Those were good hard days,
days of that motel on yellow desert with patches of white limestones.
You can only see that structure in absolute abundance…
Raw and insane.
Whiskey…whiskey…
Beer…beer….
Drunk…drunk…
Some mess of courageous words.
I was never an artist…I was never an intellectual…
But back then I could write what I wanted to rather than what I should.
I could die with every pouring gray clouds and
I could revive with the start of every fickle raindrops.
People judged for my stabbed shoes… people kicked in the shins of my boundless poems…
But whiskey was on me…I was drunk in naked venomous women…
I was drunk in the making of a wordless structure…
I was falling through the pipes of obscene matters.
I was free to be unconscious under roofless sky and die with the wind of shimmering south…
No short-circuits in me now…they say I am all shaped now…
But I know those mother fucking days in that astonishing desert;
helped me to explore the moaning truths through my known words.