The remaining of a jet on the warm sky,
you don’t know me untill you know the ways I deal with roars and longings.
This whole mess of outgrown blues,
you can’t kill me unless you know the ways to kill the waves in my brain.
Poets say too much too often,
I hate the guts of those frolicking creatures…
rather give me a fighter, give me a diver, give me a unreasonable drunk.
When I put myself inside her,
when there’s no intercourse without the smell of the forthcoming burn,
in that time of absolute ranting and rambling
poetry happens,
so does the truth.
Now you can say you don’t care about truth,
I know, I also used not to,
but even in your actions of pure pleasure and exponential polygamy you can’t ignore the truth.
And that is the compassion of a beating hurt.
Sex is fine, love is a bomb,
society my ass,
but compassion is everything.
The virgin scotch,
the deepening ocean,
your death…my death,
the last siren before you get to choose your sinking.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Brielle.