Broken flowers and Days of violence
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.