What's your city? What are the curves like, the buttocks? I don't know it, but I bet it's a lot like mine!

Seen from above, she is a feminine silhouette without equal. Beautiful and exciting, and even the wind slows down to watch her movements! During the sunny hours, the green of the trees takes over your hips, and at night, the light of the buildings tells you that everything is in bloom. It's all very poetic!

But it's all very pathetic when I'm led to see what's between her buttocks. Then I leave the drone, not least because parliament has already limited its use.

On the ground in the city, I can smell the garbage, the perfume where corruption hovers. In fact, all the avenues, streets, alleys and squares are a mirror of poor urban management. All these places are veritable landfills.

In my city, the mountains of garbage recycle the disposable, ferment the fetuses of abortions of virgins raped by the system, and create cascades of brandy for the residents.

We, the people, are served the drink we are given to consume, with no tax levied, disguised as an anti-establishment discourse, the new opium. The waiter wears a tailored black suit, a revolutionary-colored tie, trimmed hair and a pair of glasses that give him an intelligent charm.

Yes, intelligence, which is becoming increasingly abstract among public transport managers. Perhaps it's because they don't know about the early breath of a ticket collector; the wet armpits of those who wake up before the sun to paw and sow themselves at the makeshift stops waiting for a ticket; the tin people who live in sheet metal houses, and in their day-to-day tickets they paint an image of a municipality that is growing, the same one where the children of the colombias succumb to fornicating plants and powders, stamping on the asphalt of unpatched wells, and the daughters of perdition suck on everything but nothing.

Ah, the interesting thing is that it's in the cê ú in the city, people bend over and open up their shame as many times as necessary, until the hole of the trucks and tractors without brakes is closed. Here we are all raped!

In my ghost town there are countless problems, as many strands of hair as can be counted between the buttocks of those who think they own the city of nightmares.

(Author: Emmanuel Mocinha; 03.2024; Ghost Town Chronicles).