I've lost track of my deaths
of sheer tiredness, of fear and love
of hatred and disgust
of impotence and again of disgust
I was once half dead for four years
in another I had the idea of faking my death in order to live
I also remember the day, in times when death raged,
fellow Green Bug (I never knew him another name)
bumping into me in the terror-filled streets, he hugs me tight
saying: they said they had killed you.
There have been so many deaths that I no longer carry scars.
that of the sad child, that of the troubled youth
that of the gray man dead of monotony
death from repeated anger
another interview in a mirror
drowning blue, cornered by air
between whistles
The memory of my deaths today is dim
they say a short circuit is burning
the bomb that inhabits me
i don't believe them
I have to die as the story at the beginning
Of pure disgust