Whore’s Cooking

cuisiner à du nord a été sensationnel/ francisco and jesus lived with the rest of us immortal whores, immortal poets, immortal junkies eager for our next quick fix between the arrivals of the toads and tricks the bistro was downstairs and spilled into the parisian street nowhere under moonlight when the moon was like a silent continent of our secret work timbered dark as roses/ we were only taking pictures with some dismay knowing we would be the only audience who would see them listen to me we would be the only humans to lay eyes on them like tongues in a suburban town where all the photographs were just goodbyes and i sat on the shower floor with the water spraying down burning to know if we would have to eat whatever the whores had made/ or, better yet, i would grab francisco and jesus with their little nests of pubic spawn sponged up against any spanish afternoon when every trick who arrived wanted the dark ones dark as barcelona on a roain-sooaked day and we would just go downstairs and drink wine sitting on the paris sidewalk in the sun/

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