The weight of a night sky came all at once,
It’s alright, it’s alright.
I can accept the coldness,
I can accept the vacancy of sounds made by people’s processions…
But the wings, the wings
it kills me…
The bird kills me.
I fear for all the books that I have read,
I am afraid they are going to kill me,
and the things that don’t kill you simply makes you a slave…
I have a well of liquor in me just to escape that treacherous slavery.
Killing is better,
sliding a fist through the ignited skull is better…
Kill me…rape me… disassemble my monuments…
Just don’t make me wear a tuxedo and walk through a path of yellow fallen leaves
and don’t accept revolution from me…
I have enough to revolt against my own rotten self.
The sons of bitches have never been to a crowd which don’t know where to find a neon enlightened bar
to drink and kick a life away.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Google.

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