You won’t know what love is until you hear the blues,
‘Cause that love you love to talk about, baby,
That’s old news.
You see, it’s not about holding hands
And it’s not about the kisses
And it’s not about making plans
To be somebody’s Mrs.
You will never know what absolute bliss is
Until your heart dances to the subtle romances
In the notes and cues
Something happened at the park last night. Without any interpretation, here it is:
We were four people sitting on the grassy hill of Parc LaFontaine, talking about regular things, books, life, the absurdity of existence. The conversation was sweetened by the pineapple-basil-flavored ice cream that we picked up from a nearby shop.
Alongside us, on the hills, were groups of young people enjoying their Saturday night as well. The grassy whiff of marijuana filled the air. Not everyone was into ice cream.
Below us, closer to the lake’s edge, garbage dotted the grass surrounding the trashcans. The litter was scattered by people who had enough energy to walk to the trashcan but not enough dedication to put their waste inside it. In short, the condition of the lake’s edge was an embarrassment to civilization. But then,
Continue reading “last night at the park”
I have not forgotten much:
The tarmac was night.
And the streetlamp’s reflection,
A full moon in a puddle of dogpiss;
Sidewalks effervesced with ghosts
That blossomed out of the cracks
In my memory of the place.
I sat solid; not of cold,
But of fear that the slightest
Tremble might clear my visions
So that the street becomes
Street, and the ghosts become floating
Faces that resemble faces
Of ghosts I have hidden, and not so well,
Below the concrete of my fears.
The morning frost
Binds my eyelashes
And for a ghastly minute
I cannot open my eyes
To rid myself of the night.
The bittercold concrete
Defeats my temperature
In ravenous vengeance,
But I don’t remember much more.