city of plight

today i went to the flea market and got some hair ribbons and and then went to the park to drink the wine i bought for 1 euro. french women look like adrian brody and french men look like jakob dylan. there's also a lot of bow-legged peeps here.

mister blue star

robert approached dressing like living art. he would have a smoke and look at his few pieces of clothing while contemplating his accessories. waiting as robert decided on the right number of keys to hang on his belt loop was humorously maddening.

la nuit

hier soir, j'ai rêvé de lui. i called out his name after leaning against the inside window of a store i'd passed by but never gone in during waking life. i was pleased to find that in my dream, the inside of the store wasn't as i'd imagined. my vision was opaque as i took in the pasty taste of the room. my day slowed down so i could learn to form the words. the moment 'cory' came out of my mouth his face lit up. how could i have known his name just by watching him watch me every night? he told me to join him by the tavern across the street. i promised i'd meet him there as i ran toward the other direction of town, recollecting his beer bottles from nights before.

a jar

she went looking for a flower vase at the market but instead she found a little jar. the jar wasn't as she expected - it was the most beautiful at the shop but its opening channel was narrow and could barely hold a single flower. so she trimmed down the tip of the stem of the most vibrant flower and inserted it. it still didn't hold. the jar cracked a little as the flower fell away, its petals burning. she tried the same with the most anatomically correct flower. again, the jar cracked a little as the flower fell, its petals intact as it plunged to the ground. maybe then all the jar needed was the smallest flower. when this flower also fell the jar cracked open. same as it ever was, her beloved jar from the market looked as beautiful as it ever did, broken on the table.

dossier

sink or swim

the weight of existence in the early afternoon is lucid and heavy like my grey skin. to quell my time i go some place new. a video store or a farmer's market. somewhere void of expectations. where what is missing is everything.

cleare knew she was a house built with broken twigs

and she once knew a boy who, upon their meeting, looked right into her. he was humble and at the same time, anatomically perfect. he wore lips that curved like a gentle river, hands that sculpted and moistened everything he touched. she could feel the sensual heat in his lungs just by sitting next to him.

but all of these magic mysteries were kinetic like an old carnival machine. because when he closed his eyes, or maybe opened them halfway, he was the most detached and dispassionate person she'd ever known. and by trying to protect himself from human nature, he had become what he saw as unfit in others.

and she realised that the only thing worse than a house built with broken twigs is a house built with bullet-proof iron.