Paris
They’re always renovating here.
The guts are stripped out and reimagined.
Slimy tendrils falling silently on the butcher’s floor.
Smell of feces.
It lingers in the air
and I’m unable to discern its origin.
You say it’s par for the course
and I look out imagining what the whole city would look like
if it were burned
down
to the ground.
I smile and hold your hand.
You fight with my awkwardness.
I smell the feces again
in the distance
and
I want nothing more than to get
OUT of here!
Don’t you?
It’s magical and incredible, sure, but it’s
like suffocating in stubbornness.
These people need to start over.
I want to see what they’ll come up with
when they have a clean slate.
They’re relying on
past mistakes
like its a joy to feel imprisoned in ignorance.
I want to smash they’re fucking little snob faces in to the ground like
a decent human being would snuff the life out of a 3 legged zebra.
You can’t survive out there
like that
in the real world -
but we make all these exceptions
because we’re human. A self indulgent translation
of human.
And i can’t stand to smell the feces,
the human in the streets.
I smile
knowing I want it all
to fall
down
even when you’re smiling
and wishing you could see
more of the world
like this.
All because I’m wrong and you’re the right i long to be.
All because the song i sing is leaving me alone and empty.
