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sea’s clandestine love-
this calling, so desperate
yes, step now slowly

for the somber hues-
and an unforgiving storm :
seek abyss within.
Love is like a Parisian night,

To which fanciful fools are drawn;

But tower lights, and stars alike,

All fade away at dawn.
We are like the universe and the stars,
visible only at the night,
Inside one another,
Burning bright
Without shame.
Without tiring.
Poseidon's hellhound
slithers in remorseless seas
bloodbaths are just feast
black coffee on the table,
clean cold steel-chiselled Glock

loaded and placed in the bed-drawer.
The sharp wire that smells of the skins

and flesh it has strangulated. A black pair
of gumboots, a black overcoat, a black void

of past. A distant daughter who loves strawberries,
cats with abhorrence for your existence.

Cadillac, a pair to tan gloves, a love for silence,
love for the sight of eyes turning red, pleading

A packet of cigarettes, a bottle of Miller’s
An emptiness that spreads, a death that patiently lives.
How hard would it be
to be made of flesh and be mortal,
to dream of all the tastes,
and go wet uncontrollably.

To lick your mirror image
in her mouth slowly,
and be satisfied in sometime,
but still, lack a dearth of reason,

to entwine
into a thousand unseen motions,
to caress the nothingness in air
and become understood in front
of all the living.

to be a tongue,
and be a language
and exist
but not noticed
It begins with
a melodious blur
as a taste of forgetfulness slithers
over my humble skin.

A yearning evolves slowly,
to disappear away
from this meaningless pursuit of flesh,
we are trapped by our existence
and nothing else.

I trespass within myself,
in search of a purpose,
in the hidden sanctums of my delusion,
where blues waves greet my feet,
and the sky made of ice
howls with terrible winds, at my timidity.

It never rains,
But I always forget to stride aimlessly,
these hungry eyes are served
with sumptuous visions,
and till my hands bleed
this hallucination copulates
with my reality.
I finally learn to float
within myself.

I pen all of it down,
in the night
and call them as Art
in the morning.
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