September 19, 2012

Suzy Devere


i am thinking of magic
it is
a beautiful sound i can taste

lay atop and feel the sound dim
distant like the heavy hungarian crystal hanging overhead
or soft like the flesh between
your thighs
no need to pause in slow motion
it is all
magnification and
backing away


boxers with flowers and some with bones, a sunny saturday, maybe these are your weekend pair. some with the words "suicide" making a pattern all over. another pair with morrissey. a day without anything new and yet, there it is, written all over you. the music coming from the kitchen is like the music i heard the first time we kissed and i'm grateful it isn't shit. we kissed and there was nothing magical, it was only magic because there was nothing--no emotion--to swallow me. you let me be. you felt nothing.

you wanted to love me and i wanted to love you. we remember none of it now without pain or the itch of wool, and a little shake of the head...

it is a memory like the class you never passed in high school. like the train you missed to the airport. like the bike someone stole in austria, leaving you no way to get back to france. you shake your head when you think of us.

and like a disease i almost died from, that no one could identify, that ate my very muscles off my bones and turned my face grey, i think of you.


Suzy Devere appears and disappears seemingly at will. She could be camping in the underground right now, or back in Pattaya, sitting in a rattan chair at a bar overlooking the harbor, having drinks with some old ghosts of Vietnam.

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