emma b. says

Wednesday, May 05, 2004

La misere, ou la faute de la pleine lune

ire, fire,disparate irony
fathers and sons, fathers and daughters
the check is cashed, your goose is cooked

and the moon is racing the wind

bed, stead, sick head
lovers and traitors
the book is read, the sheets are fresh

despair, repair, cacophony
friends and foes
the hand is laid, the trap is set

the moon hangs heavy
the sky is impatient

we need a time out, we can't breathe. Formulate a clear thought, wrapped up in the spy genre, cloak and dagger, more daggers than cloaks. Assailed by the imaginative workings of our imaginative jailers, tired, so tired, in desperate need of an epiphany. Our weekend notable only for a tragic case of supreme irony, or in this case, (fuck it, no, really, fuck it)
it merits a good telling, no, we won't, we won't say...
(there might be a girl out there who might benefit from the telling....
...well it's it's all good and all that you have miraculously sprouted a conscious for your erstwhile sistah's, but....
... hold up, I've lost my train of thought...
... You know it well enough, the day late, dollar short scenario... Truth is you went to see French Toast on Friday in hopes of obtaining a little surreptitious nookie. Instead we uncovered that Toast had been fucking his roommate GiGi for a week, and need we mention that she is that much crazier than we are.

and threaded into that are many stories, storeyed, stored. We will keep mum. There is no other choice.

and the tide has cleaned us out


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