lady day...

...Melania hated when i spoke of Pica, at
these times the words sickened her physically, she
said, trailing off like death... the crevices in her
thighs now doused with spilt red wine, drizzling
down soft skin, Jane Birkin's Simply Story playing in
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
the background... if you lay down with a dream, you'll
wake up lonely...
...the taste of moist lips more a memory as
it's happening, less a feeling absorbed in the now,
the current of water swelled towards the shore and
then back into the abyss of all these footprints on
our hearts, in the mirror is Picasso's Weeping
Woman, a large print put up on the wall by
Claudia, the trees behind Mrs Lucelle's flat swayed
violently in the London darkness, as night noises
speak their own poetry...
...get your meat curtains in the car...
...i'd love a cigarette from that guy...
...it's late, let's get there quickly...
...where are we?
...the voices spring from without inwards,
though the wonder often summons the idea that
they're more in than out, these voices... screams
that smell of Roses, whiskeys, as eyes adorn the
precipice of Bauldelaire's aphrorisms turned solid...
with flowers growing out towards the sky smelling of
alcohol... like petals falling out of mouths, red,
purple petals now sitting on a bed of discord,
casually attempting to renounce beauty over death,
but soon failing... the day before she decided that
instead of writing Poetry, that she was a Poem, her
very existence, she said with two hands against a
steamy hot bowl, cyclically pouring in the Lentil
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