On these streets the apparition of tongues kiss my ears and as some pauper I am doomed to celebrate the celibacy of memories whose textures are rich as the colorful screens in fine theatres. If I could hope to catch a glimpse of Fortune and hold her in my eyes as she stands under the lamps donning a silver cigarette. And the lights mirrored in shop windows glow as the fires at camp in the photographs of the dying soldiers who waited at the banks edge while the waters licked their feet like flame. The lights are what I desire. As the birds, without effort walk on water.
Reason arrives with little effort.
I sip steamed beer and dance in mirrored empty rooms, embracing myself in dim hallways seeking those sweet spirits I have read of. Yet, why not forget those visions- the drunks on that parapet cups full of vinegar, stained with dark kisses. There is the embrace of the grass by the roadside where I rest my head as the young woman, who places the amulets of her suitor under her fragrant pillow once again offers her love to the peaceable night. It is Sunday and the streets are as deserted as the drive-in movies at dawn, on a rainy day. But never mind the theatres, you know cinema.