The French writer Guy Maupassant said he ate lunch everyday under the Eiffel Tower because it was the one place in Paris you weren’t able to see it from.
When I was in 6th grade I drew a map of Paris on my underwear.
I kept waiting for someone to ask me for directions to the Eiffel Tower.
No one ever did. The evidence cowers in my closet to this day.
An individual’s distinguishing speech pattern, dialect, and more often than not the lack thereof.
i.e. The cervical pinch constricting sound, pinching you into silence.
And when I tell you I’m no good at loving
I mean that I want to be a suitcase you
can’t ever close; I mean that I once heard pigs
have penises as long and thin as umbilical
chords that are shaped like spirals, and
that’s why they call it ‘screwing’; I mean
I want you to give me diseases basically; I mean
that I want to make like a hundred of your dumb
little dread-locked crack-smoking babies; but all I
know how to make when you leave is a fist.
A boy at the park today was rolling about on the grass, pricked and slayed by stinging nettles. I watched his mother pinch his pudgy cheeks and draw his rosy face flush up with hers, sayin’:
‘Use your words, Johnny. Your WORDS’.
*published in volume I of Altar Collective