He is the finest Craftsman. 

At least crowds say that and he takes pride in it. 

He makes the most aerodynamically spectacular bullets. 

Thin and won over stripes of blazing metals are his sex pillows, 

He sharpens the bullets and drinks a beer, 

he bites a heart and listen Nirvana at his radio, 

his dreams are made of spherical orgasms, 

He is the finest Craftsman. 

But he has been licked by a yellow noon, he has been murmuring ‘the man who sold the world’ by the beer visions, 

he is touched by a flowered carcass. 

Blue stars are getting crushed and oozed in his alcohols. 

His bullets have tasted and listened to every birth sounds of every country’s winds…

Blood! Blood! The sounds of blood flowing through the veins, 

forheads of kids playing piano, girl’s first sensations,raped bulletproof motherhood,the upside down leaving violin and millions of erected poet’s bleeding words…painted and crafted through the expressways of every bullets. 

A sudden vibration of psychedelic beam and he stops the profane paddles. 

He has been around for too many of orange annhilations…

Today he will keep one of his babyblues inside his pocket, 

He will drink beer and listen trains and see the eyes of Cobain in silence, one last time. 

Then a nuclear fusion, a maze of melancholia and a jazz explosion…

His blue stars hanging from the oblivious carpet will show his allibis.