Dead Man’s Claustrophobia



Dead Man’s Claustraphobia is a poetic stream that highlights how, behind every inch of our hyper-normalized society, there is a constant lie we’ve obscured because of new times, new developments, new crisis, and new corrupt politics.

By Nicklas Quirovo

There came a season of sun and falling  in the chants and callings tonight the night has turned pale. The world is resentful at the point of longing between suicide and election night. Professor said, “The best topic to begin the countdown for the end of the world, the strong dichotomy between rights or wrongdoings, within the compulsion of a dog to catch its tail, is a never ending furious countdown to suicide.” All the streets were shouting only they were in silence. The mockery stood at its feet. Someone asked a question, “Can you speak of hallucination, illusion, metaphor”, can you speak of Migration, Colonization, can you speak of the end? Have you seen the end of the world? Where U.S. of A. decides the goal of the earth into a ferocious blind calling to separate and miniscule what the laughter told us to laugh about? Death in a balcony, death in a stadium, death in a lonesome defeat. But mind tells me the lie of longing, it tells me the dream of immortality, the dream of mockery; our paths are crossing falling into streets like snow regurgitating once and once again with the lies of all those in commands. All those stories untold. In GRAVEYARDS they keep them. Those that passed away like tears for all those that have gone inside the infinity and doom of time. Life has


meaning, is what the thought says, everything we see is life, that is what the thought replies, thought knows, thought knows, thought knows. Thought remembers “there ain’t know sunshine when she is gone, only darkness in the day […], she goes away”! Thought will tell you a story –The eyeballs were falling bloody and sad the head was rolling the floor endured the wetness , but the conquistador laughed, fucked the dead’s man woman, she was indeed free at that point, and stolen from her root  asked the man for pardon, but she preferred to die, what you imagined happened, the Conquistador walked with rabies in his wicked smile; cleaned his boots from the scrambled blood and used his sword to clean that boot. From then on there was no other interaction between the homicide and the divine man, precisely his actions were sanctified his sword was red, kept walking looked to a world of Capital, but behind he left the footprint of his bloody boots, all the blood, all the skulls, and broken Jacarandas on his way received him to a sea of pink red, and the oppressed went to the heavens at the star. What if thought told you that the heavens are limbo, and the stars are only mass? The conquistadores established a city on top of the battlefield, the way



to their new familiarity, the way to their purgatory, what they’ve always wanted. And they’ve built their castles above the remembrance of the utopia of the past, those footprints disappeared in time. But did the dance of the conquistador ever stopped? And why the killing of the animism, is it not the only real essence that can save the oppressed, is it a god? But the rendition to such totality would revoke man of responsibility. So how do we account for the killings! All the murders! All the diseased! All the hungry! While you eat your feasts! At last we can all be atheist to believe in utter nothing, in a glimpse nothing counts and cockroaches eat our residues. Wake up mankind! Wake up mankind! Or should it be thought that wakes up from sleep? In regard to your name, call yourself the evil one, call yourself the good one! The end feels closer than ever tonight! Be the bird, be the swan that cleans its tailored wings from sunset to dawn, be a hummingbird learn to fly! Surreal this is not, and thoughts’ corpse will turn now white, why does death have the colour pale? Listen the bells knocking your door in claustrophobia, listen to the thousand Stalinist soldiers marching –left right, left right.. left..-call the ambulance this thought is dead.


Erika Del Cidpoetry, politics, trump