The box is empty,
leading out to painful eyes.
I have not but one good idea.
In a sorry mind.
I want to write amazing things.
My thoughts are broken lines.
Daytura´s sting.
Morning vertigo half a bottle of whisky gone.
Being a lost poet is a curious thing.
The sun behaved today and woke us as it shone.
Everyday green parakeets alert with the way they sing.
My dozy head attempts to contemplate life as a song.
The white flower´s hidden effect has kissed my synapses.
It won´t be long,
Before cunning rhyme traps me.
Exposed to the union of energetic vampire trumpets.
And the heavy green hand whose white hairs turn brown
and burn down until we are dazed.
Whiskey no longer an animal.
The night accumlates sugar and humidity.
But in the morning the box behind my eyes is empty,
I have no idea.
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