They say Paris is the capital of poets. I don’t believe it; I see
only streets dirtied by seeping fragments of young-old souls,
sidewalks filled with crowds of blatant star-swallowers who at once
drink&vomit bile-tainted,shuddering night in heaving gulps;

Sand-scouring alone can clean them now, a harsh baptism of
flame-fashioned spears, impalement upon solar wind & auroras
burning holes through simple skin. The mandatory all-encompassing
sanctimony of carrying embedded universes, small&portable;

Lives choking on crucifix-splinters, inspiring holy fire & scorching
multiple clouds at once. So it is true; Paris is a miscellaneous alias composed
of adjourning lives, a flight into historical fancy, the submergence into
youthful senescence,tithonus-reminiscent. So perhaps Paris is

a phantasm-medley, karma tasting like window-sunlight
a translation of whatever you cannot express in worlds.