Just one more drink and he will forget you girl. 

His scratches won’t have any meanings behind it, he will find his own singularity. 

The only tree outside his boundary will have dead emotions hanging from its twigs. 

Poetic separations are nobody’s fault. 

But whose poetic marrow he will suck out for his life?

His words will fade into swirls of mud, he won’t mourn for dead cats and dogs anymore. 

And I will be there to take life from every throat of his poems.       

Our path will cross only to go vertical from there.

No pain! No pain! 

Scream it my boy scream it, untill it pass through every dead body and hearts.

Now whisper, no joy! No joy!  

Untill your own guts can feel that through the utter complexities.

He will be there one day outside the door of nothingness, scratched and torn apart; but with idyllic brain cells. 

We all will be there I believe, with flying jets and whiskey in our breath. 

Just one more drink and the lights will come.  
 

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