Even in amateur endeavors you can’t except someone to be out of rhythm…
It’s in the lights of our bones.
The explosion was always made from a pre-planned madness…
The psychoanalysis, the melancholia, the gloomy reflections,
all are attached to the controlled string.

Kiss the dog, kill those legs,
get married twice,
become so lonely at times that you can see oceans in any vastness of blackness…
Celebrate the anomalies, stand on the cliff
and don’t read and write poems out of pleasure.
The ruinations will make you evolved through the flows of greens.

……………………………………………………………

Photograph: Amani Willett.

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