Human bomb through the blackness of this closed theater…
Those damned eyes, you killed me with those damned eyes.
I have been killed before by a lover, by a poetry, by a poet
but for the first time I was killed with a raw and red tongue.
The porcelain sculpture in the cold mist…
men are always weak against kohled insanity.
Late at night when everything fails to seize the mobility…I drink with the sound of my broken bones…
The paper kites, my monotonous mistletoe…
Nicotine and this city and this lost woman…
I have written poetries from the words of a suicide letter…
People often misinterpret me as a wordless coward.
Well you know people…
they do the average.

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Photograph: Elena Vagengeim.