Broken trumpets,
A wasted and drunk musician,
and I am seeing blues.
The first time I gulped whiskey through my throat,
I still remember the magnificence of it’s after effects.
I knew from the instance that I have found something to hide to from this running and decaying world,
i knew I have found magic.
I have always liked to believe in the shapeless sex,
I have always tried to found god in her moans…
But every time it was raw and live meat,
everytime it was an act to prove that we are not raping each other.
We have all seen this rampant gallery and this forgotten jazz music player…
in our daily walks, in crowded crossroads,
in posthumous disengagements.
And somehow a windy skirt or a melting pastry or a street dog; humping in malnutrition,
has made us believe in success stories of millionaires.
This gallery was always there, buzzing with true alcoholics and obsessed artists…
The door to exit and the door to entry were always flashing in painful neons.

…………………………………………………………….

Painting: Vasily Kandinsky.