Lana Bella
Summer 2017 * Dear Anaïs I reeked of emanation in Paris' patois, where jaws of men dove in half-tones and phallic swagger. I walked the city between tires and pylon tails, finding the pot-bellied tip of town, damp with voices the sweat of seven seas. Dearest girl, I can’t sleep. A wounded ship cast, alone and larding like an old love letter and pressed corsage. Street to street, I scarfed the city raw, up the bullet train dripping bitters down the sides, privy to the motion and weight of steel-toed boots at the end of day shift, weariness stretched too long entangling in spittle lagoon. If I could, though, I’d risk my life in evocation, I’d run my eyes across ivy- like reaches of an inescapable ether, as I fucked cheaper, pouring batter until I knew my way home by heart, in braille form born out of my fingertips like a slur. |
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