There’s a song; far behind those palpable buildings, those lights…those lights,
of dreams…of dellusions…of midnight vodkas…
of pages…of obscure acceptances.
There should be a person for every inch of my lunatic dynasty; asking me
‘where are you from?’
‘what should you eat?’ ‘why you are with half a wave of a eye?’
‘ who’s the girl you want to reflect your surreal smokes?’
‘why there’s a cat and a dog and barbaric ants and green painted elephants over your concrete entity?’
‘why you drink and listen and fly and paint over trees?’
There’s no one; not a shape of translucent air around me,
I am being grand, being the finite reluctance between the stars…
Damn those songs,
for every bullies there would be an infinite, for every serene sex there would be an infinite.
And on gravity drenched roadways I would try to be infinite between the lady with crooked smile and smokey alleys of brutal heaven.