I sleep with a volcano in my bed. 

The immortal surrealism of Sufi in the alcoholic mornings and the fuzzy puff of serenity in kirtan… 

Both inside this annihilation. 

It brings all cities, all the neon deserts from me…

And I become the curvature of a flapping swan’s throat. 

I inhale that volcano. 

It has those paramount tits and a vagina with an addiction of eternity, 

my whore it is…

my Yellow it is…

my hallucinating lion it is… 

And it sings me the lullabies from the burned land…from zombies, 

a life of a rain with it…and you are clicking those stairways, 

Stairways of sugar woods. 

My Elvis it is…

My metamorphosis it is…