la douce carcasse ensablée
pousse tardivement parmi les collines liquides
en un seul vol meurt un dernier soupir
écrit sur les rides éphémères des vagues
tout comme
des chevaux écumants s’envolant
vers des saisons anglaises perdues
Romeo is dead
Juliet gets over it
escapes Paris
goes to Switzerland
opens a bank account
gets a sex change
her name is now Clive
he lives in Brighton
cuts hair and rides his bike on the pier
on Sundays
while stroking his Burmese cat, Mr Kipling,
Clive reads Shakespeare
Romeo and Juliet - his favourite
the final scene in the Capulets’ chapel - so real and tragic and…
Wait!
There’s a wheeze when I breath and this pain when I live
And no wonder our paths come to cross
You’re my Heaven my Hell within you I dwell
Each time my health is at loss
You’re pretty and sweet when we meet and we greet
But your chit chat’s a ‘NO-NO’ because
I am loosing terrain you drive me insane
And I don't know the name of your boss
Your system has crashed your words come out mashed
My story – I say it again
But you’re now on the phone while I play my trombone
and my patience’s being washed down the drain
Her black glove is flying across downtown.
“A crow!” they shouted. “A crow is attacking Eiffel Tour!”
...cry of a rooster/the goat is smiling...
She knows/He knows.
“Purple and white, of course!”
A wedding for a happy end.
A picture for a wedding.
The glove has no wing.
Just a small hole through
thick and thin.
Kept especially for the sixth finger.
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