Throw me out into the immigrant night. Lost and futile – I am his. Bygone and vagrant – I am his. Fractured, hesitant, derelict – I am his. Where is Paris? Where is Rome? –
To my left side lies a hip flask, half full of a hellish osculation, to my right, a lighter; inside lies a fear, an anger, a great passion, one I never knew I could possibly possess
When we dance it will last all night. They will retune the violins, retighten the drums, the trumpets of love will be repolished, all bridges, behind, will be demolished, when we dance.
All the winds blow wet in the grey town of Bath. Sodden, I step out into the fray, cold and forgotten, clinging to a phantom, a frail frame in a famous blue fur coat, a cut-throat voice
Your naked body, in a way, speaks enough poetry to fill the entire bedspread, and then you tell me you don’t believe me, you say I have a dependence on romance,