Only a genus can write a manuscript and burn it all out in a mad summer afternoon, 

by the vision of a melting mango… ejaculating yellows, 

naked lady on the roof with two eagles on her two breasts. 

There’s no home; fuckers…there never was, 

all you come back to, after playful evenings of murders and suffocation, is a man-made companion…

You come back to animals not places. 

But there’s a home, 

it ain’t wooden and  molested by chandeliers,

it’s a composition of sarangis and drums over rampant words, 

it’s beyond those worthless clouds, 

it’s in your flamed and contained stream of imagination. 

That’s your home. 

So i say be the both creator and destroyer of your own blooded things. 

Write poems and forget…let them stink there and let them be opened like fine wines. 

Wait through liberating destructions. 

……………………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Google.