Different lidologies with every new turns of rain,
with every quench of bloody alcohols.
What a poet do?
Sex with flickering ladies, show this blaze, the blooming pussy?
There’s unsustainable lust in every rejection of these eyebrows…petit eyebrows.
Poet would promise to romance the smugs, the mensurations, the bombed.
This unattained creature would kick the ass of these crafts and rap on Mondays.
Once I heard the jamming between refugee guitars,
Once I heard the jamming of naked corporates.
Shredding the creepy curtains I musterbated on hunger…utopian hunger.
Poet is gonna cry for deaths and symphonic waves…
the underappreciated reincarnation.