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.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s