In my notebook
those lousy poems
one by one become transparent
one by one they are without pants
you look for the mouth
to revenge

In my notebook
those lousy poems
are mixed up with airplanes
son, I'm your mum
mixed me up with toys
mixed me up with the table and the floor

In my notebook
those lousy poems
don't want to look like that
they fail to fly
and make themselves so sad

In my notebook
those lousy poems
are bad luck in my head
they are the pink crows
wearing with us the same pants
make our body’s lower parts feel so bad
that’s it
cut it short
cut it very short
let it fly