Leaving Paris

where the Seine bends almost out of sight,
where fallen leaves sail down the hills
cluttered with stone, cigarette smoke and
clothes hanging to dry,

where the rain water tumbles down
blackened gutters and around
discarded souvenirs, and the car horns
build in a harsh cacophony,

the disembodied voices of church bells
clang out of sight.

they are ghosts to me now,
flitting in and out.

while I drift into vacant country,
green and gold under the autumn canopy,
where lights flicker in the far reaches of sea
and sink deep into the horizon.

 photo: Tasha Potter, 0ct 2015

photo: Tasha Potter, 0ct 2015

comedown room

it’s from crushing blue,
pressing on all sides,
and vibrations,
that go on forever,

bathed in confetti,
draped in sex,
stumble dancing
through reaching fingers.

fun house mirrors
with jagged teeth
smile through the mist
of sweat

and lead me to a door
and pull me through
and everything vanishes,
melting into the walls.

bedroom quiet now,
the walls move
and i crave sleep,
endless sleep.

 London, 2015. Photo: Tasha Potter.

London, 2015. Photo: Tasha Potter.