Time capsule in gangrene foot.
It was madness of the legs.
There were no sins in the ghetto.
Only illicit distillation and girls changing the beds.
It stinks when he says he was god.
What was the ism of the sex in the language of violence?
Trash, you throw the half-eaten apple on the road,
and sun rises nonchalantly in penthouse.
Not the full moon tonight.
I will filter the moonlight in my cup
stealing the autumn from the lavender,
despair of the tormenter.