Anemones

I am a beaten man.
I write like a beaten man.
I laugh like a beaten man
My jokes are enveloped into the purple vapour of defeat.
My skin smells like lost fights.
If you sniff my hair you could certainly feel the perfume with anemone fragrance of the dead ends.
Even my steps hit the asphalt with the sound of a clock that always loses time.

I am a lost cause from head to toe.
A lost cause with no chances to recover
An ordinary lost cause, not at all an exceptional one
I can live with this thought, I can even feed it with new and fascinating experiences for confirmation.
Can you?
Can you love a beaten man?

There are advantages too. When being an outcast you may say the truth and nothing but the truth
without catching a bullet in the head
you can go out naked and without thinking of the consequences
you can keep silent, insolently,
stuck on the wall of infamy
with a saucy smile on the face
when you’re nobody you can be anybody
you can afford everything
you can risk everything
you can dare everything
watch me

See? I am reckless enough to imagine you touching my shoulders
warming my freezing hands
absorbing my breath as the last gleam of music
as if I wouldn’t be an ordinary loser from a country of losers
as if
all the graceful names of desire
haven’t been chocked inside me
one by one.

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