A violin is getting molested from it’s master,
somehow it’s getting lost in the lousy translations.
Four bottlegreen walls getting closed outside my sensible skin…
Light bottlegreen paranoia,
light bottlegreen circumference.
I am alone but I have the presence of millions in my subconscious,
and it’s disturbing from the core of lifelessness.
If the basic is still we all are alive then an evening with raw whiskey and a woman with floral short skirt has to be the most complicated assimilation.
The boy with disappearing hairline has brought the dinner,
he must be alone like all other fighters in desert…
Out of every natural phenomenon we human are most peculiar in it’s approach towards togetherness,
towards possibilities…
We live for us, we love for us…we make tap-dancing clowns for us,
but we never get created for us,
and that’s for me is a cold starless murder.
In a moment the lights will be off, we will all frown upon our misplaced melancholia,
I will pour one more glass of soluble rum,
and one more day will cross like segregated cars in rain.
I am and I have been always present in the movements of second hands,
Poets will always write things even if you dissolve the esoteric places from their cryptic mind.

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Photograph: Nick Albertson.