The angle
The angle of view
The sun on reprieve
The red dot on the tunic
We don't forget the one-way streets
And what awaits us
In the distance

The reefs, the sheriffs, the zones of turbulence
The imperfect future of your adolescence
And the weight of cathedrals
Hanging on every lip

From there, I see
Digital sirens
Who say your crush is a pathetic loser
Who will never, ever make algorithmic money
As for the real whip,
It might just be for our poor stingray faces

I have the smile of distress
The scent of every gesture
Crowds hypnotized by so much love and delicacy
I have stuck in my throat
An acidic remnant of barley sugar
They promise you dystopias
Too bad, too bad

I hear the flight of the Canadairs and the fire grows
And over both hemispheres the burnt song of prophecies
But no? But yes
Oh really

Slowly the shutters open to XXL rays
That burn our wings
That whip us, stretch us
That feverish mouths still implore the sky
And the Gods of fresh waters

Lick
Little insect
Lick
Lick
Lick
Lick
Lick
Lick

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