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I Am Santo

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La pluie qui est Tombée

Throaty saxophone warble, the punctuation of this ru(e)mination is distaff, an open embrace to nurturing breast and plumbed womb; seed dripping down thighs as refuse shatters outside tall windows. Day’s broken. Hours coagulate, gumming up the works of released agonies, veins popping, heads rolling with 18th Century aplomb; tasty petite mort lurking behind edifice edges and shuddering shutters. Exuberant filth. Stormy dejeuner. Thoroughfare stumbling and chimney phalanges flexing, what wide gray felicity this crowded air brews, drowning voice with lazily tapped high-note piano. On the beat, bleubloods bandy bawdily about bureaucratic brethren, their toe-tapping syncopated, their high note whirring shrilly like longing trumpets – ah oui, how this town jives jazz, lives lust, gives greed. Rain’s coming, awnings out, rivulets to collect, streaming dreamy bliss that puddles on age-old concrete and cobblestone, an ocean’s worth of rhetorical surmising grown iridescent in the cruel spill of leaky mopeds. May there be plenty of rainbows as these bodies tar, little prisms stinging from diamond hearts pressed from coal soul curiosity. Plenty of invaluable memories to be had, all set to the thrumming of a stand-up bass, a stand-down baton, a drop-spattered window and shaky-legged moan. Drip, drip, drip each lovely history during this longest day. Because la lune’s lunacy leaked lures in every eyeful of sea, the bounty to be drawn from tears both infinitely joyful and miserable; lives as quiet quartets playing in smokey, dark cafés. Some ask who’s sitting in the front row. It doesn’t matter, as long as He forgot His raincoat.


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