JAM STAIN
For Acosta Juan Carlos Céspedes
today at the window's largest newspaper, you could say that he wanted 
out and bust your smile, down the stairs of the sentences, taken my coffee black and eat the bread and butter that I put Ophelia, always complied with breakfast. I put a cup magazine that accompanies the daily if he could. I looked, rather, we shoot, he died there, and I died here. But we and he rested on the bottom edge of the picture frame. Now that he finally had gotten, I was not sure he wanted to stay there, leaning like an idiot on the edge of glory. If me, I would leave it there. That was his hunger, so went out every morning to destroy others to get ahead any fool who made the mistake of cruzársele. And he did, the very fucking did it. Makes me stain your face with butter, blackberry jam or to look like blood. He, as neat, but loneliness hangs like cod, the loneliness of knowing isolated by fame, that bitch in heat. I would take from the table and make a pencil mustache of a musketeer, then Martha would bother, since you do not like it damaged the paper without having read his social notes. He believed superior, the Muses supposedly visited him disguised as boys and inspired them to make his poetry. But on reflection, he is stuck in that role now shown triumphant and proud. Martha may be annoyed with a little jam in the paper, but the temptation is so great. A point on the front is more or less what he does with his tripping others. Better close the page and do a deaf ear to his pleas to kill him. Martha, did not bring the newspaper today, cry, when I go to the bathroom.
out and bust your smile, down the stairs of the sentences, taken my coffee black and eat the bread and butter that I put Ophelia, always complied with breakfast. I put a cup magazine that accompanies the daily if he could. I looked, rather, we shoot, he died there, and I died here. But we and he rested on the bottom edge of the picture frame. Now that he finally had gotten, I was not sure he wanted to stay there, leaning like an idiot on the edge of glory. If me, I would leave it there. That was his hunger, so went out every morning to destroy others to get ahead any fool who made the mistake of cruzársele. And he did, the very fucking did it. Makes me stain your face with butter, blackberry jam or to look like blood. He, as neat, but loneliness hangs like cod, the loneliness of knowing isolated by fame, that bitch in heat. I would take from the table and make a pencil mustache of a musketeer, then Martha would bother, since you do not like it damaged the paper without having read his social notes. He believed superior, the Muses supposedly visited him disguised as boys and inspired them to make his poetry. But on reflection, he is stuck in that role now shown triumphant and proud. Martha may be annoyed with a little jam in the paper, but the temptation is so great. A point on the front is more or less what he does with his tripping others. Better close the page and do a deaf ear to his pleas to kill him. Martha, did not bring the newspaper today, cry, when I go to the bathroom. 
