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Description
You smoke your cigarette
from the philter side
and you burn your lips
as you turn it around.

You drag pencils
down your carpet
to avoid the tempting nature
of their sharpness.

You switched
from razors
to an electric shaver.

And you’re no longer
irritated by grey landscapes.

You write love poetry
about the guardian angel
of the last prostitute
you said a word to
before you left.

You wrap your palms
around soap bubbles,
protecting them
in a warm cocoon

And you jump
from the skies
where your asylum girl
taught you to fly.
You jump quietly
like grey dust,
like a talc meteor.

You’ve climbed
a level higher
than the Sunday popcorn
And the cheap porn.

You can’t open
beer cans
with your nails anymore
but you have your hands scarred
By swings and merry-go-rounds.

Your arms
are mourning electrons,
that colorful winds swept away
from them.

And you have opened your eyes
stretching your rays
to bright pink horizons.
And you have opened your skin
soaking the drops of divine nectar
meant for the pure souls of the earth.

And you breed snowflakes
to build white feathers.

But you’ll stay . . .

And you’ll grieve

Until you forget

That

Deep down in your
Tobbacco-black brain

Behind

The white-angel-wings-foundation

you’re still

the same

murderer.

Description
You smoke your cigarette
from the philter side
and you burn your lips
as you turn it around.

You drag pencils
down your carpet
to avoid the tempting nature
of their sharpness.

You switched
from razors
to an electric shaver.

And you’re no longer
irritated by grey landscapes.

You write love poetry
about the guardian angel
of the last prostitute
you said a word to
before you left.

You wrap your palms
around soap bubbles,
protecting them
in a warm cocoon

And you jump
from the skies
where your asylum girl
taught you to fly.
You jump quietly
like grey dust,
like a talc meteor.

You’ve climbed
a level higher
than the Sunday popcorn
And the cheap porn.

You can’t open
beer cans
with your nails anymore
but you have your hands scarred
By swings and merry-go-rounds.

Your arms
are mourning electrons,
that colorful winds swept away
from them.

And you have opened your eyes
stretching your rays
to bright pink horizons.
And you have opened your skin
soaking the drops of divine nectar
meant for the pure souls of the earth.

And you breed snowflakes
to build white feathers.

But you’ll stay . . .

And you’ll grieve

Until you forget

That

Deep down in your
Tobbacco-black brain

Behind

The white-angel-wings-foundation

you’re still

the same

murderer.