une bouchée de béton/a mouthful of concrete
un ovaire hérissé/a spiky ovary
rivières de pourriture/rivers of rot
une échelle barbelée/a barbed ladder
.
[because T.S Eliot said so]
.
years ago you had been a ghost
approaching doppler
motor vehicle, pin point on the
horizon. years ago you had been
a transient teotihuacan, a temporary friend, a phantomland with no memories of home.
years have gone by and so has my ability to think in straight lines like the immaculate parallelity of your coal cold
train tracks with excreta and viscera, the urban vultures who've learned to make the best out of what has been given to them.
like His wasteland, full of dry and aging (yet at the greenest of their lives) characters. the decrepit existing are the only signs of the decrepit vegetation. this is not
home. it is the opposite of home, the furthest away you can be
even with my comfortable and soft predicament, inflatable tube in the monsoons. I dream of you and your sadness. i am glad the Cold doesn't take time out of his schedule and visits you.
you will not be the land of phantoms. you are starvation and gluttony all rolled into one and lit at the end. you are the white salt spray and the red betel spray, pay and stay.
I hope you'll be good to me.
YOU ARE READING
Revèuse
Poetry"Everyday we prepare a face, to face the faces we must face." TS Eliot this book will never end, it's a way for me to keep pieces of me safe.
