Flowers are not flowers anymore.
But the shoes bees can't afford.
So, they melt on the summer heat 
and take birth as nocturnal children 
without parents.
They take up the space 
without much to do, 
like plastic bottles,
like ideas of a dead artist.
They get shooed away by 
elite icecream coloured hands 
and when they die again they
tranform to shutter soul of a camera.
A mouth is not a mouth anymore. 
But the dome where propaganda rests.
So it turn to a stone which mocks
a bird for its ability to fly.
It warms the cold feets
of pseudo intellects, 
like blankets,
like the last drop of water in a desert.
It gets insulted by snakes 
warming up for a tournament 
and when it reincarnates 
it takes form of a father's silence.
A lovers kiss is not a kiss anymore, 
but a murder under neon lights.
So it escapes wild flowers and
turns into a red lamp in your room.
It twirls into a abstract absence,
like a blind promise, 
like the mortal vein of Achilles.
It counts coins of 
the rotting economy and 
takes rebirth as a bullet mark 
over a dying daughter.
Prayers are not prayers anymore
But strangling of angel throats.
So they turn into a boring future,
and grinds coffee nuts for last supper.
It excites leap years and birthdays,
like a citrus smell, 
like a second hand armour.
It stands looking into 
the eyes of destruction and 
in its revival it changes into 
a bridge connecting hell and heaven.
My poems are not poems anymore.
But a fold of skin waiting for your touch.
So it turns into a kitchen rag you forget to wash and thus get smelly.
It buries remnants of family receipes, like a defeat, like finger tips of a post modern fish.
So when it decides to breath again, it takes form of a guillotine.
And I put my head, willingly and 
Ask you to enjoy.

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