I saw my conscience; sinking in the pool of rotten dry leaves,
I saw my flames of a smokeless fire through the ass of the woman; spilled sex on the black barstool.
But I saw myself still floating…I always had too much air in me…
I know a man who gets women in bed only by his existential poems,
though as a species I am jealous of that asshole
but I have always found his poems getting bounded by sold imaginations.
Now I just wish, the people I am familiar with, had a wormhole in their body…
I wish they had an other galaxy of complete isolation,
Where I could stab my knife in their ephemeral souls.

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Photograph: A Malek.