~ are you shivering yet? ~

starving for beauty

and then

at night, landing in The City
welcome by a homeless man reading in a telephone booth
and a rat, running across the raincoated pavement
an attic red floor and songs of bul
being called -

so unexperienced

- by an italian thief, result: stealing a doll's eye at st. ouen's flea market
leaving her half-blind to save the powerful magic of this totem
being given a book on orchids, reason being: i must be one of them

oncidium surnommé

or pluie d'or. golden rain
wandering long hours over bridges
almost converted by notre dame's stained-glass resting
a faint red plain on christ's temple, the pietà
red wine, the stream of champs elysées, théâtre marigny
and the golden water cast from the fountain, time circling

long nightly hours at the banks of seine, lights, rats running around
spinning thoughts, mobile still not working, messages that don't reach
and a message that reaches, the only one sent to disappear in the buzz
from behind jussieu blinds the words leaked out never to be heard, yet they happened
and the whole magic of it, dispersed with the morning line
incomprehension, a black cat sneaking in through the window

a dollhead hunted at les puces, operated on the floor, razors
a not even symbolic murder that felt like a real one, ideas do live
however i tried, i could not take the photo so that she didn't look so endlessly
sad. who's made her?

films of marker and godard understood in their essence
by almost obsessive taking the darkly dense underground
vaudou art album blew fire into my vision, blaze, particles
missing salomé at bastille by chance and not being the only one
being moved to tears by the architecture and space passing les invalides
fountaine des innocents, a tired gaze

- baudelaire?
- pardon?
- baudelaire? là-bas, madame

now seriously, do i look like that kind of person from the first glimpse? merci monsieur. 
a leaf out of very baudelairian grave of charles, collected for patti
talks to the dead and close men in montparnasse, contrarily: in the morning
a polish corner found
strains lost
a breath

so, where is your renaissance?