The Grass is Black/The Air is Pink


feel me/read me/follow me


when she’s sick, it’s fear of the cold
against her throat
it’s badly scrambled eggs, tea and
generic ibuprofen
while Francoiz Breut plays ALL DAY

she’s cold, but hot at the same time
peut-etre all she can do is read
but there ARE so many choices
it’s quite overwhelming
so much so, she can’t breathe

WATER, no, wine, that’s what
she needs
but she wants Coca- Cola and to
watch Cocteau’s Orpheus ONE MORE TIME, to re-read all of her old diaries,
imagine old photos that she was
too scared to take

“how can I pose? my jeunesse is
like a raisin or a slice of bread…”



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