for three years
from whoring
I was tying my rope as a bow
the bows were reminiscent of your childhood..
I did not want to distort you
I said "don't do this, don't do that"
cause you were perfect
you were the perfect form
smell
taste
innnocence
in the perfect body
Your damage would be like
raping a child
insulting God
vomiting on Van Gogh's paintings
forgetting of Bukowski's creations
killing art
killing admiration for art
in me
But you wanted to feel it
black flake on your soul
which could put its hands
on your ass and heart
and a burst of pain in your throat
a different pace
freedom from me
Ali Agca's bullet
during my worship
anti-art in your lungs
and he shot
blood hissed like an empty ass
the crowd panicked
but they do not pay me so much that I
would still drive a papamobile
