Pieces rust that work the hour.
Time.
The very idea of measurement.
The imposed civilisation.
Where did this ambition to progress come from?
Whose need was it to sit on foam?
We know that economy has nothing to do with numbers,
it consumes souls,
embodies their bodies,
Always new on the market. 
A tube of hair gel, dynamic curves of cars for different seasons,
and thanks for the records now all beating with a permenant pulse, 
drums of africa is finally ringing in the western world, what a  massive jungle without the wild, peopled and dying for recollection because it suspects a beginning.
History, it's loyal terrorist, whose brainwashing acquits many villians and cannibals for
the grotesque party of misinformation.
Beware! Somethings never happened.

Tags: surrealist poetry, surrealism, poetry, poet 9, poet of sound and image Kino, literature, revolution of the mind, map of the universe,