H A B E A S   C O R P U S

A overflowing rain of blood!      
I wonder how a human being    
can hold so much red sludge?    
splashes of plasma everywhere,      
even on the ceiling.    
The victim was lying on his back    
on the soaked bed,    
he pissed himself, relaxing in death.    
He is naked, the hands cuffed behind,    
cold porcelain dead flesh, purple dark lips.    
     
Dark bruises, as blacks snakes,    
wrapped around his neck.    
The ripped open chest,    
slaughtered by scalpel wounds.    
"They've snatched his heart." Says the CIS,    
with an astonished expression on face.    
In a roll of bloodied transparent plastic,    
the remains of a heart bites torned,    
obscene teeth marks on the leaden meat.   
The dead man's eyes are wide open,  
absent and shadowy empty gaze.    
Glossy-gray corneas watch at the ceiling,    
and a twisted expression of pain on face.    
     
The blood-drenched hands of the murderer,    
throuwn copious brown liquid on the walls.    
The ripped open chest used as inkwell,    
from which to draw with both hands.    
The blood adds a odd note of contrast    
on the matt black paint of the room.    
Esoteric marks on a rough pentagram,    
traced by fingers drenced in blood.    
The red liquid is the only color of a scene    
where the dark wood of decor and furniture,  
fades into pitch black.    
Disturbing pictures of Giger, Bacon, Betzinsky  
and cemetery landscape with afflicted angels,    
accentuate the feeling of oppression and pain.    
All this surround the lonely body on the dirty sheets,    
soiled with body fluids and horror desperate.    
The smell and vision of dead flesh cause discomfort,    
and drips on me with a moribund-like cold sweat.    
     
The victim liked to read, a little of everything    
esotericism and philosophy, fiction and genre Noir,    
classical French Romantic, and contemporary American.    
Worn and yellowed pages of old and used books,    
lie scattered on the floor of ebony wood.    
The newest editions where for poetry,       
Obscure authors, as Boudelaire, Ungaretti and Poe,    
but also Neruda, Alberti, Prévert and Rimbaud  
so famous for their poems of love.    
The homicide squad's cop liked poetry, inusual indeed.    
That case seemed so different from others ...    
Over the trafficking, prostitution and fraud,    
there was a dead handcuffed, strangled and tortured,    
and those unknown symbols drawn in blood on the wall.    
     
They were trying to put the carcass in a PVC bag,    
the color and the material agreed with the house.    
Employees of morgue were struggling in their work,    
against Rigor Mortis in a grotesque quarrel,  
for endless moments the rigid limbs refuse to get in.    
Finally with the deft experienced gestures,    
the corpse slipped into the shiny black bag.    
Tulled the zipper, the snaps where closed,  
jus say goodbye to the gray melancholyc official.    
We stood motionless for a moment in eerie silence,    
looking at the envelope bulging on the cart.    
The older employee was out of breath,    
more than thirty years handling corpses    
"It's a job like any other!"    
How many times had he repeated that phrase,    
a work like sanitation and junkyard,      
a secure job that crisis will never knows.    
Retirement, would soon freed him from squalor,    
He shouldn't have do nothing, but wait his turn    
to be slipped into a plastic bag through.    
     
Yessir, that was not a case like the others:    
a muffled lament resounded in the silence of the room,    
a wheezing gasp of pain, originating from the dead's bag.    
How could there still be traces of life in the victim?      
Impossible!    
Strangled, ripped open chest, torned heart...    
Impossible!  
   
The rattle grew louder, but no one paid any attention    
"Don't you hear: he's still alive!" I murmured.  
"What does all this mean?" I asked.   
But no one took heed to my laments,    
my rattling, wheezing and painful, got no response.    
Slowly one by one they got out of the door    
and without saying a word took my corpse away    
leaving me in the place where murdered I had been    
alone and trapped, forever,      
in the dark silent room.