Craving

There is no description for a poem !!!

The newspapers on the walls made a vessel for the body . Made a screwing bad for the morals . He could not see those walls . Never ! The cold white of their tint reminded him of the blankness of his heart. He opened his drawer and started to scavenge between the clothes , empty condoms and crushed dollars . Above all the f***s and the junk he had he was clean in that moment. And the clean moment were the most horrible. You see when you are clean . Things matter . Everything mattered to him . His body , his organs , his nails , his hair ... the dirty marks on his face and the strange violet figures on his arms . He was cold . He liked cold . He felt cold . He was alone . He did not like being alone . But he didn't also like being alone with other people. The window was broken and the wind brought some snow flakes that burned with the over darkened light bulb waving above his head . That light was a sun . And suddenly all the things came to life and he was surrounded by dancing shadows. He was not alone anymore ... He reached the blankets to cover his naked and over used body . But anyways cold wouldn't do him any more harm . He stayed there , listening to the quiet and sometimes to some drunk couple having a fast f**k in the s**t - hole next to his ... The boy did not wanted to stay there and yet he did . He fell asleep getting a sweet embrion position , covering his darkend skin with that sweet dirty blanket . Covered his nose and his mouth not to feel the cold and the horrible smell coming from everywhere . It was his prison.  . It was his paradise. The paradise of a prostitute . Sleep and needles saved him . For when he was clean and wide awake ... the boy was never happy ...