These words,
a dead man’s untimely death
and some more.
The layers are forgotten…
A clean man,
a man of one woman
a man of sober nights.
But those days of drunk cactuses…
whores of blue panties
and nothing to loose in a vacant journey.
The bars are not anymore homes,
roads are not anymore companions,
a tamed man, a controlled anger…
A man of apathy.
The process was much more enthusiastic than the result,
I no longer live inside the result…
The man is long dead inside the prodigal breasts.
Someday I will meet the Bohemian refraction,
someday I will shake hands with the mad wolf,
and I will say a proper goodbye.
Like an astronaut,
like a seed,
like a forgotten star.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Gregor Smith.