To(o) Much I turned. My Head facing a… Howl. Like Slowed. I Stop(Ped). I rode A window to(o) Touch. He put a… (Pen in my hand) (Octave in my…) Breath. Do you Know the rhythm. I. Strike. Everybody talks About How we wrote right And left Handed while I walked. Pas(sed)t. Baby… … Slow. (Mmm) Ocean. I scribbled. A Way. That prove: To, Much.
welcome (the world) he introduced me not knowing there is no one i need to know. and while these women gossiped and laughed and bantered my lungs expanded while my eyes closed. they said: she’s an alcoholic. she isn’t one of us. they spoke and spat mouth running mischief. when this happens - protection shuts me down. before i rise i take time to consider. to think about the color of his e(yes) and accent of his voice and things he does not...
I've been writing in French lately... éveil internationale et ses paroles sont devenues mon pinceau. mon inspiration. mon amour. soudain, je pensais en français… pinot noir. creme brule. baisers à Manhattan en - rêvant de l'Australie. et mon monde élargi. couleurs que tout a commencé quand j'ai regardé dans les yeux. international awakening and his words became my paintbrush. my inspiration. my love. suddenly i was thinking in french…...
safe bet i would never tell how he invited he asked and begged and i did… not. i never made any assumption. like, what he wishes i would think about providing. i could consider to bring someone in. (i heard he keep his promises.)
Last night I attended a French gala at the residence of the wildly talented and most stunning Jessica Tremp. Baguettes were saturated in steaming fondue and various triple cream delights; caviar was licked from fingers; twirling occurred to various French tracks within dim candlelight in between courses. Everyone in attendance was suited up or in a ball gown. We ogled at each other's stilettos and twisted hairdos into shoulder exposed French...