Lullabies from my broken radio, 

coming and dancing with me under the sheets. 

Two bottles of rum and my sphere smelling like hungry vultures. 

I am the successor of nineteenth centuries virgin hippie fronts…

I am city less…I am the land of roses smelling flamed petrol, 

I am one blind owl; suffering from obesity. 

Travel and forget the streets to return… that’s the cacophonic euphoria of my every shower…

And I only go the lost store beyond these crisscrossing circuses to by the three packs of cigarettes a day, 

I am the pine tree who does it’s photosynthesis by imagination. 

I know a hour letter there will be a lady outside this door, 

knocking and believing in me…

She will come to give blowjobs to my motionless time. 

I am going to switch that red light then…but I don’t know how to wait for her. 

That’s the beginning of the tunnel for my last visitor, 

a drunk bastard with rainbow shirt and the pride of a juvenile horse. 

My bags are packed for him…he has promised me to take me to a road trip through yellow wheats, 

to a land where you can love through poetries.

………………………………………………………………………

Photograph: Wim Wenders