my nails are red
and that’s the
whorish red
it attacks eyes
and makes them tear
I like to claim
that this is how the
revolution starts
with pursed lips
I get even paler
it is required by
this
dramatic situation
I carry stones
in my pockets
my eyes are hungry
and wide open
sometimes I forget
to blink
and allow dust to
set on them
stench of the petrol
gives me headaches
when we cling our
glasses
it’s like a shot
from the gun
like a distant
explosion
like an echo from
another time
later on we all die
in our sleep
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