the hair under my chin becomes ivy that breaks the threads of wine
I have a fan in my chest where every coincidence boils down
beating on my belly like a larva whose eggs it will fertilize
I feel and I invent from scratch a hole in my pinky finger
and an African parasite that has latched onto my bone for every centimeter
below expectations resides instead in the carnival of the body
the toe that Menicucci handed down to me, so big and swollen

I return to the tip of my Adam's apple that I've hidden too much
like a hen has an egg in its anus and tries to make the effort
the shoulders where paddles and buoys were seen at work in the ground
touched a hollow zone and alternated the seven ways to carry the weight
a tangle of hair leads from one side to the muscle, from the other to a pen
and if a muscle supports an egg white, a pen supports every pain in the head
that passes through the hair and touches the last lineage of weeds
removed over a long time with the world monopoly of cows
the scratch of the canvas made on the spine ends in the skull
I drowned, too bad my corpse will be felt by another nose"