My hands lack sophistication
They shamelessly touch the world as if
(searching, looking )
for a new dystopia, a new feeling
of accumulated pessimism and death…
self-explanatory death and means
to feed the hateful noises that ring on my
words
They mean nothing, you know?
They’re crude and raw and young
and old at the same time as they’re
nothing at all costs, they
(float, escaping)
from my unsophisticated, heavy
slow and inexorably fingered
hands
Why do we have digits?
if the analogue feelings would be much more
(lighter, darker)
Take for instance the typos I made
to compose, to create, to grab
this poem o useless woes
to assemble this golem made of
my words
Like butterflies I killed them,
crudely, with tints of innocence
to mark my place in the world
(create, destroy)
It is I who put them in order
with such fearsome skill assembled
and terribly collected them with
my hands
somecarbonmonoxide 