It’s just another stop on the curvy roadthe final encounterfor the man who has liveddeath is the answer.

Do not judge a woman on her knees_you never know how tall she is when she stands!

I ain’t scared to lend a handI ain’t scared to clench it either

Women in love are patheticand I cannot be bothered, for now,I am back to metaphysicsand my armpits gather hair.

I have not encouraged talk about man’s holy privacy, although I do respect and defend man’s right to have it.

Had I only known my lettersWould be of such importanceI’d empty myself on paperEvery single morning’And it was for such reason,as she read his little stanza,that she decided to stamponefinalletter:‘Every single morningI’d empty myself on paperYou were my greater importanceThat’s why I wrote you letters.

We quenched the bulging flame, amongst the ashes embers of fire remain

The match I struck shall not run deadYou’re my first inhale, my last cigarette.

Lonely you linger in a league above poetry.

No man has the courage to approach her or initiate questions she herself rise, for all men fear a fascist and she can very well be a fascist’s wife.