Imagine half of the life you have been jazzing in the insanity of creation,
but at a certain signal you break through the red lights and storm into the already penetrated households.
The repetition of those evenings of rain watchings; wearing only socks made by shivering trees.
Those same indifferent erections of your musical instrument…
That same masturbating farmer in your binocular,
Again.
Only escape is a bullet through your grey matter,
but that too make you sail into an another whirling ocean…
There are some sheeps in front of me…a cosmic rythyme in their body.
even in the most vulnerable postures; the rythyme never goes out of the bones…
They are eating green grasses from steel roads.
I had lunch with Vegetables…but there will be blood in my tongue later,
the shimmering blood.
Yeah, I am a poet and the northwester of yellow deja Vu is long time to come…
Let me collect the meats and fats for that reverse hibernation.

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Photograph: Lupen Grannie.