All my lovers are hinges

And, oh,

my lovers,

nowadays, are all

hinges.

They are all

hinges.

They hang on

the doors…

they just swing

in motion

from time to

time they change

direction

— unrelated:

I am not their owner

and so they are

slaves of

somebody

else, of another —.

They come to

see me and take

always the

strange fruits:

do I end up always

with nothing?

This I still do not

dare to know.

And do they want me

to cry, endlessly,

and what for? They come

always -at the end-

in the name of my

enemies

but they are my lovers

-like hinges-

skilled method acting

so refined and lost in their

dumpsters

so beautiful searching for

their freedom

and they always come and

end up with nothing -like

myself, nonetheless-

skilled method acting, oh, yes.

Beautiful as an artist day

dream

refined dumpsters filth

machine.