THERE ARE NO ACCIDENTS IN A LIFE
Nobody in the world thinks
like Sartre anymore.
Who would have found
among our easy alliances
these exiguities, prancing before us
like dancers with their heads cut off?
We nurture things for the kill,
that is always the case.
You toss your words carelessly
and, greedily, I gather them
like scraps. But now I choke
on your antiphons and beatitudes
and have had enough.
I spit on your face.
Funny how everything
kicks from the guts;
funny how nothing shines.
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