A brown carnivorous whip in the middle,
a metropolis on other side listening to the lullabies
and an indigenous suburb getting drunk on another; with the sound of nails piercing through wooden ribcage.
Whipping is all you have to take to cross the distance between their individual perceptions.
I am writing a poem on this…so many songs have already been written before…
Humanity has made masks…and then they have pissed on them…
I am still writing a poem on them.
What’s fascinating is that,
whenever people come across this crossroad, where a whip tells direction…
they see Marx in their sleep, they see Freud, they see Tarkovsky, Van Gogh, Kafka…they see the man who sells umbrellas and feeds biscuits to dogs…they see peanut shells getting crushed under car wheels cause they didn’t know how to cross roads.
They see…they go…and they become entities of someone else’s dreams.
Two places and the whip, if you think you have an option other than this, well then you are trying hard to be either a cynic or a mechanic of rollercoasters.

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Photograph: Sean D Burke.