Winter.

January 31, 2018

The tree branches into intimate autumn leaves. December ends in Calcutta.
With it the mess that I am and the flow of the human race and fights, and boxers come alive in bouts of roundabout misery, in kisses and punches I fly to dance with ethereal Surrealism that coats the society of a maligned World.
I'll fly into the fire.
I'll fly into the flames.
I'll fly into the New year wearing wings of fire and chaos and relief and memories and places and cigarettes and pregnant coffee stains of fuming coffee houses and everything that is tangible and real. Churning out new people who'll make sense and maybe not so and we'll go down trying. To be better lovers. To be better people.
Even the sun goes down in flames everyday,smiling.
Greet me with balloons and I'll float up to space,from this ravaged world.
Naked, I'll run away.
We'll meet.
Touch, maybe.
Caress.
The characteristic property of darkness is to amuse.
A pantomime of pandemonium. Such veracity.
I'm never going to make it, am I?


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