A sassy rain, it’s unattained swag, and a city full of poetic smog.
What is the only thing you can touch inside this happening gatherings?
Some motherfucker’s rapid legs at war and blurr hands holding quentessential ciggerates.
But today it’s all about falling words, falling leaves, falling stars…falling the meanings.
Sex over the bar stool, moanings, orgasms over this star studded carpet.
Paint each other away with colours of filths and souls,
Penis and a revolutionary brush both giving strokes to this timeless voids.
the sounds of unrequited colours.
Let’s just leave all poetic endeavors today…fuckers gonna swim and fly a little.