Like rain on an unfinished dream (circa 2003)

by Ralkkai

he smokes clove cigarettes
and sips on his rum and ice
on a windy, lonely night
with Charlie Hunter
playing on the radio.
he lets the night take him away
and scars himself
with his poetry.
he is a beast
sitting there in the desert
eating his own heart
and tasting his own flesh
before the world has a chance
to dismember him
because of his idea of a cantos.
he is lost in his own world
and he enjoys the company of his poisons.
he screams with the only voice
that he has ever known
and reads with the only eyes
that he has ever had.
this is not only his soul
but the very essence of soul,
this is just one more night
to elude death
and he creeps through the emptiness,
the grey fog of his proclaimed wasteland
and makes Picasso sing instead of paint.
he makes a juggernaut
out of an imbecile
and watches the blood
run from his veins like rain
on an unfinished dream.
he is death with a face like a doll
and his heart is beating
slowly in the cold, creeping room that is him.

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