Something anchored to me,
something irony,
something directionless.
I am shredded in my construction,
I have become the enemy of my sense of resistance,
and I can’t return through the horizon resembling the burning end of my cigarette.
My association is a treason,
the demigods are circling around my synthetic desires to be known and looked upon.
A bloody culture of righteous bullshits and
a gang of trained sons of bitches have changed the creation to be juiceless,
I have found most of my words in whorehouses, in total denial and in a state of absolute riots.
The anchor is my roar,
the ocean is my body,
the sun is my cock,
the last wave is my first light to redundancy.
And it’s a lousy metaphor that I can’t be finished by myself.

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Photograph: Sam Drawson.