Landscape of a Pissing Multitude

t to themselves:

ting for tness of t cyclists.

t to themselves:

ting th of a boy on a japanese schooner.

t to themselves-

dreaming of the open beaks of dying birds,

t punctures

a recently flattened toad,

beneathousand ears

and tiny mouter

in t resist

t attack on the moon.

ts were breaking

in anguisness and vigilance of all things,

and because of tprints,

obscure names, saliva, and cill crying.

it doesnt matter if t pin,

or if ted in cupped cotton flowers,

because tual sailors he

arches and

freeze you from berees.

its useless to look for the bend

s way

and to in ambus has no

to clotears,

because even tiny banquet of a spider

is enougo upset tire equilibrium of the sky.

the moaning from a japanese schooner,

nor for tumble on the curbs.

tryside bites its oail in order to gats

and a ball of ya looks anxiously in tude.

the ocean liners!

facades of urine, of smoke, anemones, rubber gloves.

everyttered in t

t spread its legs on terraces.

everytter in tepid faucets

of a terrible silent fountain.

oh, crowds! loose women! soldiers!

e s,

open country whe docile cobras, coiled like wire, hiss,

landscapes full of graves t yield t apples,

so t uncontrollable light will arrive

to frigheir magnifying glasses-

and so t fire ill able to piss around a moan

or on tals in ood.