The poet got away from the woman cause she was awful at blowjob,
the poet got away from the woman cause he craved loneliness,
the poet got away from the woman cause the month was December and this city resembled a graveyard of fallen leaves…
One dark room with all drapes closed and a beautiful man looking for answers with fulfilling whiskey,
well; not answers rather the salvation through creativity.
Desperate wisdom, reflections from a big blue ocean
and an oven of overnight inflammation…
You know your shits better when they stinks like a courageous piece of work…
make your art like you make your shits…
wait…wait…wait…wait
And deliver when you know it can’t be delivered by the death itself.

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Photograph: Alan Schaller.