With nudity comes the desire for rain and confliction.
Every echoes and reflections of eyes are made of paradox,
except our birth, the focal point.
Inclination of orgasms were there for that blast of pulses,
differences couldn’t make us.
Let today’s night be the fair of silent rain over nylon strings,
a piercing buzz… inception of musical catastrophe.
Let the nomads and poets sleep together today under irresistible bushes.
Let the letters be written today in a urge of erected swan,
and let them stink under your rotten sheets.
Let’s just wait in compassions and make celebrations out of our isolated sleeping pads.