Poetries, paintings, science, spaceships, sex, alcohols, orgies, securities, recognitions, mindless fucks, moon…more stars, electricity bills, towed cars, flooded streets, reproductions, cigarettes… cigarettes… cigarettes…
Rolled joints…you…me… everyone,
we are all the pretenders of these engaging shits…
Death has grabbed our hands from the beginning like whores of blue nights.
I have my fear…my art is my fear.
I am still working for my life and I am still writing poems,
I don’t like both.
Just give me a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes and let me loose inside my comfortable veils.
I have travelled with drunk drivers…there has always been a yellow topaz in their eyes,
they know the mockeries of red lights.
I like the war in them…the constant war…
I like war that’s been fought with melancholia and music.
Most of the days I sleep in my bed alone and think about the greatest thing that can beat death…
There’s only one…a wet purple vagina.
I think I can beat my death only by the amount of fucks.
Write me off like you pass darkened alleys…
but never ever ever take my women from me…
They are truth…they are made of dreams and something that doesn’t remind breathlessness.

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Photograph: Brenda Wells.