Paris is une vest l'égère which
is silkypurple, chocolatebrown, creamybrick.
laughing with a synthetique blonde flirt
just
makes me want to pink my still-white skin
or bite my chopped, red lips. i believe in Paris.
it's four thirty and there's a panadolandwater
drizzle wisping down onto my chunky bleu jumper. she's
clacking vite and undercover so her hair doesn't go frizzy.
i'm strolling along like i'm here alone,
like it's my own monde moite.
this surreal post-it note of folded-up dreams,
bleeding, burning, aching, is in my pocket.
my stomach twists and my eyes long to hide.
les paroles rush along the Seine and my expression decieves.
i appear big-eyed and depressed but
my heart flings itself down to the ground from
La Tour Eiffel and Notre Dame. sometimes
my bottom lips just stings with blue isolation.
my heart drips with red cordial and prints
a set of thick lips inside my lungs.
it's not often that the future looks hard and bleak
and the present looks soft and bright
like lipstick stains on a can of orangina.
written: Thursday 23rd September 2004, 6:12pm
