‘Hey, come man have a drink with me…
I don’t feel like drinking these shits alone in this disturbingly clean room.’
He came…he drank the liquor with a hardened hand,
and I got to know his stars and his compassions…
He said, he hasn’t seen his sweetheart for one year…she is beautiful, she is a sizzling tigress.
The last time when he was giving his white esctacy to this girl…he promised he would marry her,
an affair to be shown in front of bleeding cacophonies.
He said he can’t drink much…for he hasn’t seen his hallucinating bluebird from long time,
he is drowning in a pool of flamed money.
His home is in distant existence,
he thinks about the ceremonies, all this floating entities have organised in his native bed of roses.
But he asked me something which I haven’t heard from any intellectual soul ever…
‘You write poems,so tell me if poetry comes from void stomachs…what is true, the poem or the ground thumping hunger?’
I bet he is hearing the best kind of songs of these burned world.