Next to a Spanish river, I tell him my body is ruined. Not existing, he doesnʼt mind: I like your differences. With metallic water, time unravels blue streets, silver mohicans ‒ theyʼre palm trees − behind them, tall town houses of the belonging children. Be careful what you wish for, I say, unwrapping two bocadillos, tapping at tunes enveloped in dream. The moon picks out flat stones, brings us to great longing we are ill-prepared for since we near the death of all we had once believed in, as I kiss cruel air.
i.m Sophie Behrens
The thrown-sand sound of rain, slurred dictator, memory, needling dark.
Pure feeling was the first born. As a face appears clearer than it has, from imminent proximity the afterlife of love wakes us survivors: each unclear breath struggles out from buried love. Hills never listened to human solutions. Precision around abstraction ‒ flowers outlive each night.
Another Old Roué
…That marvellous lure on which he will always dangle, helpless as a chub (when focusing down on it, meaning gets confused). Heʼs spruced himself up without needling boredom, drums happy tunes on cab-borne knees… But Loveʼs an ignis fatuus. Remembered: cold chutes, then evaporation, as the new him goes, a no-thing emerges. Time has lapsed. They can be light, mature, canʼt they? He will be able to choose a stayer or bear a new wound. Craves the motivation (a slippery fish, maybe, but hey, doing the dishes). She will be kind of wondering where is that person she fell for… the person. Damn.