It is Valentines.
Working from home,
has been strangulated mercilessly.
There is the absence of this world,
the air today smells like gasoline floating in
the fresh rain-wet grass.
My Universe is now out of the closet,
out of its hangovers like a horse
ready to tame the winds.
James Hetfield keeps telling me
through the speakers:
and I am Unforgiven too.
Maybe we all are for reducing
ourselves to squeaking mannequins
displayed to the world as relics
of over-flowing mannerisms,
to be sold to the highest bidder
who shall bring us out as a war chest
in times of insecurity.
Its Valentines, my love
Just go out
and fucking love yourself to death
before it is too late.