So poet, what you are gonna write today?
Prosaic shelter being collosal through nothingness
or succumbing window pane?
Perhaps that man breaking his umbrella or the tyranny of this civilization.
You remember the last time you tasted love?
A little salty, little like bark of a pine,
the rest, either like monotonous whiskey or the creamy raindrops.
Loving without getting high? No, for God’s sake your alphabets know that.
Little moan here, a remorseless scar there,
The crowning sensation, the attaing pain and the poetic orgasm.
Behind the street, where no cars get mad or no people kiss with their eyes open,
There’s your poem, masterbating and smiling with an enchanting autumn by his side.