Nimble, and strong; their fingers caressing
the wood and the strings.
They don't talk in words, as such,
it's all music; these poets exhale notes; a free flow,
and I observe; my mind taken away,
my eyes closed tighter.
Absinthe in hand, the liquid burning down my throat,
burning like fire down my belly, all the way.
And the music outside is inside,
mixed up with something deeper.
My pen flows with them, I follow their lead;
the music, the poets, the alcohol, the pen.
I inhale, thus partake, in silence, but burning inside.

Cigarette in hand; smoke circling inside like outside.
Grey, transparent; free from shape and structure,
free from mind and matter - it just exists, briefly,
like these poets I follow with eyes closed.
Daring moves, rocking; back and forth,
along with the music, on the floor, in this corner;
the empty one - participant in solitude, in silence,
while burning violently inside.