runny throne

aged the stinking itch be

neat yr shirt foam sp

urts out yr chest yr g

runted thigh ,voice remains

,yr neck flood's case of

HOPPING THRONE useless

door a bashed machine c

latters across the sleepless

street before each sill a

heap of orange shit burns

)called yr face( charred mirror

multitud sin huesos en la

plaza una bandera constipada

un foco que me abre el fuego