Through pouring condoms and insignificant liquors…it was born.
Like a green and twisted leaf…like morbidness, like torned.

The sound of lives…it must be in our constant forgiveness to nature and wet melancholia.
Kids unaware of suicides, grown-ups untouched by the glorious phobia.

We both; feasting on our carnivorous assess…me; trying to find the God inside your pussy and you; trying to withstand the madness of a distanced bull.
I guess god has raped us all in our most glorious pulls.

I could never get those smoothest legs and magnificent tits, I could never see oceans from a disturbingly proportionate bedroom,
I could never be anything other than a gambling poet.
And I have seen my death, I have heard the voice…I have felt honored for blowing it.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Tatiana Plotnikova.