The trident

The moth-eaten blouse covers the breasts
of the world, that is desperate to reborn
among the ashes and the mud
forged by gall and venom.

The mouse-eaten trousers wrap up the purple
buttocks of the swelled up dishevelment
in the middle of the sea, above its algae.

The world is a rubbish cask,
it knocks out stars and suns with its strong fetidness;
the constellations are vomiting
and the galaxies are nauseated.

The sulfur acid is part of any rain;
it is the rain itself!
There are no beaches without cans and bottle peaks
they are not beaches without them!
Ozone; the stratospheric king,
cries out for mercy before the guillotine
that approaches implacable.

Thousands of fishy corpses float over sea.
Thousands of multicolored birds stop warbling.
Life beings of the world are selling their souls to the devil.

But, who is the devil?

I feel a tail sprouting from my back,
I feel two horns sprouting from my forehead,
and between my hands, I feel a trident.

I feel a trident.