There’s a place somewhere near that smoggy horizon where this damned day kneels in front of vulgar nights,
like a slanting and palpitating dog.
The zero, the beneath of every soul factories.
I hear all about that place from the black wind which travels between us…
the graves of newborn, the high heels of dominators.

The golden sentences flow across the shore and I stand by dipping my fingers on saltwater.
What if humanity could never be created by humans?
what if birds could show us humanity or cats or moored pine trees or friable brothels.
I think it would have been easy and engrossing.

There’s a way you can believe in that place.
Late at night just burn a log and wave the flames all over your random city.
The forefathers, the watchtowers of that place will see you…
and they will send you those black winds and sometimes those black clouds for you.
And peculiarly there’s only one way, well actually two, to get there,
take lollipops or amorous whiskey for the graves…
They demand meticulous generosity.

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Photograph: Google.