Whiskey, a pint down through the burned throat.
This city is swelling in immersion tonight…
Tom Waits making rains in my room,
Motherfucker knew things like a smudging bullet.
It’s strange how I always felt love in the melancholia after sex…
Those long stairs, those voids where you can only kill someone or you can accept someone,
those enunciations of blue country words.
She was sleeping there right on that brown couch, with her ass open to the sky…
now it’s empty there…I have found love in the absence and desolation in her wet memories.
It’s okay though, the bar under this apartment is open all through the spoiled night,
I will play my killer self with ample of cheap alcohols and useless words.
Horns and metal lampposts and smoggy continuity and a crowd smelling like gasoline strands…
that’s love for the remembrance of creation.
I guess that’s enough shit tonight…
I detest poetries when I can drink like a fucking bulldozer…
I have Mr. Waits to the rescue…he will guide me home through this hell of a love.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Zewar Fadhil.

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