Filed under Culture by adam | April 17, 2003 | 3670 hits | 0 comments
I. & then, suddenly you tremble aloud . the inspectors knock through the glass window found, broken; you are no longer sleeping on imagined sand but watching my nervous fingers around a broken camera & only parched knuckles falling off an unstringed guitar bloody i won't know how to play for the only customers are blind tourists, (from Algeria I suppose) they buy histories II. we move in fresh steps along the boulevard . spectacular clean hornets and untouchable wasps you (in impossible haste)return with several souvenirs a pinched raspberry scarf wound around your neck, asking only about itself (hurled towards the ground in great disgust) thunder glaring away at the humble sky i stutter mumble silently & can't remember if we had seen the occasional diamond seagull, or not. a miniature starfish scampers away in panic
