multicultural abysses

Beijing wakes me violently against the night,

reminds me of the whimsical hands of the poem.

Clandestine bars lost in hutongs

blister through the germination of the senses

as multicultural abysses

perched on fragile smiles,

granite beers in the rubble of words.

Bohemian children seek beauty

in the burned skin of a distant continent.

Maybe it's Sunday or perhaps it's afternoon,

maybe this is the year

in which we quench the wild insomnia

that lives in the viscera.

It is visceral, this purple will

to alienate the senses,

bust the poem, break the maps,

burn the frontiers, live forever

far from the clandestine pressure of existence.


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