life is a party and we have one every weekend

writers disproportionately scratching their ocean of empty faces
are we really sure there is only a void in the front row of life and death
alone in a no stars shining room having premonitions of neither luminous nor dark?
the wonder behind the door, the celestial maps muddy with aesthetic contradictions
at midnight to find out shit isn’t just in museums
certainly that everything is named, revealed, discovered and unforeseen
so it is possible that there is no middle road in the hallucinatory ass of the dominant class
half curious, half cheerful but from conditioned reality
ignorance of the greater society more complicated and slippery everyday
these are hard times for poetry
these are hard times for mankind
multinational shithouse or revolution
new concentration camp
insane history ain’t arise from nothingness
poetic orgasms are clitorally four light hours away from the handsome rebellions
interfering phosphorescent parody of betrayals or pathetic survivals
hopelessly drinking violet subterranean rivers
move away from all human obstacles – logic and common sense
inventing edges and humid corners for it
the bridges to unknown seasons interrelating reality and unreality
if you want to participate, scream along and become a clown
as unleashing the participation is physically extended and spiritually unlimited.


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