He smokes a blonde smoke

 under unfamiliar light.

He married the streets

where a snow leopard

wrote his biography

is husky Mandarin.

I’m holding his poem with my mouth.

It has the shape of the bell tower.

I heard that the night is afraid of him

and I have no reason to doubt

that he has no borders

because

his Slavic heritage has 

no respect for my feelings.

He is the negation

of me

and I want his thoughts in my castle.

It’s not such a bad idea

to draw my name

between your legs.

Give me that menu

I want to choose my president,

my passion and your hope,

the kind of violence

that you transform into art.

Let me swallow those nasty Beijing

depressions

with your semen. 

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