White shirt and you. 

When ever you can sleep with a dressed flamingo? 

You shedded and came as a perilous bourbon. 

And only then that northwester banged itself with this city…

like words follow the music. 

Women are that puff of helium that you get from a gas balloon, 

and they bring swirling of everything…

Storms are distanced nudism of women. 

You kept your hair on your star hidden shoulders…

What could I do…I had to leave my inclined shelter in desire to be drenched by you. 

Shabby lights running and crossing each other like stoned ants…

You have always been between them… swimming with your curves and waves of surreal kohl and libertarian senses. 

Perhaps as long as there will be summer evenings and wind under the bridges…I will have the retrieved you… measuring roads between us and making fall over me, hanging on this horizontal balcony.

…………………………………………………………………..

Photograph: Chris Friel.