Empty rooms and scattered beer bottles have taught me more poetry than any other 6 am sunsets and meaningless moons.
I have been drunk for almost six years now…waiting for that late night call,
which will take me to a ship…to a romantic ship.
No more eight hours job, no more porns after dinner, no more nostalgia of a young love…
Just an infinity of doing and drinking and exploring the unexplored.
I have always felt most alive in rotten bars,
with cheap liquor, cheap whores, free music, real clashes and flamed characters…
There are those obscure bars always waiting for me in that ship,
I know that…I know that…that’s why I wait in my old boxers and sweaty arms.
Night comes with the hopes of falling over naked bodies of women…their postures, their murdered eyes, their uncertain breasts.
To tell you the secret I have always sobbed over ridiculous women,
and their ridiculous suicides.
Old clowns are behind me,
they are like hemlock of night winds…
I am drawn towards filth and raw tongues
and it’s funny how every night I get raped by myself.
These are unpredictable words came during most organized war,
so don’t take this as poetry, don’t take me as a poet.
Take me as a filthy sailor…I sleep in my geography and I fuck in my history.

…………………………………………………………….

Painting: Nataliya Gurshman.

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