As the man walked out of the bar,
he found solace in hollow pitch roads and lost men.
Moon was drunk in abyss of the conflictions inside every concrete entity.
He was singing, he was swimming for the aspirations of oceans,
Such a great fuck, such an appetizing hallelujah.
Some people are meant to be alone and drunk and beautiful and screwed and shimmering assholes…
A timid cat, a relentless wife with relentless ass, a job of scratching the surfaces, a fluent house at suburbs…
Those are the killers for them.
And it’s a waste for moon, for ant cities, for blue alcohols…for words,
for drugged whores with a god in their eyes,
That man never gonna make it to his broken room…but a road can take him,
a poem can take him.