Poem: That time

That time when canvatinas died with the seranata’s swig, from his bottle, the musician – drinks. Us drunk, him drinking.
That time on the piazzaz; in Italian we loved; the moon bright, almost full.
When our pathologies, dream world and utopia fused… that time.
That time we fell under Rimbaud’s lindens on the promenade; I with a self imposed napoleon complex, like dostoyevski’s Raskalinikov; you like the lover conjured in imagination within a thousand novels; us like Ali’s Maddona in a fur coat.
That time I knew you were Amelie, and sweet like a French movie, well recorded.


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