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Lutetia These fits of black bile come as a flash—
When we know pain by days, By chance and crossed paths. Victims include bohemians and bores, office colleagues and wives, Serious men and their Lives, Those sex best-sellers standing dolled-up by price. Tripping down cold street walks Is our dry humour’s past all right down among ‘em, dead lust manifests that prurient gaze exposing the present’s lines— captivating travos between delusion and time— the place we can be half in love with death: Fleur Paris… On the world, like a fétiche corpus, Rests. |
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