Love triangles on a Paris rooftop
and the lingering taste of each firework,
coupled with the can of beer we found hidden in the cornerstone
compound the frightful image of air and height,
no spiral staircase to take us down, the fire exit blocked by birds,
we stay and stare above, necks stretching, catching the orange wash-lights,
waiting for something to say. And I long to tell you that this is enough,
that this is all, but the words are lost somewhere between the next burst
and the next cheer.














Comments
Wonderful imagery and a comment on human behavior. For this, I grant you a "win".
Congratulations.
--
Blarg!
I don't know what else to say
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Bore, n.: A person who talks when you wish him to listen.
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The real is a closely woven fabric - Merleau-Ponty
--
Bore, n.: A person who talks when you wish him to listen.
That's not easy to do.
Really, really not easy to do.
--
Bore, n.: A person who talks when you wish him to listen.
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Blarg!
The words.
The poem.
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a cold fuck and a goldfish memory
(sarah kane -- crave)
--
Bore, n.: A person who talks when you wish him to listen.
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