Because one is beauty and one is decay
Because they’re both French
And French things are beautiful
Like those wispy girls, who are skin and bones,
Dragging their paper thin legs in their louboutins
Leaving the red sole behind them

And the word “coquette”
Because it sounds beautiful and ***** at the same time
Like all vain women

As I breathe in the smoke
I feel weightless
Skinny
Until my mouth is fire
Like a phoenix
But I will soon become ash
Floating loftily above the ground
With my cigarettes in my chanel purse

Have you ever known me to hold my silence?




I call into the light night.
               I beg for the sky to pull down its shades.

   Pain like this shouldn't be painted on the light purple sky.

Anger like this shouldn't fall so gracefully, so pure, so...
                                                                                          


                                      clean.






I try again. This time
                    Closing my eyes.
                              

                                I paint my sky dark,
                        forgetting the holes to heaven.
I let my anger fall heavy mixing with all the mistakes
                               I've brushed off like dust.





But when I open my eyes
nothing
has changed.




And as the soft wind
wanders around me without a care.

I swear I hear it tell me

                                                                                "some things never will."

Each time you turn and walk away
I find myself searching
for the sunny days
I know
once ran through my veins.  
Until I wish
I could dip my fingers
into the places
where your teeth bit into my heart
once again.

I think of all those conversations
where I believed
that every shadow
lying on the floor
made our lives exciting.  
Like an ocean of wine
one drinks within a dream
full of memories,
capturing all
we have been fighting.

Reality seems to lie inside
everything I forget
about loving you
when it blends inside my heart
then hides.
And I can't tell
what is black or white
each time you walk away
and leave me feeling
only........
gray inside.

Above the forest of the parakeets,
A parakeet of parakeets prevails,
A pip of life amid a mort of tails.

(The rudiments of tropics are around,
Aloe of ivory, pear of rusty rind.)
His lids are white because his eyes are blind.

He is not paradise of parakeets,
Of his gold ether, golden alguazil,
Except because he broods there and is still.

Panache upon panache, his tails deploy
Upward and outward, in green-vented forms,
His tip a drop of water full of storms.

But though the turbulent tinges undulate
As his pure intellect applies its laws,
He moves not on his coppery, keen claws.

He munches a dry shell while he exerts
His will, yet never ceases, perfect ****,
To flare, in the sun-pallor of his rock.

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

I had as lief be embraced by the portier of the hotel
As to get no more from the moonlight
Than your moist hand.

Be the voice of the night and Florida in my ear.
Use dasky words and dusky images.
Darken your speech.

Speak, even, as if I did not hear you speaking,
But spoke for you perfectly in my thoughts,
Conceiving words,

As the night conceives the sea-sound in silence,
And out of the droning sibilants makes
A serenade.

Say, puerile, that the buzzards crouch on the ridge-pole
and sleep with one eye watching the stars fall
Beyond Key West.

Say that the palms are clear in the total blue.
Are clear and are obscure; that it is night;
That the moon shines.

No soldiers in the scenery,
No thoughts of people now dead,
As they were fifty years ago,
Young and living in a live air,
Young and walking in the sunshine,
Bending in blue dresses to touch something,
Today the mind is not part of the weather.

Today the air is clear of everything.
It has no knowledge except of nothingness
And it flows over us without meanings,
As if none of us had ever been here before
And are not now: in this shallow spectacle,
This invisible activity, this sense.

With my whole body I taste these peaches,
I touch them and smell them.  Who speaks?

I absorb them as the Angevine
Absorbs Anjou.  I see them as a lover sees,

As a young lover sees the first buds of spring
And as the black Spaniard plays his guitar.

Who speaks?  But it must be that I,
That animal, that Russian, that exile, for whom

The bells of the chapel pullulate sounds at
Heart.  The peaches are large and round,

Ah! and red; and they have peach fuzz, ah!
They are full of juice and the skin is soft.

They are full of the colors of my village
And of fair weather, summer, dew, peace.

The room is quiet where they are.
The windows are open.  The sunlight fills

The curtains.  Even the drifting of the curtains,
Slight as it is, disturbs me.  I did not know

That such ferocities could tear
One self from another, as these peaches do.