Idris doesn't need a last name
Broken flowers and Days of violence
Where do I place my dead?
My skin is full of holes,
clumsy, dark holes filled with dead bodies.
Where do I put these faces,
these hands? My memory is already
brimming with death.
It’s not enough to shout, march
through the streets carrying your portraits
for those empty of light to see.
Hitmen gag those who suffer
with chains, with more than chains,
with hate, a thick, putrid hate.
They masturbate on our chests, panting,
moaning while they polish our heads.
Decapitated days are howling
while hitmen leave the city
roaring with laughter.