O! Vague vagrant of the human race.
You, fair child, a big heart, a promise, the ideal unfurling sail,
punched with holes by the clockwork of vague responsibilities,
With failure and corrosion, remainder of you is almost nightly
as a candy cadaver.
Your fangs are broken.
You have been butted in the head whilst looking for love.
Deprived from myths and the glory of talent,
you fought the battle at screwing a spirit into body.
Stand up and kill your comfort.
Broken tap pressure.
The show is inane.
And you are boringly not insane.
Seize this dreadful descent
there are virgins.
Seize the vulgar vein in arousal.
We are feelings’ raid.
And there are virgins.
Rise from the guts of the underground.
What you probe is panic.
It’s the telegraphic signal, a morse code for fate.
You will be heard saying:
O! Divinity club me in the head
Castrate the evening.
This poem is taken out of Beams (the working title of a the KiNo book.)