Pigeons are so heavily sexy

On the backseat of a camper van, laid a woman with vanished charms, and her lover with his neverending smile, neverending glasses, neverending behinds and betweens. I was waiting for a knock, waiting for a sign. All I've been able to witness was a merry comedy, with a bit of tear in every single eye. Grown-up gowns are a fantasy of poor-souled people, ruffles are dancing with the wind of theirs. And us, standing stones in that storms. We watched and couldn't get our mouthes closed, couldn't keep our teeth silent anymore. White cries and black holes, common fight. Daytime flight. We love drugs as we love looms, we love empty as we hate fools, we dig deep into the shallow. There's no end at the end of the day. There is no end to the end of the day. There is no rain to kiss my cheek. Only a heavenly sigh. A cough. A stuttered whisper. Load me with every flaw, every single fault you may want to get rid of. Load me with every burden you can't bear. Throw me angers, while my eyes smile. At you. Ain't nothing as sexual as pouring gasoline on a car. Said on, not in. Said all over, instead of inside. Said it, said nothing at all. Curl my heart, turn me into vodka pasta.

Post scriptum: the image shows Imaan Hammam by Sean Thomas for Interview Germany. Not much to do with the words, except the hope it spreads around, actually.