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die with them. Black men aren't abbreviated Americans there they're just Frenchmen. Probability survey says prognosis negative, her featherweight stiletto heels hit metal pang bang, slip lips on mine, neon bodies spooned in twine. Men nicknamed her nickname Corner Café (finest café to come since 60s pinups) although for twenty-five minutes she is my only, literally passion devours, until afterwards when we are dire animals married atoms sparking pilfered uranium she whispers her nickname: Al-Rahabat Boulevard  |
over outside noises and licks my ear: Fuck the guards. Chest hurts; she anaconda squeezes, releases CRACK-SNAP-CRACK excessive onomatopoeias, throws medusa fits so she isn't the one stoned to death, ready to eat rare if necessary. 5. take her fake down pillow and feign suffocation. I mutter offhandedly about The Dead I Bury ferry, how the nights look different, sky darker than nights of mine sweeps, worse job to have after sweating in bed. She asks a question, like she did in the beginning of our relationship, whatever remnant relationship there is to be had:  |
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