Leaves are pulling over their dazzling sleeps in abundance, 

empty smokes, empty desires for forlorn nights, empty me…

giving petrol to my gypsy caravan. 

I go to places and everywhere I can’t touch these sunsets… always distant and crippled with winter bonfire. 

Create and walk away from that…make everyone whirling bastards and leave…

Sunsets have always been a bonafide folk artist. 

Sore skin and bald bones are getting injected by the orange pulps…

pulps of every oozing romance of this afternoon concert.