On Friday Night
Drunk, hungry eyes
Walking on the alleyways
devouring testy meat
The lights are foggy mirrors
of those pretty girls.
The stroke of their hair and legs
A proud walking man to...
Crawling tired legs,
like worms on cold mud
Laments of an intoxicated child,
that cannot sleep.
Reddish flames behind frames,
returning from laughter of horror
Eggs shells, boiling bowls of yolk,
in the people heads.
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Comments about this poem (On Friday Night by Luca Menin )
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