He smells like redbull and cigarettes. He’s a quaint New England cottage On a Paris street corner - Crude smoke licking at the window panes And cheap nylons stretched Across bright stucco.
He’s the reason for a nice pair of underwear.
Sing oh muse! Of the heavy-hearted And her quest for elbow patches And tortoise shell glasses.
A cloud of confusion from a whiff of cologne - These are the moments when the crossroads Is as plain as freckles Or lipstick on a wine glass. Propelled forward on roller skates Called desire. And white teeth gnawing on broken lips, And we let desire swell and rattle around inside - Until we will never be rid of the bruises. Brick and clouds and red lace and muddy laces And bruises.