lady day...

love
is
camaraderie
with
a punch
|
|
|
Claudia dipped words into the
brain like warm soup...
...we never felt the need to begin the
procession of cliche... she comments that she's
barely worn her knickers...the big I Am... the
grumpy pin stripped knickers left on the radiator..
the numb
...the residual fuzz of the clear blue sky,
tickling without an ounce of reaction... speeding
slowly by voices outside getting in meaning
nothing, voices inside meaning more but still not
very much... the hum of black covering all over
the surface of dream / life, neither distant to one
another, but calling on the receiver, Jean Cocteau
speaks of transmissions, beauty... the coarse liquid
slithers through the veins with pallid skin now
sweating and shivering with the voice springing
out the milieu a dazed honey of nothing... the
abyss, momentarily sweet, but more violent and
edgy towards the precipice of squalid black
touches at the nape of neck, she sings lady day,
lady day... owing to being little else but that which
is in another's eyes, i pray...
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