Ah, our little
place on the market street, above the café. I like how, when we took our
afternoon nap, the click-clack of the dominos as the old men played.
Ravel. The times
it was too hot to shut the windows and through the thin white curtains, they
heard us. Silent nods of approval, later as I go down to get my coffee and
write up my notes for the day.
everything is ruled by the scent. The scent of our street. Grilling meat,
tobacco and Myrrh. The honeymoon scent, we called it in our secret
everything stopped for the day, it would linger, an intangible sentry for this
little part of the city.
I was doing my
best work, but I wanted more. I had to, to take the place of what I was now
murdering. This, this perfect moment. It was not that I was ambitious, I just
knew the dead moment holes would become glaringly obvious if I did not fill
them. It made you miserable. The violence of my drive or the murders?
What had I
written in that card to your sister?
for what you have because someone may take that too.
I knew she was
too young to listen, but I thought it was too clever not to say to someone
outside the context of one of my pieces.
rollercoaster on its tracks of time. When we first met. It was always by
accident, towards the end of the week, last call. All her drinks, pouts,
gyrations and stolen kisses were somehow converted into a sort of night time
faith, brought to her by hours of wings flapping in time to the blues.
I would watch
until I got the signal.
Three saints upon
the floor. Shes dancing. What I want, what she pretends to be, emptied
glass, I follow, three saints upon the floor.
I light a cigar,
I think of a girl, I want a woman. She is there, in the smoke, dancing. She is
so beautiful, I have to defeat myself.
Always the same
day, same style. Oh Thursday will your sweet kiss never come?
I was walking down a back street in London on a hot July. Just for a moment I
got a slight hint of that scent. I had to run. I do not know to where or even