The yellow flower on green cactus…
the reservoir of giving and the weight of a consciousness.
The wild nights of wet mountain,
the curves of bent lips,
the sound,
the melody of dissolving lights
and a selfish lover on the verge of getting down to a round clip.
As the hair separated and the pastel neck came out with desire and glory,
as the eyes found the fog and the fingers touch the flapping skin,
I couldn’t give everything although I had nothing to give.
So a poet and a transience,
a drunk hand of whiskey and the parade of spiral lumination…
Intimacy was a lunacy and the verses of abrupt intercourse had taken the genesis away.

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Photograph: Nena.