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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