Expulsion of the contentment,
the gravity of a cloudy evening.
The death for a poet is like a garden after a series of deserted dedication…
It ends rough,
it always ends rough for a poet.
No matter how he tries, no matter how much he detaches himself with constant need of a fuck,
he will always remember the weight of his rollercoaster ride,
the ride to a relentless expression.
With a woman by my side who knows that I strive in rain,
I think I am ready to jump inside a trench again…
I think I can never be too much of a poet, in this lifetime.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Kevin Moore.

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