Baudelaire or Bukowski?
God, I do not know who to choose.
Give me a knife and paint
life
give me a rose
and paint the beauty.
I want to sleep but I look at my scrap
my skin is pale
blood on the shirt
and in my eyes.
The color of the iris can not be changed
and even what the retina receives.
The flower color is the result of additions
and the result is what counts.
dream at night
printed pages and words are the product of the day.
weep hot tears burn
torn tissues.
Baudelaire or Bukowski?
The letter B is beautiful.
Today I crossed the corner of Death
and once again I bowed
and ran away.
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