Moments on a Filthy Blue Couch

Hello Paris, I come to you to cut my love into hopscotch Polaroids.
Oh, these moments on a filthy blue couch!
Flicker film prostitution, I watch my drunk lust set your divine back aflame
on rusted carpet; I kiss those scars today.

We dig for comfort in pillows and skin,
you leave me your hair like it is sin
but I instead weave a curtain.
Wrap my window with a decent view to the spectacle
of my life in bed with you.

Watching you shaping wings out of guillotines is my winter’s trade.
We’ve got the same veins as birds, we bleed and fly the same.
And, oh! Here are you caressing my chest like you were reading
erotic fiction in braille;
perhaps this is my future in literature!
Burn my poems and read me with your hands.

I hear you craft operas and once were in Japan:
action, fog, and memory for me to understand.
You are a map, my flower among men,
I follow the wine stains along your skin.
Now sleep and I will watch you as Luna watches me,
I’ll smoke and I will worry, but this you’ll never see.

Paris, now I ramble, I apologize, but must ask-
can a man who is his own victim maintain this tricky dance?
Guilty of the voyeur, our egos wet the fabric
of public rotting tobacco scented couches.
We conquer brick princes breathing cold absence like Saint Augustine,
cunning, we laugh confessing and muttering.

We lay here now marrying the gutter’s mud with thoughts of kings,
coal on our wings and under my tongue, bitter spit spent for our song to be sung.
A butcher in the dark room sets my photos adrift,
moments of our love drowning in the Seine’s lips.
Paris, let me thank you, you took the worn away,
this gold now shines brighter with every passing day.