From this necklace I make the blood. I awake the cigarette and make the torture.
A flood of red turns to the table.
Without telling anything else. I have the lighter.
Unfinished it comes to the end. Linda and Philippe meet, make love, have dinner. The waiter,
a douthfull double both in looks and gesture of Colonel Bonaparte, says fuck you and disappears.
I have seen too many gestures,
took too many of both sexes,
far too much fiestas were endless,
I have killed so many people,
and from the wound felt as such came nothing else but the painted wound
as the glasses a waiter took from the deserted table.