March 12, in Paris
Amazing poetry by a talented writer. Please read and enjoy.
Your first hotel room in Paris
could hardly threaten a heaven,
the odor of sex hung in the air
like lichen on a waterless fountain.
– That room, in truth so ordinary
if not for the woman having no key,
lying there in the afternoon sun,
her lipstick already gone.
The purest thing about it,
was a dark-red bed cover
and the screams of school kids
falling from the open window,
like stones or leaves.
Your body was still young, fevered,
nothing final had ever hurt you,
the orange sun, the purple stars
– all were still shining at your feet.
Yet on your lips the taste of something
forlorn oozed, something ignored,
lying as if under water, in a cold,
As you lowered your hand
with that careless necessity
to have my jeans and cunt opened,
I felt kisses falling down my throat
like gravel, taking me…
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