Tu mano lays in my war torn hands
Your eyes linked con migo in a summer daydream
As your lips hunger with an animale desire to tear my skin
A shine in your eyes ignites the fire within my pecho
My fingers dance within your pelo
As you rise up before me like the océano onda
You lung forth and create the chispa

En una nube vaporosa, our bodies burn like coal
Tu y yo shake the earth
We kick forth the walls of duda
Y el aqua erupts into a symphony of release
Your eyes fly upward as we create el fego
Descansando with your gaze piercing me like an arrow
You fall silent with the taste de la lengua latino

almost five in the
morning and i can't seem
to sleep;
the moon outside is shining
and smiling and dancing
in the night sky


are the chirping birds outside
disturbing my sleeping pattern?

is it because i have too many words
dancing carelessly in my mind, strung
together from twenty-six letters?

are the fast vehicles outside
pressing on their brakes too frequently?

or do all the factors above
influence my mind to
keep running its motor?
(4.46am | j.g.)

I write in praise of art,
specifically, the spectacle of
Ng’s bare arse. Yes,
this is simply because I have to say
Ng’s bare arse is magnificent.
It’s not a bouncing Botticelli but it’s
a slim, firm bottom, subtly rounded,
real split peach and cream stuff.
And Ng at the other end
is a real nice person, too!
She's my friend, see?

But back to Ng’s bare arse. I contemplate
this vision, along with the meaning of life,
quite often in broad daylight
with a slash of sunlight across her little buns.
This is more profound than the Tait, the Louvre,
the Met, the Frick, the Neue, the Helly, the Hermitage or even
the National Portrait Gallery all bunged in together.
Ng's bare arse is also better, by far,
than anything you can see at the Bolshoi or La Scala.

I’m amazed at how much I’m amazed by
this work of art. It’s awesome.
And I betcha the most famous galleries would
fall over themselves to display this finest little arse, that is,
if the world wasn't so hung up with hypocrisy and hysteria,
yeah, it'd be heaps more famous than the Mona Lisa.

He's paid his dues for far too long,
singing other people's songs.
For so long that he's forgotten
the voice that was his own.

Now in crowded bars
and seedy cafes
he plays the tunes
He thinks will pay.
His big break wasn't yesterday
nor will it come tomorrow.

Now he drinks alone, in silence,
of the waters of regret.
His old six stringed companion
is the one true friend still left.

He Had a gift they used to say,
and so he traveled to L.A.
Here he's still singing "Yesterday"
with a genuine dash of sorrow.

I’m a perfect portrait of teenage angst
Black pants and an army jacket
Tired eyes atop a solemn expression
High school backdrop
Roaming the halls alone

I’m a perfect portrait of beat down,
Broken up and disappointed

I’m the mess after The Scream
What’s left after The Kiss
I am dreaming of A Sunday Afternoon
On the Island of La Grande Jette
While tracing my mind over the swirls
Of the Starry Night constellations
Over what it could mean

Inside
I am Salvador Dali

Outside
I’m a perfect portrait of all the things I never wanted to be

I am Mona Lisa’s misery

sugared fingers, the smell of Chanel
and I am flushed on red berry wine

and the charms of someone, dear,
who I would like to call "Valentine"

la vie en la rose
this red stains lips pink and
I see in pink, everything around me

as I dip my nose to my wrists, inhaling

Sicilian oranges, Calabrian bergamo
Indonesian patchouli, Haitian vetiver
Bourbon vanilla andd white musk

I giggle coquettishly and I am blushing,

For these sweet nothings
mean very much to me

Shakespeare and Company bookstore: breathing heaving cliché that works in and around the tourists, film crews, American writers, and 17 year old exchange student with only a green cardboard metro ticket and 13 francs in her pocket, and without a squeak for anyone, except the cat upstairs - both curled on the dusty black velvet cushion under handwritten letters punctuated by wedding photos: boasts of great romances opened there at 37 rue de la Bûcherie. Hearts stolen alongside honest paperback purchases.

Three years later she's back. Spotted when speaking up to fill someone else's mind-blank over a title,  he strides over: angular features, expensive coat, older. (She carefully turns the cover of her book away.)

Invites her for a café noisette. Invites her to talk books. Invites her to talk philosophy. Invites her for a drink out in the lazy afternoon haze.  Invites her for a Nutella crêpe. Invites her to wander through Paris finishing at a basement down under the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. Locks the door when her back is turned. Trapped. He flicks off the switch for his smile.

Ah, Paris. Ah, Shakespeare and Company. Ah, Shakespeare and company and your romantic clichés.



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