Who put this red star in me?

There is a loneliness in this room

so great I can touch it in the slow movement

of the clock’s hands.

I bayonet and fuck the hands of the clock—

see how it reacts,

hear how it screams.

Is that moans,

or is it bleeding me?

Corrupt men run through lanes over a behead;

they jump, play football with a behead,

drink joy, drink laughter—

piss on respect through the dead mouth.

There is loneliness in me;

I can see it in junkies’ panties.

The streets vomit in every alley:

cheap beggars, begging whores,

empty liquor bottles in dustbins,

cheap men with empty pockets,

full counters at the wineshop.

Their wives paint for decayed gods—

broken men rub aunties’ breasts

to vanish their sorrows.

Husbands run into widow rooms.

The night holds the breath of truth—

it inhales shame and never exhales.

Too much meanness.

Too much ugliness.

Too much vulgarness.

It cries,

it vomits,

it pleads,

“I die.”

Who put this red star in me?

It’s weeping in the clouds.