The gruff warmth that they know nothing about.
Body heat like the sun cocooned in a kind of demonstrative
of action and habit somehow smoothing from seldom understood
sanctuary of sensualism and addiction. Somehow holy: the bottom
line of life.
Redundant with an indulgence of being human-that that's all life is.
Giving in to our impulses, sometimes no matter how wrong:
like a baby crying, howling, crying, howling, crying, howling.
As if the Big Bad Wolfe is near and doing more than looming fairy tales
about itself, about wisdom.
They operate this machine by a different semantic. They do not want to
accommodate you in anyway. They only want to contaminate what you
have loved, where you have loved, and whatever strength and power
it ever left you with.
To Love and Be Loved in a way they had no interest in towards you.
And only used you like a coconut to crack, and drink the juicy
blood out of. Don't think of them when you think of love.
They don't know what it means. But are out to make their
defenitions dominant. Hook, Drop, and Sink'Er.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem