There’s a small hut outside this mountain place.
A small couch there by the side of the window
and the whole abyss can be seen…
The calling of the chasm, the withdrawals of breathings.
The fuckers are all outside…the fuckers are making money out of their misery…
I need my drink and just a cold place by the cliff.
All the assess are tried…all the kisses are sold,
women…women…lays like flamingo on hot beaches.
The colour is purple,
the sunset is tangled,
the distant palace is drowned,
the artist is blooded,
the whores are smiling and toothless,
the drinks are cheap,
the lights are distorted,
the waves are winds,
and the sleep is a burden.
Why all of a sudden I dream about sadness, I dream about the strings of an old sarangi,
I dream about being failed with liberation.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Thomas Alleman.

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